University of Virginia Library
PH3281.K85 B82 1927
The bloody poet; a novel about

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THE BLOODY POETTHE BLOODY
POET

A Novel about Nero

    
     
 

   

 

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DESIDER KOSTOLANYI

 

with a prefatory letter

by THOMAS MANN

translated out of the German

by CLIFTON P. FADIMAN

 

 

 

 

MACY - MASIUS: PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
1927

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4Manufactured in the United States of America
and copyright 1927 by
Macy-Masius, Ine.

Press of J. J. Little § Lves Company, New YorkHRB H BR RERRHMe
TO THE AUTHOR

 

Municu, April 4, 1923.
Drar Mr. KostTo.any1,

I have been greatly moved by your “Nero”, a novel
which fulfills, indeed surpasses the expectation aroused
by the strong and sensitive talent displayed in your
previous book, “The Magic Lantern”. Your growth is
not surprising to one who has followed the beginning
of your work with sympathy. And yet I am inclined
to term it astonishing; and let me add that I apply this
word to a work of art only as the highest praise. By
it I mean that the work is something more than the
product of a particular national or even European
culture. I mean that it bears the impress of an intense
individual originality, that it has its origin in an un-
flinching isolation, that it has the power to move us with
a humanity so true as actually to cause pain. Therein
lies the essence of the poetic. Everything else is aca-
demic, no matter how revolutionary its external appear-
ance may be.

You have given us a book whose utter unexpected-
ness, whose wild originality is concealed within a calm
traditional form. Under historical names you have
created for us human beings whose closeness to us is the
result of their origin in the depths of your own con-
sciousness. They are clothed in the garments of their

56 TO THE AUTHOR

time, garments no doubt carefully studied, but worn
with such ease that not for a moment do they give us
the effect of a theatrical costume, of painful archeology.
And into this novel dealing with a bloody and anguished
dilettantism you have subtly introduced your malicious
and superb knowledge of the artist’s soul; you have
endowed your work with all of life’s depth and melan-
choly, its terror and its comedy. Irony and pity have
become one, and together form the basis of this poetic
creation.

At times Nero achieves a wild grandeur through the
very desperation of his poetic frustration; but as a
character I prefer Seneca, the poet-courtier, the suave
sophist who is nevertheless a man of genuine wisdom,
a truly great man of letters, and the account of whose
last hours moved and disturbed me as few things in
art or life have done. Then that priceless scene in
which Seneca and the Emperor read their poems aloud
to each other, each deceiving the other with his flattery.
But incomparable for penetrating sadness is the scene
which is my favorite, the one where Nero, in mounting
fury and agony, the very embodiment of a man
wounded and frustrated, tries in vain to win the confi-
dence and trust of a colleague from the poet Britannicus
—Britannicus, who possesses the secret, the inner grace
of a true poet, and who, in the strangeness and silence
of his artistic isolation, repels, to his own destruction,
this Nero, at once so powerful and so helpless. It is a
fine scene, superb and masterly. And there are other
parts of the book whose intimate originality is evidenced
not only in your portrayal of the individual soul, butTO THE AUTHOR c

of the social complex; which evoke for us, without
effort, pictures and scenes from the life of the ancient
world-capital that create a most fascinating critique
of Roman society.

I am most happy, dear sir, to be the first to con-
gratulate you on your superb work. It will add new
honor to the literary réle of Hungary, whose glorious
names from Petofi and Arany to Ady and Moritz
Zsigmund are so numerous; and it will bring your own
young name into still greater prominence among those
who today best express the spiritual and cultural life of
Europe.

Faithfully,
THomas Mann.THE BLOODY POETee

“Inter ceteras disciplinas pueritiae tempore imbutus et mu-
sica, statim ut imporium adeptus est. Terpnum chitaroedum,
vigentum tuoe-praeter alios, arcessiit diebusque continuis post
caenam canenti in multam noctem assidens, paulatim et ipse
mediari exercerique coepit, neque eorum quicquam omittere,
quae generis eius artifices vel conservandae vocis causa vel
augendae factitarent.”

Suetonius, Nero.

“Ne tamen ludicrae tantum imperatoris artes notescerent,
carminum quo questudium affectavit contractis quibus aliqua
pangendi facultas necdum insignis satis, Cenati considere
simul, et allatos, vel ibibem repertos, versus connectere, atque
ipsius verba, quoquomodo prolata supplere: quod species ipsa
carminum docet, non impetu et instinctu, nec ore uno fluens.”

Tacitus, Annales XIV. 16.al el Bala na ll

————

RAO RR OU SOME Gu eee
Chapter One
OPPRESSIVE HEAT

 

 

  

 

 

A SINGLE DROWSY VOICE WAS ALL THAT WAS AUDIBLE.

“Cherries,” came the tireless cry, “Cherries.”

The peddler, standing in his little stall in the fruit-
market, had been offering his cherries in vain since
early morning.

The heat was so great that there was hardly a passerby
to be seen, even here in the Forum Cupidinis, the fa-
vourite spot for gourmets and connoisseurs of sweet-
meats. The square was as silent as the grave.

A passing mercenary glanced at the rotting fruit and
continued on his way in disgust. A few paces away he
stopped at a near-by stall where water mingled with
honey was sold; he threw down a copper coin and took
a long thirsty swallow of the refreshing drink.

There was not a trace of a sedan-chair in sight.

Then appeared a boy and a girl who had chosen this
sultry hour for a rendezvous. They took each other by
the hand and ran off into the glare in a loving embrace.
There were streets even more forsaken, streets where no
one was awake. .. .

After the Aedile had examined the wares and passed
on, the fruit-seller, an old slave, lay down on the ground.
He looked at the yellow cakes and sweetmeats that were
left over. Then he raised his tired eyes to the hill rising
before him; he gazed at the temple of Augustus and
Bacchus, at the barracks of the bodyguard, at a few
1112 THE BLOODY POET

soldiers moving about the former palace of Tiberius,
now occupied by the old Emperor Claudius; and he
reflected that the Emperor was certainly not so hot as
he was. The Emperor and the beggars—they’re the
only ones that are well-off. The Emperor is resting in
his cool chamber and the beggars are snoring open-
mouthed beneath the palm-trees.

This summer the Tiber had sunk terrifically. Its
pebbly bed was visible between the steep banks; one
saw the muddy water twisting its way quickly, fever-
ishly. The heat steadily increased. Clouds floated over
the hills, not a breath of wind stirred the air. The filth
and dirt accumulating in the narrow streets made them
stink like a lion’s den.

Every noise, the grating of a wheel or the hoarse,
distant bark of a dog, sank dully into the silence and
spread even greater drowsiness over the afternoon.

   

" aChapter Two
THE MIRAGEE

  

 

HicH ON THE PALATINE HILL THE IMPERIAL PALACE
shone in the gleam of the setting sun.

The old Emperor Claudius was lying down in his
bedroom. His throat was bare, his hair lay disar-
ranged about his forehead. He too had surrendered to
sleep. Of late he had not been able to hold out to the
end of the midday meal. The food would drop from
his hand and his eyes would close. His companions
at table would make fun of him for a few minutes,
throw dates and olive pits at him, and then carry him
off to bed.

The Emperor Claudius awoke, his eyes moist with
sleep.

“That was a good nap,” he said, and looked about
him. Not a soul in the room. A solitary fly buzzed
about vaguely and then settled on his tunic. It crept
over his arm and took up a position on his nose. He
did not drive it away, but murmured-something, mov-
ing his lips with a small smacking sound. He was
pleasantly amused to think that this impudent little fly
should dare to settle upon the Emperor.

He felt thirsty.

“Ho there!” he called out. “Some water—bring me
some water.” A yawn.

Patiently he waited for a few minutes, but no one

came.

13HE B70 O Dw POET

Then, more loudly: “Water, I say; bring me some
water.”

Still no one stirred.

He had no servants. During the last few years his
wife, Agrippina, had been depriving him of his guards,
troops, and personal attendants, but so gradually that
he never once became aware of it. He simply accom-
modated himself to his altered position. Solitary, he
would dawdle idly about the palace; and yet he was
not at all unhappy. He occupied himself only with
those things immediately before him. His memory had
become so weakened that he recollected nothing that
had passed.

Accordingly, as no one appeared in answer to his
call, he forgot what he had asked for. His gaze wan-
dered from the wall to the curtain, then to the floor.
Now he began to call to mind pastries, Libyan figs and
pheasants, sour and bitter wines. As was his habit, he
smiled comfortably to himself. Then, tiring of these
visions also and being unable to summon up any new
ones, he called out:

“I am thirsty.” He seemed to sing the word:
““thirsty”’.

A slender boy, barely seventeen years of age, en-
tered. His smooth rosy face was framed by blond hair
combed over his forehead in childish fashion. He had
just come in from the outside sunlight and was blinded
by the darkness. Besides, he was nearsighted; so he
stepped forward uncertainly. His blue eyes were
misty, visionary.

“Did you call for water?” he asked, blinking.MIRACLE

 

THE

“Yes, my boy,” replied the Emperor, looking at him.
“T wish some water.”

And now Claudius became aware that before him
stood his adopted son, the young Prince.

He was delighted. The fact was that the boy was
really the only person in the whole palace to whom he
could speak. The rest never paid any attention to
him. But the boy sympathized with the old man, he
was proud of the other’s love, it seemed to him noble
to set himself against the contempt the poor old ex-
hausted Emperor met with on all sides. Besides, from
him he learned many interesting things about Etruscan
history, on which Claudius had once written a book.
He enjoyed listening to these stories.

The Emperor took the boy’s hand and drew him up
beside him on the couch. He praised the hair that fell
over his neck in luxurious curls, he praised his toga
and his muscles. He felt his arm, but without lascivi-
ousness, for the Emperor was not a lover of boys. He
babbled on about him, a farrago of nonsense, whatever
happened to come into his head. He made all sorts
of promises and praised him to the skies.

At this moment the Empress emerged from behind
the curtain. She seemed omnipresent; she would appear
unexpectedly in the most remote rooms of the palace.
She stood still before the couch.

Agrippina was still a splendid woman, tall and sup-
ple. In her glance lay the delicate sins of many pas-
sionate years; her mouth was bold and proud, almost
masculine, her face pale.

“Do I find you here?” she asked, surprised, and sheTHE BEOODY POET

measured them with an angry glance.

Both Claudius and Nero knew what this meant. The
Empress did not like to see them together. With great
difficulty she had finally succeeded in inducing Claudius
to cast off his own son, Britannicus, and adopt Nero.
The three years that ensued had been filled with nothing
but struggle. The adherents of Britannicus were pre-
paring for revolt and Agrippina was afraid that Clau-
dius might regret his promise and take it back at almost
any moment.

She was reflecting upon the situation at this very in-
stant. What could they have been talking about? She
knew her son. He was insensitive to power and pre-
ferred to busy himself with books. Her mouth trem-
bled with passion; she looked at him sternly. Through
him her plans would yet be frustrated.

The hour seemed opportune to her. There was no
one staying in the palace. Narcissus, the Emperor’s
favourite freedman, ordinarily always in attendance
upon him, had gone to Sinuessa; Polybus, Felix, Posi-
des, all of the opposition party, were absent.

There was no sense in delaying. She stepped nearer
to the bed.

Claudius started up. He walked nervously to and
fro; he wanted to hide somewhere.

Nero, noting his confusion, turned to the Empress’
bodyguard.

~The Emperor wishes to drink,” he said.

The soldier was about to leave the room when Agrip-
pina indicated by a sign that she would go herself.
She returned immediately, walking quickly, and carry-

  

  
  
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
  
  
  
  
 
  
 

pn oepgeen als

tlie asinTHE MIRACLE ne

ing a gourd of water which she presented to her hus-
band.

Claudius hardly touched it with his lips and sank
down full length on the marble flagstones.

“What is the matter?” asked Nero.

“Nothing,” replied Agrippina calmly.

Nero glanced first at the gourd lying on the floor and
then, full of mute terror, turned his eyes to his mother.

“He must be dying,” said the boy.

“Let him be.” She took her son’s hand.

The Emperor made no motion to arise. The blood
left his thick red neck, he gasped for breath, and his
hair grew wet with sweat.

Nero bent over him in great agitation. At all events
he must try to intercept with his own lips Claudius’ last
breath, which carries the soul with it as it vanishes.

“Ave!” he cried, in accordance with the prescribed
ceremony. And again, “Ave!” as one would call after
someone disappearing in the distance.

And “Ave,” echoed his mother, mockingly.

The body made no further movement. For a few
moments Nero stood still, waiting; then, covering his
face with his hands, he was about to rush from the
room.

“Stay!”? commanded his mother, rising as she spoke.
She, too, was pale—like the corpse.

“What was it—was he ill?” asked Nero.

“T do not know.”

“T think—he was ill,” stammered the boy, at once
seeking some explanation for what he saw before him.
Agrippina’s voice rang out through the corridor,

nn

— a18 THE BiloO.ODY POET

giving orders: “See that all doors are locked! Where
is Britannicus? And Octavia? Where are they?”

Soldiers were streaming in, with a clatter of swords,
from all quarters of the palace. The Empress com-
manded both of them to be confined to a room in the
palace—Prince Britannicus and the young Octavia, who
had now been married to Nero for a year.

Nero remained motionless, gazing on the calm sim-
plicity of death. The body moved no longer; swiftly it
seemed to become one with the earth, with all the ob-
jects around it. Perhaps it was terror that caused the
blood to leave the face; the ears became marble, the
nose grew sharp and pointed. The only things that
suffered no alteration were the long, grey hair and the
eyebrows whose arch now enclosed, with a foreboding
calm indifference, so many hidden mysteries.

Nero stood there for a long time, equally immobile.
He had never seen a man die before. Only in books had
he read of such things. He was amazed and dumb-
founded, as if at a miracle—the only miracle that is
even less comprehensible than birth. He made no mo-
tion to leave, even when the washers of the corpse en-
tered and rubbed the body with oil and unguents and
covered it with a linen garment. A sculptor poured hot
wax over the cold face and made a cast of the death-
mask.

Already the palace was darkened with pine-boughs
and the entrance-hall hung with cypress. Lictors were
standing guard with their fasces and gold halberds:
swiftly the walls were covered with black. The masters
of the funeral ceremonies were busily engaged. From

 

 

   

ee en ee

es

.THE MIRACLE 19

behind every door were heard whispers and the sound
of sighs and lamentation. The priestesses of Venus
Libitina, goddess of the dead, were praying.

Upon the bed lay the corpse.

“Why do you keep looking at him?” asked the
mother. ‘He is dead, he has departed.” Agrippina
grasped Nero’s arms more firmly and gazed at him
with her large eyes.

“You will deliver the funeral oration.”

“1?” He sighed.

“Yes—from the Forum.”

“But y

“Seneca will write it for you.”

“But I can’t speak. . . .”

“You will deliver it—nicely, in a loud voice. Do

 

you understand?”

Nero breathed a slow, hesitating assent.

On the day of the funeral the corpse was carried to
the Forum. Much moved, Nero declaimed his oration
from the rostrum. Three times the guards defiled past
the bier. The dust was stirred up by the wheels of five
thousand chariots. So long was the procession that one
could not survey the whole of it. Horses neighed, pe-
destrians stumbled by, hired female mourners lifted
their wailing cry and tore at their faces till the blood
came, manumitted slaves bore aloft busts and portraits
of the deceased, players imitated his death-cries, but
the funeral-clowns, the people’s merry-makers, gave
symbolical representations of death, leering and gri-
macing, so that loud peals of laughter followed them;
musical instruments resounded, trumpets and drums'
Fe H
)

a

20 THE BLOODY POET

and harps and thousands of flutes, shattermg the air
with an unendurable clamour. ‘Then the priests scat-
tered water over the crowd and distributed olive
branches in token of peace.

And so the Emperor Claudius was elevated to the
rank of deity.7

Anan
BABE

   
      

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Beene eeeeue

Chapter Three
THE YOUNG EMPEROR

 

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Renee He

 

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THE PRINCE HAD HARDLY FINISHED DRESSING, THE
next morning, when he heard a noise upon the staircase.
Soldiers were swarming through the halls, calling his
name. He had no clear idea as to the meaning of the
tumult, being scarcely recovered from his stupefaction

of the preceding day.

Several soldiers of high rank seized the blond strip-
ling and bore him off as if he were an inanimate object.
Then, outside the palace, the army proclaimed as
Emperor, Lucius Domitus Nero, Claudius’ adopted son,
the rightful heir to the throne. And they brought him
back as unceremoniously as they had haled him forth.

Then he was led into a great hall that he had never
seen before. Here a long table had been drawn out on
the marble flagstones, and chairs were ranged side by
side, wide, high-backed chairs which almost swallowed
up the person who sat down in them. His mother led
Nero to one of the chairs. He seated himself and
leaned his elbows on the table, abstractedly. He toyed
with the sword that had been buckled on him yesterday
for the first time; it felt heavy and uncomfortable.

In the hall generals and commanders were waiting to
confer with him on the condition of the empire.

Nero observed them wearily. Almost all of them
were grey or bald; time had misused their bodies, mili-

tary life had coarsened them. Ugly, arrogant faces.
2122 THE BLOODY POET

Vespasianus, who sat opposite, looked up in trembling
awe, Rufus acted as if it were a severe strain to follow
the proceedings. Scribonius Proculus had a red nose
with tufts of hair growing in it. Domitius Corvulo,
besides being a member of the family of Cassius,
seemed to be the cleverest person present. His aristo-
cratic eyes shone with alertness and attention. Burrus,
captain of the guard, was the incarnation of devoted
fidelity, probity and directness quietly and patiently
directed to their goal. : Pallas, treasurer of the state,
was the only one who was youthful. He chose his words
carefully, lisping; and dressed with meticulous dis-
tinction, aping the nobility. It was easy to see that he
had once been a slave.

The session began. Suetonius Paulius was speaking,
using short, curt sentences and words heard only among
soldiers. His report was tedious and boring. He re-
verted continually to points he had already made, and
repeated himself interminably. Armies and _ fleets,
chariots and battering-rams, swords and arrows, corn
and oats were all mixed up together in his words, and
he read figures off a wax tablet till everything swam
before one’s eyes. One learned how many tents there
were in the entire Roman Empire, including the proy-
inces, and what payments had been made by the im-
perial treasury during the last ten years for the upkeep
of foot-soldiers, cavalry, and the marine.

Nero contemplated the speaker for a time. He di-
rected his attention not to his words, but to his mouth,
his head, his figure. The old soldier had a large brown
wart on his forehead which moved when he spoke andTek YOUNG EMPEROR ae

seemed to jump around whenever he knitted his brows.
But when he siarted to rattle off his numbers again, Nero
averted his finely shaped head and surrendered himself
entirely to his own thoughts.

He would not have believed it possible that the ex-
periences of the last few days could affect him so pro-
foundly. Involuntarily his thoughts were confined
within a closed circle and allowed him no peace unless
he was engaged in them. Once more his vision beheld
the funeral procession passing by in all its gigantic
pomp. There arose in his mind’s eye the picture of
himself looking down upon the crowd, pronouncing
words of sorrow over the body of a stranger. And he
saw Britannicus clearly, Britannicus, his step-brother,
standing immediately beneath him, turning his face to
him, convulsed with grief, almost fainting, and, despite
the fact that Claudius had cast him off, bewailing with
heavy tear-choked sobs the death of his father, his
natural father.

The Emperor coughed, swallowed. The hall was
very warm. The speech was still in progress and the
speaker was now, dealing with the problem of co-opera-
tion between the army and the Senate; but in the over-
powering heat his words merged with the sounds Nero
was hearing in his own consciousness. Indifference and
apathy were depicted on his face; he stifled a yawn.
He sat as one apart in these surroundings and won-
dered how he had ever come here. The accession to
the throne had caught him unawares; he got no great
joy from it, and found his thoughts continually revert-
ing to Claudius, whose death he felt to be incomprehen-24. THE BLOODY POET

sible, terrible. Who knows what had happened to him,
and why it had happened? If such things can occur,
the whole universe collapses, and even he must stand
alone in the world. The Emperor, the first man of the
Empire, dies like any other man. Worms and maggots
devour his head and nest in his skull. He looked about
him but nowhere did he find any answer. He felt him-
self powerless, surrounded by mighty forces. Fear
overcame him; he almost swooned with dizziness. He
clung to the chair which but a short time before the
Emperor had sat in.

Just then someone touched his cuff. Agrippina was
indicating that he should rise.

Nero saw the speaker turning towards him with out-
stretched arms and heard him say:

“Emperor!”

He collected himself. The word had reference to
him. He pushed back his hair from his forehead,
blushed, and said a few vague words.

Then he received the senators, who delivered letters
and documents touching upon internal conditions in the
provinces. His signature was requested and he had to
sign his name many times.

It was already growing dark when he was released
and remained alone with Agrippina.

“Mother,” he began at once, agitatedly. His mouth
remained open as if he wished to continue but could
not.

Agrippina looked at him, searchingly, forbiddingly.

“You wished to ask something?”

“Nothing,” replied Nero, dully.THE YOUNG EMPEROR

Then he arose and went out to seek Octavia.

They had not met since that day, and today he wished
to talk with her.

His wife was cowering in a corner, her eyes red with
weeping. Nero stroked her face, but she drew back.

“Do not be afraid of me,” said Nero sadly, and
could say no more.

He paused and saw that he could apply nowhere, that
all roads were closed to him.

He hastened to a remote room in another wing of the
palace. Here he sat down and felt himself more alone
than ever before. He was assailed by such profound
unhappiness that he fell prey to utter despair. Sus-
picion and rage struggled within him. He thought of
his father, his real father, Cnaeus Domitius, whom he
had never known or seen. He knew hardly anything
about him. It was said that he had been proconsul in
Sicily, had died young, no one knew the cause; he, Nero,
had been three years old at the time and his mother had
married a rich patrician. From the bottomless abyss of
his orphaned state, he longed for his father and desired
to kiss his far hand.

Again and again his father’s face arose before him,
more plainly, more commandingly. He had been
neither Emperor, nor immortal, nor a god. What had
he been then? Nero imagined him as good-tempered,
with a line of sorrow around his mouth. His features
were soft and indecisive, like his own. And all this had
vanished, leaving not a trace.

“Father,” he said, “my poor father”; and there came
to him a memory which was stronger than all else.Deis BOO DY GPO ET

He paced to and fro restlessly.

“What can I do?” the Emperor asked himself, stand-
ing at the summit of power, dizzy amid the silence,
for silence had ensued upon tumult.

But again he received no answer, either from himself

or from anyone else.

In the bare vault of heaven the moon appeared,
swollen and sick-looking, and leered at him with its
miserable buffoon countenance.

It would be a windy night.ngeenaae

  

 

 

ee Four
Tae DUHOR

 

 

 

ALL SIGNS, INCLUDING THE FORECASTS OF THE
Chaldean astronomers, indicated that the Roman
Empire was about to enter upon a period of glory.
The new ruler had been born at the first moment of
dawn, the early sunbeams had touched his brow, and
even his accession to the throne had occurred at the
favourable hour of midday, when the evil spirits, friends
of mist and darkness, dare not show themselves in the
sight of mankind.

The blond stripling was bringing peace with him.
He wore no sword-belt and appeared barefoot at mili-
tary parade. Emperor and Senate exchanged courte-
sies. He returned to the Senate the powers it had for-
merly exercised and in exchange the Senate endowed
him with the title of Father of the Empire. This elicited
a smile from Nero. With the modesty befitting his
youth, he refused the distinction, explaining that he must
first show himself worthy of it.

At first he felt a desire to see Rome great. He en-
visioned a new Athens, powerful, gracious and Greek,
with broad squares and wide avenues. The idea occu-
pied him a great deal. Accompanied by his architects
he visited the dilapidated, tumble-down huts in the nar-
row alleys, had surveys made, discussed plans, and
imagined the streets as they would be in the future,
lined with laurel trees and marble statues, the admira-
27roe BLOODY Pont

tion of even the Athenians. But this too soon began to
weary him. Bending over plans and sketches, he sud-
denly felt the vanity, the pointlessness of everything.

His anguish grew less acute, but it was replaced by a
new trouble, more indefinite and unendurable than the
old—boredom. A boredom that seemed to have neither
beginning nor end.. One could hardly grasp it, one
could not tell whether it was present or not. He would
awake in the early morning sunlight with a yawn and
find himself incapable of rising. When he grew tired
of lying in bed and dressed himself, he would again be
overcome with sleep and long to return to his couch.
Nothing interested him.

His afternoons were particularly terrible. Alone in
the high pillared hall, he would listen to the noises out-
side, gaze at the garden, and have no comprehension
of it all. He would be tormented by a nervous head-
ache followed by vomiting. And so twilight would
steal in upon him.

“I feel ill,” he said to Seneca, the poet and philoso-
pher, who had been his tutor since his eighth year.

Seneca gave a little sigh and shook his head whim-
sically, as one does when listening unbelievingly to the
complaints of little children. His long, lean figure was
clothed in a grey toga. He stood before Nero, his thin
face, otherwise yellow as cheese, tinged with the hectic
consumptive flush that would make its appearance with
the coming of afternoon.

“Really,” the Emperor continued, stubbornly, “I
suffer greatly.”

“Why?”LEE oT TOR

“I do not know,” was the sulky response.

“Then you must be suffering because you do not
know what, it is that troubles you. If you knew the
basic cause, you would understand it and consequently
the pain would be lessened. We are born to sorrow;
there is no grief either unendurable or contrary to
Nature.”

“Do you think so?”

~ Assuredly,” replied Seneca. “In any event, there is
a cure for all troubles. If you are hungry, eat. If you
are thirsty, drink.”

“Why then does a man die?” asked Nero, abruptly.

“Whom do you mean?” Seneca was startled, for
Nero, obeying his mother’s command, had never pre-
viously concerned himself with philosophy. ‘“Clau-
dius?”

“No. Everybody—young and old. You andI. Ex-
plain it to me.”

Seneca was taken aback.

“From one point of view,” he began, and then
stopped.

“You see,” said Nero, breaking into a bitter laugh.
“You are fatigued.”
mG
Seneca reflected for a moment.

“You must go away for a short time.”
“Where to?”

“Anywhere. Far away—very far,’

9

replied Seneca
with a large, vague gesture.

“No. That will not help,” said Nero, losing patience
and beating upon the armchair with his fist.30 THE BLOODY POET

He contradicted his master and teacher sharply.
Seneca saw that Nero was in a bad temper. He came
nearer to him, wrapping his grey toga more closely
around him, and listened to his words. He made no
attempt to refute Nero’s objections. He was always
ready with a smooth and mollifying phrase, as if he
were speaking with a little child whose every mood he
was inclined to satisfy. He did not take this maso-
chistic youngster very seriously, and was accustomed to
settle his difficulties with a few words. His‘only desire
was to write poems, tragedies, long, carefully polished
sentences, solid and brilliant as marble, sage aphorisms
concerning life and death, youth and old age, aphor-
isms that would comprise his entire experience and be
of permanent application. Anything outside these in-
terests bothered him not at all. In the business of writ-
ing lay his entire credo, and his convictions, which con-
tinual reflection and analysis had rendered utterly
vague and doubtful, tended to attach themselves to those
of the person to whom he happened to be speaking; so
that the next moment would see him formulating, with
added smoothness and clarity, the very ideas his com-
panion had been seeking to express.

Just now his mind was occupied entirely with
thoughts of the villa which the Emperor had given him.
He was wondering how much it would cost him to build
the fountain. But, glancing at Nero again, he noticed
that his words had not succeeded in quieting the boy.
Head thrown back, Nero gazed up at the ceiling.
Seneca was afraid that some unfavourable moment
might lose for him the favour of the Emperor. AgitationEE 10-0; 7/ Om

shook his thin body at the thought of it, a body upon
which consumption and thought had effected equal in-
roads. His tired eyes gleamed more brightly than was
their wont and he coughed to hide his confusion.

After a long pause Nero pursued his train of thought:
“Tf I went away—but then only barbarians believe that
they can go away. We cannot escape
away from this palace
Always we bear with us what we flee from. Pain pur-
sues us forever.”

“You speak wisely,” remarked Seneca. “And for
that very reason you must conquer the pain within
you.”

“How shall I do it?”

“Through pain itself. One may not cure bitterness
with sweetness, but only with more bitterness.”

“T do not understand.”

“Only with sorrow does sorrow disappear,” ex-
plained Seneca. “This winter when the snow came I
was freezing in my room. I used to shake all over with
gooseflesh. The more closely I wrapped my woolen
coverlet around me, the more surely the cold found me
out. It crept about me, snapped at me like a wolf. I
was unable to write. Then I began to examine into the
real cause of my sufferings and I discovered that the

 

we cannot go

 

or from any other place.

cause lay not in things exterior to me, such as the room
and the cold atmosphere, but in myself. I was freezing
only because I desired warmth. Accordingly, I re-
versed the situation. I determined to long not for
warmth but for cold. The idea had hardly penetrated
my brain when J found the room already insufficiently32 THE BLOODY POET

cold. I threw off the coverlet, took off my tunic, had
some snow brought in from the courtyard, rubbed my
body with it several times, leaned outside and inhaled
through my teeth the sharp, penetrating winter air.
You may or may not believe me when I tell you that a
sudden warmth streamed through my limbs and when I
had dressed, I felt cold no longer. I could even work,
and in one sitting I wrote three new scenes of my
Thyestes.”

“Possibly,” said Nero, with a smile of irritation,
“but how does all this apply to me?”

“Heap suffering upon yourself,” explained Seneca.
“Tell yourself that you wish to suffer.”

“But I do not wish to suffer.”

“There are certain people, you are aware, who do
wish to suffer, to weep, to renounce—and they say that
they are happy. They desire nought else, but only
more and more pain and humiliation, more than there is
in the world. They desire so much that they can never
be satisfied and their hopes are continually frustrated.
But despite this, in them dwells a great peace. . . .”

The Emperor grew angry. “You are thinking of that
filthy-footed sect who never bathe, those blear-eyed
people who never wash themselves, verminous because
they never use a comb—a stinking people who live un-
derground and beat their breasts like madmen. I know
—you are thinking of the rebels, the enemies of the
Empire.” Nero did not allude to them by their name.
- . . I despise them!”

Seneca replied: “As for me, I am a Latin poet and
so I hate those who would plunge the world back intoLee ew ron

barbarism and I abhor their simple superstitions. There
cannot be too many axes and crosses for them. I be-
lieve in the gods. You misunderstood me,” he went on,
seeing that Nero vouchsafed no reply. “I merely said
that we can conquer pain only by more pain.”

“You will never remove it by heaping up pain,” was
Nero’s reply. ‘“There is no way out.” Then, as if
struck with a saving thought, he resumed: “There must
be some sort of magic. a

“There are magicians who claim to be able to trans-
form people entirely.”

“T was not thinking of that.”

“Perhaps you should read the Greek tragedies.
There is great grief and sorrow in them—bitter reme-
dies for bloody wounds. Things written also have
power to heal. I too am now engaged in something of
the sort. I am writing about your illustrious father,
representing him in the company of Jupiter and
WOES a 5

He did not complete the sentence, for the Emperor,
moved by the recollection, arose from his chair and
walked abruptly into the next room, without bidding
Seneca good-bye.

Seneca waited for a time and then left. He had
never seen Nero like this before. The Emperor’s ordi-
narily healthy and pleasant face was all distorted,
deeply furrowed with lines that boded no good. He
must be suffering greatly, thought Seneca. On his way
home he had the sensation of having made a mistake.
It would have been better to have remained silent. In
general, it was useless to give advice.THOR 3b i O10 Die CEO ET

He shook his head as he reached the gate of his villa.
He did not understand the Emperor, whose every slight-
est gesture he had known since Nero was a child. He
had imagined that he would always remain the little
boy who had listened, in awe and reverence, to his
teaching.

It seemed that the hearts of the mighty were in-
scrutable.Chapter Five
STRUGGLE IN THE NIGHT

 
 

 

 

THAT NIGHT THE EMPEROR SUPPED, WENT TO BED
at once and tried to lose himself in the oblivion of
sleep. His slumber lasted but a few minutes.

“There is no medicine that can help me, nothing,”
he thought.

All about him lay the night, soft and satiny, smoke-
black. A night unlike others, a night shoreless and
unbounded, into which he seemed to plunge, and fall
and fall . . . Of late he had had this sensation fre-
quently. Upon awakening, he did not know where he
was nor how long he had slept, whether a minute or a
year. Objects grew vague, they seemed to move about
the room. The window approached the bed, the door
moved back. He rubbed his eyes but the sensation of
vertigo would not leave him.

A few strains of a simple melody floated in from the
darkness outside. The music seemed so much part of
the silence, blended so unobtrusively with the stillness

The flute-player could not be very far from the
palace. Quite certain now that he could not fall asleep,
Nero listened to the simple melody repeated again and
again with a sort of blind persistence. Who could it
be? Nero wondered. He glanced out from the portico
but could see no one. The musician played invisibly,
as a cricket sings.36 THE BLOODY POET

In the morning a search was made for the flute-player
and a young Egyptian, about nineteen years old, was
led before him. As far as the boy knew, he had no
parents; but this did not prevent him from looking gay
and contented.

With the aid of an interpreter Nero questioned him.

“What is your name?”

““Kucaerus.”

“Are you in the military band?”

aINOM

“Why do you play the flute?”

“Tt gives me pleasure.”

“Who taught you how to play?”

“No one.”

The next night was a sleepless one also, and again
he heard the flute-player in the darkness repeating his
simple melody.

“How happy he must be,” thought Nero.

He tossed about feverishly, passing from one night-
mare to another. As he opened his eyes amid the black
wilderness a series of vague and wavering images,
glimpsed long ago, rose up before him.

He saw himself a small child strolling through for-
gotten streets and rooms. He remembered that at that
time he was living in the ancient house of his beloved
arrogant old aunt, Lépida. He saw again the narrow
wooden stairways and dim halls. In the courtyard
high grass and strange flowers had sprung up luxu-
riantly amid dilapidated stone-work and cracked mar-
ble tablets. He had been brought to this place whenSTRUGGLE IN THE NIGHT we

he was three years old, after the death of his father;
and here he had grown up.

He lived in a rather dark, narrow room with a dancer
who was performing at the Circus Maximus. This
dancer was a lean fellow, dry as a stick, with a long
neck and high cheek-bones. Nero had been very fond
of him; he was the first man who appeared really inter-
esting and enviable to the boy. It was true enough,
however, that nobody else in the house seemed to have
a very exalted opinion of him. In order to keep thin
the dancer ate little. In the evening he would exercise
in the little room. He would balance himself on
chairs and improvised tight-ropes, and, when he thought
the boy was asleep, he would begin to dance. Nero in
his little bed feigned slumber and gazed at him with
a beating heart. To him it was all a mystery, and he
was careful to divulge it to no one. Every evening he
waited for the dancer. He would watch the airy body
moving lightly to and fro as if blown on the wind.
The light of the oil-lamp outlined the restless, capri-
cious shadow on the wall, a reflection of arms and legs
gruesomely magnified.

He recollected another figure, a barber who lived
with him, a highly amusing fellow and a friend of the
dancer. He called himself a barber although no one
had ever seen him give anyone a shave or a haircut.
His tongue never stopped wagging from morning to
night. He was an engaging fool; he could imitate a
cock’s crow, a goat’s bleat or a snake’s hiss, and as a
ventriloquist he was so clever that he could deceive
anyone. His tricks entertained the entire household.38 THE BLOODY POET

He was particularly fond of Nero, and liked to set him
on his shoulders and run with him all the way into the
garden . . . Nero was amazed that he could evoke the
barber and the dancer so clearly, these two friends of
his youth, who he imagined had long ago passed from
his memory.

At last he fell into a deep slumber. The heavy eve-
ning meal made him snore. He talked in his sleep and
awoke on hearing himself cry out; his own dream-voice
and the sound of his heart beating in his ears had
startled him. A dreadful night! He sat up in bed
and looked out to see whether the dawn were coming.
Darkness still shrouded everything. But the ineffably
sweet notes of the flute-player could still be heard.
Nero fell back on the pillows with a groan. Animal
sounds forced their way through his clenched teeth,
primitive cries subsiding into moans. If he could only
sing, or even scream loud enough for everyone to hear,
even the spirits of the underworld and the very gods
in heaven. He wanted to rouse from their unconscious-
ness all those who slept; he wanted them to listen to
him, not to the Emperor, but to the human being, sing-
ing, shouting, bellowing. He felt driven to do some-
thing to release his mind from the agonized confusion
that racked it. Abruptly he sprang out of bed.

The two slaves who had been standing guard before
the door lit their torches and accompanied the Emperor
down to the banquet hall. Yawning, he demanded food
although at the evening meal he had already stuffed
himself to bursting. There was a bitter taste in his
mouth. He asked for sweetmeats to tempt his palate.STRUGGLE IN THE NIGHT 39

The cook brought in long glass dishes containing sugar-
coated fish whose bones and cartilage were made of
nuts. On silver plates he brought sliced oranges
smothered in honey; on plates of gold were piled thin
slices of melon spiced with cinnamon and ginger and
swimming in a sweet gluey sauce. Nero grubbed about
in the sauce with two thin little sticks, then licked them
off dejectedly with his dry tongue.

Actually he was neither hungry nor thirsty; it was
only that his mind was restless, full of fancies; every-
thing frustrated him. He felt impelled to drink great
quantities of liquor, emptying one goblet after another.
His senses were overpoweringly keen, making him ab-
normally responsive to the things around him. He was
aware of the crude fierce smell of the crocodile-skin
cushions, and he inhaled the odor of the table roses
greedily. His restlessness betrayed itself in the rapid-
ity of his heart-beat. He sat at the table alone and
abstracted, yet he felt no sense of boredom, as he passed
without effort from one mood to another, watching the
play of the torch-flames with no sense of the passage
of time.

Slowly the dawn broke. The summer morning threw
violet streaks over everything and suddenly flooded with
light the imperial gardens and halls, the hills and the
city.

“T wish to be alone,” called out Nero on his way to
his study.

“And if someone should come?” asked the guard.
“Admit no one.”
“No morning visitors? The Empress is announced.”40 THE BLOODY POET

“T am not in.”

“Burrus?”

“Tell him I’ve gone away.”

He had the doors barred and ran to the middle of
the room. So intense was his desire for solitude that
he must run to meet it. A few Latin words penetrated
through the door. He covered his ears; he hated this
hard military language; he wanted to hear nothing
but Greek about him.

He felt that his longings must soon be fulfilled, the
path must open before him, salvation could not be far
away. A hot shifting cloud of words moved visibly
about him. They were his to capture and make his
own. There lay the saving path. With a militant ges-
ture he prepared himself for the struggle. Yet all the
time he felt afraid, like a young girl. His breath came
and went in short gasps. A sense of all his sufferings,
both those of yesterday and of the past, swept over him;
and he was engulfed in a strange, hitherto unknown
sentimentality. He trembled; tears filled his eyes.
Sentimentality and wine combined to make him weep;
a fusion of two intoxications. It gave him infinite pain,
this consciousness of all his sufferings: and yet, after
an interval, it too began to disappear.

He himself had no idea how or why it happened, but
suddenly he began to write. Line after line he wrote,
Greek hexameters which resounded gloriously. But
upon reading them aloud, he began to feel less confi-
dent. He weighed the lines in his mind, tested them,
made corrections. Now his mood was black and des-
perate like that of a murderer arming himself for anSTRUGCLE IN THE NICHT

ominous deed for which, should he fail, he must pay
with his life.

He wrote of King Agamemnon murdered by his wife
Clytemnestra; he described his son, Orestes, weeping
for the great captain returned from the Trojan War,
while the dead father, the god-like hero, stares up at
his grief-wracked son, his face all pale and bloody, his
lips fixed in a sad smile.

As Nero worked over the legend all that had before
been shrouded in mist now began to reveal itself clearly.
The ominous veil which had hidden all things in mys-
tery began to lift. One by one the wreaths disappeared
and he could see clear new forms and hear their voices
plainly. His dark mood melted away. The very terror
of the narrative acted as a delicious stimulant; his re-
action to the gory tale was a pleasant swooning effect of
delirium. Moment by moment his confidence increased.
Now he felt himself in perfect command of his expres-
sion. All he need do was write, write rapidly and
continuously,

Suddenly he glanced up with a sense that he was
finished, that the poem was completed. He threw away
the stylus, selected another and made a few marks with
it. He was so overjoyed he hardly knew what to do.
He leaped about like a frolicsome child. A brilliant
light shot through the room. Nothing remained now
except the final polishing, and this too he effected with
incredible rapidity. Then at the top of his voice he
cried:

“Finished, it’s finished.” And he pointed gleefully
to the wax tablets.

4lA2 THE BLOODY POET

He ordered a chariot to be drawn up before the pal-
ace and stepped into it quickly. An unbounded joy and
peace, a nameless pride possessed him. He dashed
through the city, the ground flew by beneath him, the
sky flew by above him, row after row of houses flashed
by; everything seemed moving and alive. He ordered
the charioteer to whip up the horses. He had an in-
tense desire to feel them carrying him forward at a
furious pace into that country of the spirit, once vague
and unknown, now assuming an intelligible form. As
the wind struck his fresh face and fluttered his hair,
his heart swelled fiercely with a sense of youth and an
unbounded future in which all things were possible.

When he returned home he received Burrus and a few
patricians and applied himself to his affairs of state
with unaccustomed zeal. And he gave orders that the
next day the soldiers were to receive wine at their mid-
day meal.Chapter Six

THE NOVICE

 

 

AS TIME WENT ON HIS HAPPINESS ASSUMED A MORE
definite form which he could observe and evaluate.
When he had enjoyed it to the full and could no longer
arrange any new surprises for himself, he felt the need
of sharing it with someone. He summoned Seneca.
The philosopher entered, an unpleasant memory of the
previous meeting lingering with him. He saluted Nero
ceremoniously:

“Emperor.”

But Nero made a gesture of impatience:

“Don’t call me that. You shame me. I owe my
education to you, I owe to you everything of any value
in me.”

“You are very gracious.”

“Call me your son—for you have been my father.”

And he rose from his chair and kissed him, humbly,
with filial reverence.

Seneca wanted to continue the interrupted philosophi-
cal conversation of their last meeting, but Nero headed
him off by asking, in a friendly tone:

“What are you working on now? Tell me about it.”

“TY am finishing the third act of my Thyestes.”

“Interesting,” said the Emperor, “very interesting.
Does it go well?”

“T think so.”

“T would like very much to hear it.”

43RHE Se LOO Dy (Poker

“Do these things interest you?” asked Seneca in
surprise, for the Emperor had never expressed any such
desire before.

“Oh yes, very much.”

At first Seneca affected the proper modesty, but
finally consented to read his third act aloud. Nero
leaned back in his chair; the very first scene bored him.
He could not keep his mind on the flow of words and
the decorative, balanced phrases; the lines evoked no
response in him; impatient for the end, he kept casting
furtive glances at the roll of manuscript. During most
of the reading his eyes were closed in self-absorption.
With the lines of his own poem running silently through
his mind, he waited in fearful anticipation of Seneca’s
judgment. The reading over at last, he rose and em-
braced his teacher with strained enthusiasm and ex-
travagant words of admiration.

‘““A masterpiece!” he exclaimed, “it surpasses every-
thing you’ve done. A perfect piece of work from every
point of view!”

Seneca, still under the spell of his intoxicating
phrases and fatigued by the effort of reading, mopped
his brow and gazed into space dazedly as if he were
just awakening from a dream. The effect of his resound-
ing words had not yet worn off and it was with difficulty
that he could find ordinary phrases of polite formality
with which to express his thanks for the Emperor’s
praise, the highest recognition.

Nero paced back and forth impatiently; finally he
burst out:

“<T too,”

and as he uttered the words he heard hisTHE NOVICE 45

t
heart pumping, “I too have written something. An }
elegy.” |

For a moment Seneca did not comprehend.
“You?” he stammered.
“Yes,” answered Nero, betraying the utmost nervous-

ness. “I’ve made a literary attempt myself. It’s about

Agamemnon.” | ,

“A difficult subject, something to test one’s highest

powers. Of course I dare not venture to ask you but a
{

I was just thinking, if you would care to read it to
MON ca.

“It might bore you.”

Seneca made a melodramatic gesture of protest.

“No,” said the Emperor, “I dare not read it to you. i

It is long, very long. However—I will, but only on ia

one condition: you must promise to interrupt me as
soon as it becomes tedious.”
And so Nero too began to read, to declaim his elegy

on the death of Agamemnon. !
“Do you like it?” he asked eagerly, as soon as it was |

concluded. !
“Extremely.” yay
*““Be honest.” it
“T am honest,” said Seneca, raising his voice em- (}

phatically. “Especially your beginning.” if

“I feel the same way about the beginning. It turned
out so well. How about the close?”
“Very good also. Particularly that splendid meta-
phor, the one comparing the night to pain . . .”
“Yes,” agreed Nero, “I like that one myself.” |
Seneca rubbed his eyes, trying in vain to dispel the
i46 THE BLOODY POET

feeling of utter indifference which seemed to have
covered his face like a grey web during the reading of
the tedious wooden verses. He would have liked his
cheeks to appear flushed, he wanted to manifest en-
thusiasm.

“Tt is highly encouraging,” declared Seneca, for he
had to say something, “highly encouraging to feel that
your very first attempt has been so successful.”

“Really?”

“In its own way.”

“Tsn’t it too long?”

“No! Not at all, I assure you. Of course the reader
must be prepared to enter into the mood of the piece.”

“T could easily shorten it,” suggested the Emperor.
But he said it under his breath, hesitatingly. In affect-
ing the willingness of a disciple he was really only seek-
ing further praise. He listened like a fox.

“Every line of a passage cannot be a masterpiece,
of course,” said the teacher. “In the last analysis it is
the entire work taken as a whole that constitutes the final
effect.”

“Then I need not delete anything?”

“Well, at most a few lines from the middle section.”

“Which?”

“Possibly,” stammered Seneca, taking the manu-
script and seizing upon a passage with a practiced eye,
“possibly this passage here.”

“What, this one?”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Seneca, “that might have
a bad effect. It would unbalance the entire compo-
sition. Besides, those lines have a magnificent rhythm.”Dae NOV DG E

“You think so? . . . “Thou dearest father . . .” It’s i
the caesura in the middle of the third foot,” explained Hh
Nero, and began to scan the poem. “ “Thou dearest |
father that in desolate Hades .. .”” iy

He wanted nothing else now, nothing but the sound "4
of his own voice and his own poem which he was de- 1h
claiming once more, his eyes brimming with tears, his |
voice failing, accompanying every phrase with a florid 4
gesture, enveloping the entire composition in the clouds my
of his emotion. He felt his soul filled with the poem Mt |
as we ourselves, in a moment of excitement, often feel
the furious upward rush of our own blood, suffusing
our faces, blinding our eyes. He was in great terror
lest the re-reading should not please Seneca, should
perhaps even disappoint himself. Therefore he stressed
the weaker parts carefully as if the defects were delib-
erate exaggerations. He entered into the declamation
with all the force of his body and tried to give a fresh
and novel turn to the text already familiar to the point i
of tediousness, a text into which he had translated the

|
|

 

agony of many long weeks, verses which one might
think would by this time be disgusting to him like a
shirt soaked with the intimate sweat and secretions of

his own body. By these new turns of expression he ti
tried to re-create in the other that agonized surprise and tM
wonderment which he himself had felt at the time of a
the poem’s tragic conception. He literally panted with |

the intensity of this desire. Never, never before had yi
he felt a fever like this, he who was enthroned above 1)
man, master of the world. Never before had he had Hh ‘
this sensation nor could he ever hope to re-capture it.4S THE BLOODY POET

He swung aloft on the rhythmic wings of his verses,
giddy in the empyrean. His heart beat so violently that
he lost the sound of his own voice. But he still pos-
sessed enough composure to steal an occasional glance
at Seneca, who was seated in a low chair, painfully
attentive, his thin flattering mouth echoing the lines as
they died away.

Nor did the master interpose a single objection this
time. He nodded incessantly in agreement, praised
this or that passage, perhaps a little more energetically
than was necessary. But somehow the expression of
his eyes seemed to belie his enthusiastic words. Nero
noticed this, grew confused and began to stammer. He
was looking at Seneca more frequently than at his
manuscript, for he was aware now that the master did
not admire the poem; he sensed it poignantly, and so he
erected a cunning defence against the unuttered con-
demnation. During the reading he kept one ear sharply
on the alert for Seneca’s interjected words of praise in
order to still the honest critic within himself. Above
all he wanted to sustain the uncertainty of his own judg-
ment as long as possible, for if he lost that there would
be only blank nothingness before him. He was inex-
orable, brusque, arrogant in his manner; and yet one
little sign from Seneca would have melted his icy crust,
would have even impelled him to kiss the shoe of the
grey old poet. He did not himself know clearly what
this sign he was waiting for might be. He imagined a
great, an overwhelming flood of warmth issuing from
Seneca’s tear-stained eyes. He wanted to imbue Seneca
with the personal tragedy that filled his poem. But theTHE NOVICE 49

sign, so eagerly awaited, this definite decisive sign, was

slow in coming. As he read the closing lines for the

second time, the feverish pride in his creation flamed

up in him again, and with an arrogant gesture he threw

the manuscript on the table. He, at least, was satisfied.
He began to speak of other matters.Chapter Seven
Dis Gust

 
 

 

For DAYS HE MOVED ABOUT, IN A SEMI-CONSCIOUS
state, almost happy. His former calm returned; he
could even sleep. Again and again, using it as an ano-
dyne, he read his poem. He beheld himself reflected in
it as an ugly woman might examine her face in the
mirror, taking the precaution, however, of doing so
only at evenings, in the favouring darkness. For the
moment he was afraid of the light.

But one day he awakened from this intoxication to
find himself in the grip of a feeling of nausea. Once
more he paced back and forth, his head aching, not
daring to think of his poem. He drew it out abruptly—
and cried aloud with shame. How hollow and empty
every line was! The ideas were hackneyed, the epithets
clumsy, the images confused, dull, discordant. But
what disgusted him most was the utter tediousness of
the poem, whose every detail was filled with unbearable,
indescribable boredom. Once, in a feverish dream, he
had felt himself eating hot sand which crunched and
grated between his teeth and dried up the saliva. Now
the poem tortured him like this old nightmare. He
accused himself of dullness and stupidity and soaked
himself in the pointless inanity of the verses. Then
he returned to them again to attempt corrections with a
sick heart. He excised the middle portion, creating a
huge gap in the poem, interchanged the positions of the
50DISGUST

beginning and end, rearranged the lines, substituting
one for another, altered the hexameters to pentameters;
then he replaced the final product by the original ver-
sion. Still dissatisfied and without any feeling of hope,
he began to rewrite it from the very beginning. He
patched and mended and made innumerable additions.
The poem grew longer and longer, it expanded to ten
times, twenty times the length he had planned, like some
monster who has grown beyond control and threatens
to devour his master. Tired, exhausted, he stopped at
last, with no desire ever to read the poem again.

His face pale, he arose, thought of Seneca and sum-
moned him.

“Save me!” he cried, his voice breaking, his nerves
on edge. “I can’t bear it any longer. I am lost!”

At first Seneca was puzzled to understand what the
trouble was. Then he noticed Nero pointing to the
poem he held in his hand.

He sat down beside the distraught Emperor.

“Be calm, compose yourself,” he said, with a kindly
smile.

He had expected Nero to lose all interest in the poem,
to forget it as quickly as he had himself.

“It’s no good,” said Nero, “it’s bad, very bad.”

Seneca continued to smile.

“You’re smiling?” asked Nero, reproachfully.

“Your skin is fresh, your eyes are youthful and
bright. This is merely a tiny cloud obscuring the face
of the sun.”

“Tm very dissatisfied with it,” said the Emperor
dejectedly.52 THE BLOODY POET

“‘T know that,” said Seneca. “I have known it for
some time; all poets are dissatisfied.”

“Ts that true?” !

“Of course,” went on Seneca, paternally. “That is
to say, not all, only the good poets; the bad ones are
perfectly confident. They’re satisfied because they are
blind. The good poets, on the contrary, perceive their
own faults, they realize keenly what an abysmal gap
yawns between the perfection they desire and what they
finally produce.”

“You’re only trying to comfort me,” complained
Nero.

Glancing at him Seneca saw how morose and intense
was Nero’s mood. He grew serious, feeling a genuine
sympathy.

“No,” he said, “you have no need of consolation,
none at all.”

“Then it’s really—not so bad?”

“Of course it is not bad”—he paused—“‘in fact, it is
splendid, simply splendid.”

Nero was overjoyed but incredulous.

“Can I really believe you?”’

Seneca asked to see the poem. He held out his hand
for it almost eagerly but upon receiving it could hardly
repress a slight shudder, as if he were grasping a re-
pulsive slimy reptile which he was forced to caress.
The poem was quite banal. It obeyed faithfully all the
rules, was stuffed with mythological images and allu-
sions, abounded in limp, nerveless rhythms. The phi-
losopher knew that there was no help for either poem
or poet. Nevertheless he had to do something, so heDISGUST

picked up the first draft, still the best one, crossed out
a few lines and corrected them. They read the poem
together and were both, each in his own way, delighted.
The Emperor grew dizzy with joy.

“Was I right?” exulted Seneca.

ro Yes,’

“Will you promise me that you will never again be
discouraged so quickly?”

*“Yes,”’ stammered Nero, in breathless excitement.
“But now you must understand why I suffered so much.
I know now, I have discovered what the best and highest
thing is: poetry. Nothing else is worth any care or
thought. What I have always wanted is to be able to
write. I confess it now. And if that is impossible for
me, if I cannot do it He looked up desperately.
“Then what business have I in the world at all?”

“You are too modest,” said Seneca, with the twinge

 

of jealousy every author feels when others praise his
calling and he sees that they have shared the same joy
of creation which he would wish to be his alone.

“No, no, I’m not modest about it,” and he continued
confidentially, “the other day, after finishing the poem,
I felt the urge for a drive with galloping horses. As I
flashed by everything was so fresh and lovely. The
wonderful and radiant summer rushed along with me.
It was as if I were flying in a chariot enclosed by
flames.”

“You are a true poet,” said Seneca. “Only a true
poet could utter such words. You should write about
ite
“About that?”54 THE Bo O.0 Dy POET

“Yes, about everything that enters your mind, just
as it comes, fresh and unpremeditated. My dear boy,
an infinite path of development is opening out before
you. You are still young—and true art belongs to old
men.”

Seneca found it to his interest to have a would-be poet
occupying the throne: also it flattered his vanity to
have his words listened to from that eminence. New
vistas opened before him. The friendship between him-
self and the Emperor grew warmer, more intimate every
day—it was already almost an unbreakable bond.
Nero’s awakening passion fitted in beautifully with his
own plans. As his poetic guide, he could win over the
ruler of the Empire to benevolence and charity. And
what more opportune medium than the gentle art of
poetry to act as a release for Nero’s discontent and an
ameliorating influence on the governing of his ninety
million subjects? Perhaps it was just this drop of the
milk of human kindness that had been lacking in
Caligula and the other tyrants. It was an idea sent
direct from heaven. Seneca renounced his last, linger-
ing, aesthetic scruples and spoke to the Emperor in an
authoritative voice as if it were he who occupied the
throne:

“Tn truth, you are not merely a poet but you have
shown yourself extremely sagacious in choosing the
path of poetry. Now for the first time the worid really
belongs to you. The mighty merely rule it, but the poet
possesses it completely, masters it, carries it upon his
shoulders like Atlas. Reality is incomplete without art.
For even the philosopher is not as complete or happyDISGUST

as the poet. At most wisdom can only prevent misfor-
tunes. But the poet takes these very misfortunes and
transmutes them into things of beauty. For eight years
I lived in exile on the island of Corsica, far from civili-
zation, among bare, rocky precipices and even more
savage inhabitants. My only companions were the
fever-bringing mosquitoes and the mountain eagles. I
would surely have perished had I not been a poet.
Amid the terrible solitude I could close my eyes and
transport myself wherever I wished. Dreams are the
only reality.”

“Dreams are the only reality,” murmured Nero and
glanced at the rapt old man whose consumption burned
on his cheeks like a flame. An incurable invalid igno-
rant of his own condition, thought Nero.

“Rule over men,” continued Seneca, “and, with the
aid of poetry, rule over yourself. But you must keep
on writing incessantly. Do not bother about things once
written. Let them lie, let them fall naturally like the
withered leaves of a tree.”

Nero listened to him in grateful fascination.

“Shall I read?” he asked.

“No,” said Seneca, apprehensively.

“Why not?”

Seneca feared for his own supremacy. He did not
wish Nero to become acquainted with poets greater than
himself.

“That is to say,” he corrected himself, “only a little.”

“What do you suggest?”

Seneca pondered like a physician who is asked to
recommend a diet.

   
 
 
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  

 

 

 

  

epee ag mem nen pet etnTHE BEGoDyY POET

“Homer,” he said, “and Alcaeus. Possibly Pindar.
But not Tyrtaeus, you must not read him yet.”

At the conclusion the doctor received his fee, two
hundred thousand Sestertii.

“Remember,” was Seneca’s final admonition, “above
all, you must live! As yet you are ignorant of life,
ithe source of all experience. Youth sees only the sur-
face of things, the skin and rind, but not the depths
beneath. From your high eminence you cannot com-
mand a detailed view. You must descend a little to
observe all things. But we shall speak of that later.”

“Yes,” answered the Emperor obediently. “Guide
me,” he stammered, like a sleep-walker.Chapter Eight
Mn POET'S SGHOOL

 

THE EMPEROR WORKED HARD. AT NIGHT HIS STYLUS
lay beside his bed so that he could the more easily note
down every idea that floated into his mind. He wrote
many poems, among them an idyll on the subject of
Daphnis and Chloe, and an ode to Apollo the Far-
darter. And he began a tragedy which streamed from
his stylus with wonderful facility. He was satisfied
with his labors. At the end of a year he had composed
a veritable small library which he contemplated with
conscious pride. He apportioned his time so that not
a minute was wasted, so that every one should bring him
closer to his great and unique goal. He plunged into
study. He read a great deal and now and then learned
some poem by heart, that its music might penetrate his
soul and inspire him to fresh effort. After the reading,
Seneca would take him walking, pointing out all the
interesting things to him, directing his attention to
things which he had never noticed before. Nero seemed
to be a willing pupil.

Later he continued these observations independently
under the direction of his teacher. With his architects
he once visited the outskirts of the city, where the work
of construction was going on slowly, without great
energy. While the architects were conferring he left
them, and ordered his sedan-bearers to take him to the

57THESE ELOODY POET

dirty and crooked alleys where, in unbelievable squalor,
the poor were penned up like swine.

Filthy water flowed by in the open sewer. Muleteers,
using their sticks vigorously, drove their animals past
miserable cobblers’ shops and thieves’ dens built partly
below the street level. Dead dogs and cats were strewn
about the edge of the open ditch. An agonizing odour
hit him full in the face. The prodigality of this decay
frightened and fascinated him. Formerly his ordinary
reaction to life in the raw had been one of detached
aloofness; he had approached it either from esthetic
interest or out of a sense of duty. But now as he or-
dered his sedan-bearers to halt, his attitude seemed to
undergo a transformation.

People stuck their heads out of the hovels and with-
drew them quickly, as terrified as if the heavens had
opened over them. He observed their movements jeal-
ously, absorbing their significance. These hordes of
strangers all carrying with them a treasure-house of
strange secrets, a vivid agonizing life, excited him
keenly. He was torn with curiosity to know what might
be concealed within them. When a beggar crept under
the gate he gazed after him for a long time, fascinated.

An old grandmother was sitting by the ditch, rubbing
her swollen legs, covered with sores.

“Do they hurt?” asked Nero, examining her with in-
different sympathy but keen curiosity. The old woman
stared at him dully and said nothing.

“Do your feet hurt you very much?” repeated the
Emperor loudly, hesitating now between sympathy and
a feeling of ferocity. “How would you like to have noTHE POET’S SCHOOL 59

pain at all, eh? So that you could run like a girl of
twenty? Eh?”

Still the old woman said not a word, but the tears
were running down her face.

“Don’t cry,” said Nero, knavishly, his eyes sparkling.
“I have legs like that, too. That’s why I have myself
carried in a sedan-chair.” And he proceeded on his
way.

He had already played several pranks similar to
this. Without their suspecting that it was the Emperor
walking behind them, he would follow pedestrians till
they grew nervous and gave him the slip. This amused
him greatly. Or he would praise ugly girls for their
beauty and try to convince pretty ones that they were
ugly. He took delight in all the confusion he could
cause.

Although he hardly occupied himself at all with
affairs of state, he was considered an able ruler. His
indifference passed for mildness, his bored acquiescence
for good nature. The real ruler of the Empire was
Agrippina, who had formerly listened to the sessions
of the Senate from behind a curtain. Now, however,
she conducted the session openly. Everything depended
on her and her lover, Pallas. Between them they dis-
posed of all the important business. Noting that the
Emperor was much too completely immersed in his
studies, Seneca thought it might be advisable for him
to take some interest in affairs of state. Accordingly
he proposed to have Nero chosen Consul. But even

then Nero very seldom attended the sessions of the
Senate.to eB) O Dey PO; E fT

One day Seneca, coming to reproach him for this
apathy, found him in conversation with two strange
figures. 3

“Tyon’t you know them?” he asked Seneca, pointing
to one of the pair, an uncombed, dirty fellow with
trailing shoelaces. “This is Zodicus.”

Seneca looked at the creature.

““He’s a poet too,” explained the Emperor.

Zodicus, square, thick-set, with a snub-nose and
blinking eyes, looked up at Seneca as a dog looks at
his master, with the same fear and hopeless awe. He
might have been a laborer of some sort.

Naturally the master did not know him, for such
poets swarmed around the Forum by the hundreds.
Wine-bibbers all of them, pot companions who, unable
to get their books published, would read their poems
aloud to every passerby until they eventually received
a thrashing from one of them.

“And this is Fannius,” said Nero, introducing the
second individual, who was somewhat thinner but just
as short, and wore a shabby toga. He hardly dared to
slink out of the gloom.

“Likewise i

“A. poet,”

“Yes,” explained Nero, “he writes poems too, quan-
tities of them.”

Seneca surveyed the trio, finally grasping the situa-
tion. It looked as if they had been intimate for some
time.

These two dung-flies, escaped from the Roman la-
trine, had crept across the Emperor’s path simultane-

completed Seneca, scornfully.THE POET’S SCHOOL 61

ously. They had attached themselves to him as they did
to everyone else, and Nero did not find them disagree-
able. They were extremely modest and unassuming.

“I’m afraid I didn’t know that,” said Seneca, rather
confused.

~They’re terribly droll fellows,” Nero assured him,
“really original.”

The severity of Seneca’s gaze abated somewhat. He
forced himself to address a few words to them:

“Why are you so silent?”

Zodicus and Fannius had not dared to utter a sound
in the presence of the master. Now they summoned up
enough courage to move their lips mutely.

“Not that way,” cried the Emperor. “Let’s have
some of your usual tricks, something with a little life
in it.”

The two vagabonds brightened up and began to
chatter. Their method was to revile and heap objurga-
tions on each other in the ornate manner of tavern-
keepers. They used a local literary slang in which
almost every word was foul to the point of nausea.

“Do you hear that?” asked Nero, laughing.

“TI recognize them already,”;nodded Seneca.

“You still have some things to learn about them.
You must see how they act on the streets; it’s most
entertaining. Come with us.”

Nero ran out of the palace and rushed pell-mell down
the hill, bubbling over with youthful spirits. He
whooped and howled in a voice that hardly seemed his
own, and enjoyed himself hugely while Seneca trotted
behind wearily and Zodicus and Fannius headed theDHE Be O0ODY POT

strange procession. They were accompanied only by a
few slaves who carried a bronze lantern to light up the
path.

A few scattered pedestrians, tired, eager to reach
home, were hurrying down the street. Zodicus and
Fannius began their pranks by greeting everyone re-
spectfully, with an exaggerated courtesy. Wealthy
tradesmen, manufacturers of garments or dyes, all an-
swered the greeting amiably. They slowed down their
pace, and peered back, racking their brains in vain to
remember who these two strangers were. Then un-
easily they continued on their way.

“Tsn’t that funny?” asked Nero, laughing so heartily
that the tears ran down his face. “Just like puppets—
every one of them acts the same way. Let’s have the
coin trick,” he said to Zodicus.

Zodicus drew a small copper coin from his pocket
and dropped it close to the heels of a passing patrician,
to make it appear that the latter had let it fall. The
patrician would look around, hesitate at first, thinking
himself deceived; then, noticing the coin at his feet, he
would pick it up, pocket it and continue calmly on his
way, quite sure that, absent-mindedly, he had let the
money fall.

“The trick is even more knavish,” said Nero, “‘when
a whole family is on its way home—father, mother,
children and nurse. The sound of the money makes
them all scramble down on their knees—even the rich.
They search for hours and all rejoice when ‘at last’
they find the coin.”

Nero also participated in these pranks, so excitedTHE POET'S SCHOOL 63

that he could not restrain himself, He dropped the
copper at the heels of a dignified noblewoman who was
walking with her husband, but he did it clumsily. The
lady reprimanded him sharply. Nero began to flirt with
her and when she persisted in repelling his advances, he
took advantage of the pitch darkness to pinch her chin
and bosom. In return he received a hearty drubbing
from her husband. The next day Nero discovered that
he had been thrashed by Senator Julius Montanus.

To protect himself from possible recognition under
such circumstances, the Emperor henceforth never went
out unless disguised. Paris the actor would make him
up and prepare his disguise. Frequently he masked as
a common soldier with a short broadsword, sometimes
as an aedile, a tribune or a starving vagabond.

On one of the first of these evenings he put on a dirty,
ragged, patched jacket and a greasy, evil-smelling
leather hat like those worn by Roman coachmen in rainy
weather. To complete the resemblance he spat in the
dust, describing a long curve, and swore loudly. He
mingled with the people who were crowding about the
Circus Maximus. Suddenly Zodicus stuck two fingers
in his mouth, emitting a long shrill whistle, upon which
a crowd of prostitutes slunk out from the wooden stalls
built all around the Circus. Among them were Egyp-
tians and Greek women. All tripped by with a pitiful
coquetry. Zodicus chose a rather oldish one.

“Just a minute, sweetheart,” he said, “stop a while.”

“Goddess!” called Fannius after her.

Nero and Seneca remained in the background. The
girl came back towards Zodicus.Wh Ey BOO DY Poh T

“What do you want?” she asked, for she was un-
accustomed to high-class cavaliers of this sort as she
was ordinarily accosted only by slaves. They bar-
gained for a minute or two. Then Nero felt an irre-
sistible temptation; dressed in his coachman’s costume,
he rushed from his master’s side and ran up to the girl.

“Dearest,” he said sweetly, aping Zodicus’ manner,
“T’ve never seen such a pretty girl in my life.” And
he made an elaborate mock gesture of homage. This
from Fannius’ book of etiquette.

“She talks marvelously,” whispered Zodicus.

“And how wonderfully she carries herself!” was
Fannius’ contribution to the eulogy.

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“Don’t mock me.”

“T’m not,” answered Nero with the bold insolent ac-
cent of a coachman. “I like you.”

“Come along then.”

“To the end of the world, sweetheart!”

“Who are you?” asked the girl, hoarsely.

“Don’t you see that you’re talking to a very superior
coachman? My master had an accident this morning.
I’ve got a day off now.”

*“You’re no coachman.”

“Then what am 1?”

“Something else,” she replied, appraising him with
a glance.

“That’s right: you’ve guessed it,” said Nero. “I am
something else. Now I'll tell you the truth. I’m the
Emperor. The Roman Emperor.”

Seneca was dumfounded. Nero’s proceedings tookTHE POET’ S SCHOOL 65

his breath away. His companions were certainly teach-
ing him how to be fresh and original.

“You may be a fool, my friend,” declared the girl,
“but you are not the Roman Emperor. You're a fool;
and a very big one too.”

“Very good,” agreed Nero, “but you are not what you
pretend to be, either. I saw you this morning, don’t
deny it. You were in the temple of Vesta. O vestal
virgin, to what have you descended?” The girl broke
into a laugh. Other people now started to press for-
ward and form a circle around the witty coachman. As
the situation began to get ticklish, Nero was borne away
by his friends, and in the distance shrill whistles an-
nounced the continuance of their pranks in new places.

The revels finished up in a tavern where Zodicus and
Fannius proceeded to fill themselves with a heavy,
heady wine and fall fast asleep on the floor. Nero and
Seneca conversed into the dawn.

On some of their later escapades they were joined by
Paris. Once, following a performance where he had
been representing Neptune, Paris brought back with
him a golden beard and a trident. Nero, who was dead
drunk, demanded the two theatrical properties. He
staggered out into the street, donned the golden beard,
grasped the trident and, accompanied by Seneca, sallied
forth into the morning mist like the sea-god himself.
At the foot of the Palatine they met a hunchback. The
Emperor stopped him.

“Why are you a hunchback?” he asked, in a fierce
tone of command.

Hearing this crass question, which no one had ever

    
 
 
 
  
  
   
    
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

il tee RR66 THE BLOODY £OET

put to him before, the hunchback glanced up at Nero
out of the desolate silence of his misery. Boiling with
scorn and contempt, he was about to continue on his
way.

“Halt!” came the stern command. “Never be proud,
my friend. Arrogance is the virtue of a fool. Look!
I’m not a hunchback, yet I don’t boast of that fact.
When a man’s back happens to be a bit arched, then
he’s a hunchback, which is no great matter. If I should
break my neck this morning, I’d be as hunchbacked as
you are. March on, you noble camel, march on into
your desert and don’t be so conceited. Doubtless a
hump is a pretty thing, but it is not as wonderful as you
seem to think. Besides, it’s all a matter of taste.”

By this time, he could hardly stand upright. Seneca
took his arm and led him away while the other, leaning
on his master, talked incessantly.

“Listen,” he said, now completely intoxicated. “I’ve
just had an idea. Men’s heads are just like nuts—don’t
you think so? Or like eggs, maybe. You must break
them open and examine them to see what’s inside of
them.” He laughed uproariously.

Seneca laughed too.

“And [ve got another idea, too. Why is everything
the way it is? Why isn’t the sky red, the sea yellow—
Why aren’t the stars green? Why can’t lions fly? But
above all, why can’t men bear children, too? Logi-
cally, they should bear men and the women should bear
women.”

He broke into a loud vacant laugh and even SenecaTHE POET’ S SGHOOT. 67

became apprehensive at the sight of Nero’s gaping
mouth.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Emperor with a leer.

“Nothing. You’re very interesting,” said Seneca,
“but now you had better go to sleep.”

At home, under the confused impression of his hor-
rible experiences, Nero could recall only a number of
jumbled images. He could not make a clear distinc-
tion between the Nero who had just been playing a réle
and the Nero who was now reflecting on it. He had a
sensation of failure; the crude experiences of life were
not having the awaited poetic transmutations, his head
was heavy and he detested himself. All experience
seemed a fog. The only thing he was certain about was
that his eyelids were still swollen and smarting from
the beating he had received recently: life had left its
mark upon him.

Communing with his thoughts, Nero felt that, after
all, all this experience was essential; and, with the zeal
of the literary novice, he tried to turn over in his be-
fuddled mind everything he had seen and felt.

And the next day he began all over again.Chapter Nine
Tae WENEGS SPROUT

    

 

“LALAGE.”

“What is it, my dear?”
“Ts he home yet?”
“Not yet, dear.”
“Look again, nurse.”
““Yes, dear.”

Lalage, the Empress Octavia’s nurse, hastened to the
hall leading to the Emperor’s apartments. The hall,
with its monstrous arches, its damp musty odour op-
pressed her. The echo was uncanny; its lamenting ac-
cent was multiplied a hundred times in the distant cor-
ridors and passageways. It was still dark. The only
light came from the torches of the night-watchman
which were too feeble to dispel the surrounding gloom.
Beyond this vague reddish light, in the depths of the
hall, loomed the mysterious, treacherous blackness.

Octavia remained alone, her little dark head pressed
between her hands. She was now fourteen years old
and had been married for three years. Since her mar-
riage she had lived in the palace, not daring to stir out
from its high gloomy walls. Half-woman, half-child,
in the daytime she played with her dolls, but at night
she grew fearful.

The nurse returned with the news that Nero had not
yet come home. Octavia sighed.

68

 
 
 

    
 
 

 

PER TE Ce re eeTHE WINGS SPROUT 69

“He doesn’t love me,” she said, “you see, he doesn’t
love me.”

“Shall I tell you a story?” The nurse tried to divert
her attention.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” asked Octavia. “Tell
me why he doesn’t love me. Am I ugly? Am I too
small?”

The great-grandchild of Augustus stood up for her
nurse’s appraisal. She was really very small, but deli-
cately made and graceful with lines as pure as those of
a statue.

“You are beautiful, my dear, very beautiful.”

Octavia contorted her mouth tearfully.

“But still he doesn’t love me. What shall I do? Be
gay? He says I’m too sad. Shall I talk? He says I
don’t know how. I never even see my brother now. I
haven’t seen Britannicus once this year. I wonder if
he’s well.”

The nurse comforted her, kissed her hands.

From their apartment on the ground floor one could
see out into the portico and the imperial garden, still
shrouded in darkness. From the fountain between the
fig-trees came the sound of the flute which played there
every night.

“Do you hear it?” asked the nurse.

“Someone is playing the flute again.”

“How gay it sounds,” said the nurse, humming the
air.

“How sad it sounds,” said Octavia, and she too
hummed the song.

 

—_—

————HS BO O DY EO ET

She walked into the hall and stopped to listen, as a
female slave behind prison bars might listen to the song
of the free birds outside. It seemed to her as if the
flute wept and every leaf and bush wept with it. Octavia
leaned against the wall and let her spirit borne on the
notes of the flute drift dreamily out into space. She
saw the blond head of the Emperor and heard his voice,
and her love grew stronger within her.

Frequently they would meet at table, Nero tired and
irritated, avoiding her very glance. This timid, fearful
little half-woman, whose eyes were always red with
weeping, whose hands and feet were as cold as those of
a frog, wearied him. He felt that Octavia was an in-
hibiting influence on his impulse toward freedom.
They rarely exchanged more than a word or two.
“Empress .. .” “Emperor...” Then Nero would
hurry away to his friends to complain how impossible
it was for his wife to understand him. For what could
she ever comprehend of a poet’s soul?

The nightly escapades grew more and more riotous.
One night in a cobbler’s hut on the outskirts of the city
Nero discovered a droll deformed dwarf, squint-eyed,
stupid and so ugly that he took him along and kept
him at the palace in chains for the amusement of his
guests. His name was Vanitius. As for Zodicus and
Fannius, they became more and more intimate with the
Emperor. They would throw cats and dogs into the
Tiber from the bridge of Fabricius, and make such a
disturbance that people were awakened from their
sleep, and the night watch and the police-tribunal came
running up under the impression that someone wasTHE WINGS SPROUT TT)

being murdered.

Seneca seldom went out with them. He was ashamed
of their stupid pranks but afraid to say anything. Dur-
ing these summer months he went to Baiae to treat his
rheumatism with the aid of the hot springs. Now that
the master was away and his sharp grey eyes no longer
rested on the manuscripts, seeking mistakes that were
not there, Nero breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad
to be done with the oppressive guardianship.

He recovered his old assurance. At his breast hung
as an amulet the memento of a miraculous childhood
escape, the skin of a snake that had just missed stran-
gling him in his sleep. Now again he felt that he was
specially chosen and watched over, that everything he
undertook would go well. All his old doubts and
broodings fell from him, leaving him carefree and
light-hearted.

Now he began to see in Seneca a rancorous, evil and
pompous old man who wrote his moral epistles for the
use of the young but was himself cowardly and im-
moral. To Nero he appeared gossipy, insipid and too
shrewd and refined in argument, with not a spark of the
genuine poet who dares to speak with the simplicity
and sensuality of artistic frenzy. Zodicus and Fannius
shared this opinion. Seneca was only a rhetorician, an
orator, decorating with the flashy tinsel of rhetoric his
oversubtilized dramas which were entirely devoid of
real content. How ridiculous for Nero ever to have
been taken in by this jealous fool! Now he laughed at
the memory.

“Youth is right,” he exclaimed triumphantly to a42, THE BLOODY POET

gathering of young men who were sitting in the imperial
gardens drinking iced beverages. “I believe you, my
friends, not that chalk-faced old fool!” ;

Most of those assembled were poets of a sort. Young
scribblers with shady pasts, hole-and-corner authors
who had never won any recognition. They flooded the
court, taking full advantage of Seneca’s absence. The
Emperor did not esteem them too highly. He knew
nothing of their work and took no particular interest in
their persons. But among them he found a few who
seemed endowed with sensitive judgment and artistic
refinement.

The poets were supplied by Zodicus and Fannius, ten,
twenty, as many as were desired. The pair were now
quite at home in the palace and were the acknowledged
leaders of this band of youthful rhymsters. They lived
in the palace and could always be seen lounging and
idling somewhere in the vicinity of the Emperor.
Zodicus was now respectably washed and combed and
his sandals were tied with silver buckles. Fannius wore
Nero’s discarded togas.

“I have faith in you,” continued the Emperor, turn-
ing to Zodicus, “you who cried when you heard my ode
to Apollo the Far-darter, and you, my dear Fannius,
who swooned under the effect of my last elegy.”

They all ridiculed age and deified youth. Nero,
standing on the platform among lanterns and garlands

>

of flowers, nodded his curly head as a signal of de-
parture. Then he took up the harp which he employed
to accompany his poems, and with a graceful gesture,
such as he had seen great artists employ, withdrew.

  

   

;
‘
iTHE WINGS SPROUT 73

At the end of the summer the Pontifex Maximus
made a sacrifice to the Capitoline Jupiter consisting of
Nero’s poem on the death of Agamemnon, engraved on
a tablet of gold, together with the Emperor’s first beard,
which Nero had cut himself and which he dedicated to
the All-highest of the gods, enclosed in a casket set with
pearls.Chapter Ten
Pet POs Aly THE BATHS

 
 

 

SENECA DID NOT RETURN TO THE CITY UNTIL THE
fall. He had already been in Rome several days with-
out having received an invitation from the Emperor.
Uncertain as to what this might mean, he waited and
grew sullen and irritated, but nevertheless employed his
time to advantage with finishing his Thyestes.

Early one morning he repaired to the hot vapour
baths to continue the treatment begun in Baiae. He had
to use a cane, for at times the pain shot agonizingly
through his limbs. Seneca traversed the argiletum,
the square filled with row after row of book-stalls piled
high with the latest literary publications; then he con-
tinued his way into the Forum. Merchants surrounded
the houses of the patricians, waiting for the doors to
open that they might offer their morning greetings. It
was a glorious day. The sun lit up the eternally beauti-
ful statue of Alcibiades in the Forum with a rose-
yellow glory and hung the magnificent figure of
Marsyas with a gilded mantle. Gradually the square
filled with people.

A few night-birds, rascally-looking fellows, were still
staggering home in small and large bands. Now and
then one of them would stop at the public latrine to
relieve himself. Not far from the sun-dial the soap-box
orators could be seen at their usual stations, making
agitated gestures, their noses like fox-hounds. The
74THREE POETS AT THE BATHS ie

street idlers began to appear also, people who did noth-
ing but lounge about the Forum till night fell. How
they earned their living was a mystery indeed. All the
other types came on the scene, filling the square with
movement and colour: brokers, commission agents, well-
known usurers, tradesmen, yawning as they opened their
shops. In front of the statue of the she-wolf a street-
arab was selling sulphur matches. But the money
changers, smugglers and bankers, corpulent Romans
and scrawny Jews congregated apart under the arch-
way, sitting on their stone benches and chattering in
loud voices.

The air was filled with the familiar humming vi-
brations. Various smells, good and bad, crossed
and recrossed each others’ paths, the odour of ripe
apples and figs, exhalations from the fish-market and
sudden whiffs from the perfume-booths. Forgetful
of himself, Seneca listened to the varied sounds,
breathed in all the clashing odours, and on this blessed
spring-like morning, so full of both happiness and pain,
felt the beauty of life that was past. Nevertheless
he hastened his pace, for he heard the sound of the
bath-house bell which meant that the gates were being
opened.

At the temple of Castor he stopped abruptly, his feet
rooted to the ground. His glance had fallen upon an
inscription on the wall. Among the various scribblings
with which Rome’s walls were plastered, among recent
proclamations engraved in bronze, notices of rooms to
let, obscene phrases and drawings, someone had written

the following distich in red chalk:Bee BO OOD (POE

Hark to the peal of the deities’ laughter
O Nero,

It is your songs they are laughing at,
O pseudo-poet.

At first a slow smile of surprise spread over Seneca’s
countenance. Then he grew grave and shook his head
dubiously as if he were asking himself:

“Has it gone so far already?”

He had been out of the city for three months, had
spoken to no one and had no suspicion of what had
actually happened. Was all the world now mocking
at Nero’s poetizing? But how could they know about
it? It seemed too incomprehensible.

For, as a matter of fact, Nero was really beloved
by the people. He distributed bread in abundance, re-
duced taxes and encouraged gladiatorial spectacles.
Even the impoverished patricians were permitted to
make a reasonable living income. It was the general
opinion that, after Caligula and Claudius, a good ruler
had at last come to the throne. It was rumoured in the
Forum that the Emperor disliked to give the death
sentence and once, when a warrant for the execution
of two brigands was brought before him, he sighed re-

gretfully and signed with great reluctance. Everybody
seemed to be content with his rule. A few families of

republican sympathies, who still cherished the memory

of the old days, either submitted quietly or retired to

their country estates. Thinking of all this, Seneca

could not contain his astonishment. He struck up aPow PORTS AT THE BATES (ft

quick pace, feeling that he must consult his friends at
the baths as soon as possible.

He was admitted to the bath-house by the door-
keeper dressed in a peach-coloured garment; then the
keeper of the wardrobe relieved him of his toga.

A Nubian boy handed him an Acta Diurna, the offi-
cial daily paper, which Seneca began to read with eager
curiosity. The Empress Agrippina was receiving a
delegation of four senators today. A proclamation of
the senatorial session. Many marriage announcements
and still more divorces. Two dandies had come to
blows on the Campus Martius over a notorious courte-
san. Some theatrical gossip about Paris and finally a
long article about Zodicus, the famous poet. Not a
word concerning Nero. Seneca let the paper drop from
his hands.

A terrific confused noise whirled about him. There
must have been three thousand at the baths. One could
hear the purling water from open faucets, the lapping
sound of the little waves in the pool, the hiss of the es-
caping steam which pressed in upon his ear-drums. In
the distance, somewhere high above, the sound of
flutes was audible. The bath-house orchestra had
started the morning concert. Through the narrow tun-
nels with which the building was honeycombed ran the
bath servants, carrying coloured tunics or bringing
smoking plates and goblets into the dining hall. The
fires were crackling in the kitchen and the cooks were
busy with the baking and cooking.

“What are you ordering?” asked the attendant, lead-
ing Seneca into the dressing room.tHE SB LoOe Dy Por tT

“Nothing,” he said absently.

A confectioner near him was offering cakes for sale.

Seneca disrobed and, leaning on his stick, made his
way to the pool. He was looking for his nephew Lucan,
the poet, who he knew was wont to bathe at this hour
with his literary friends. From them he would surely
obtain an explanation of the distich.

In the first room, roofed only by uncovered arches
and the morning sky, was the cold pool with its dark-
green water in which young white bodies were splashing
about. The expert swimmers who were in training for
the races practiced here. They glided by under the
water, their eyes open and their curly heads emerging
only for a second to allow their powerful lungs to in-
hale a breath of air. When they sprang out and sat
down at the edge of the pool, the water glistened fiercely
on their bodies in the morning sunshine and as the drops
rolled down their cheeks it looked as if they were
weeping. The rhetorician gazed at them for some time,
enchanted, but finally hurried on as he did not see his
friends among them.

Passing through a semi-circular room he finally
reached the tepidarium. Here the men lolled indolently,
bathing their limbs in the soft warm water; on the stone
benches the masseurs, all castrated slaves, were using
coarse gloves to massage the bathers dripping with oil.
Lucan, it seemed, had also finished with this room.
Seneca looked into the steam-room, where the clouds
of steam threw a haze over everything. Naked, sweat-
ing men were coughing, laughing, shouting, their words
mutually inaudible. At last he ascended to the floorTHREE POETS AT THE BATHS 79

above and in a corner of the rest room found the com-
pany he was seeking.

Lucan had already bathed. He lay on a couch
wrapped in a scarlet mantle, his black hair rumpled and
matted, talking with Menecrates, the singer, and with
Latinus, his admirer. The latter, an excitable and senti-
mental young man, had squandered his father’s fortune
and was now starving in an attic. He could always be
found paying court to some famous artist.

“Hail, literati!” called out Seneca, with an homage at
once mocking and genuine.

Lucan hastened to meet him and kissed his uncle
twice on the mouth.

Seneca had been the first to exert his influence on
Lucan’s behalf. Years ago he had discovered his neph-
ew’s extraordinary talent when the latter was still a
child prodigy attending school in Athens. He had
brought him to the Court and watched him gain the
favour and confidence of the Emperor Claudius. Lucan
was soon made quaestor. His poems and witty dis-
courses delivered in the theaters gained him at one
stroke literary fame, and the favour of women. “Now
he passed for the greatest living Latin poet. Only re-
cently he had won the literary prize for his poem on
Orpheus.

He radiated an infinite self-assurance. He was
splendidly built, an Andalusian born in Cordova. In
his veins, as in Seneca’s, flowed hot, turbulent Spanish
blood. He employed barbers and hair-dressers to work
for hours on his curly hair, he manicured his nails and
used so many perfumes and unguents that he was always

   
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 

 

 

 

rg80 THE BLOODY POET

surrounded by an aromatic cloud.

“T’m so glad to see you again,” he said, kissing
Seneca once more. .

“T don’t wish to disturb you,” said Seneca, sinking on
a couch and breathing heavily, after the effort of climb-
ing so many stairs. “Go right ahead.” He picked up a
book from the bath-house library and began to turn the
pages idly.

Lucan, interrupted in the heat of debate, turned to
Menecrates and Latinus and continued:

“Only yesterday I was looking into it myself but I
couldn’t get past the first few lines. It’s impossible to
read nowadays.”

“IT hope you are not referring to me,” put in Seneca.

“Oh no,” they laughed. “We were speaking of
Virgil.”

“Your pet aversion,’
closed his eyes.

“You agree with me, don’t you?” said Lucan with
some heat. “Every word he wrote is dead. Jangling
verses, official poetry without soul or feeling. His day
is passed, but nobody as yet dares to admit it.”

“Perhaps the fourth book is still worth something,”
ventured Latinus, his voice trembling with awed respect.

“Dido’s love, you mean?” queried Lucan.

“And the Bucolics,” added Menecrates.

“You remember that line of his: ‘A wave softer than
dreams.’ Beautiful!”

“Yes, there’s something really idyllic, tender and
chaste about it,” said Latinus, pompously.

“Like an old bachelor,” broke out Lucan, “a tooth-

>

remarked Seneca, smiling, andTHREE POETS AT THE BATHS 81

 

less old man always blushing and lisping and putting his
little finger to his mouth. He disgusts me.”

“What awfully good lines about the moon, though,”
put in Latinus.

“Naturally; he was very fond of the moon,” retorted
Lucan, “the patron deity of thieves. For he was a liter-
ary thief himself.”

“A poet of many secrets,”
him.

“And do you know what his secret is, Menecrates?
His secret is that he never wrote an original line. He
was always imitating someone. Read Aristotle, De-
mosthenes, Xenophon, Lucretius, Sophocles, Euripides,
Pindar, Thucydides, Theophrastus, Theocritus, es-
pecially Theocritus, and you will see with your own
eyes how much he borrowed.”

“They say he always used to work at night,” said
Latinus.

“Like a burglar,” threw back Lucan, conscious of his
own wit.

“How much greater Horace is,” began Latinus. ‘He
at least was a man!”

“Yes,” replied Lucan, “he was a man! A cold
philistine, thickset, corpulent, and short of breath.
And, like their creator, the verses are without breath
too: they have no wings. He had no sense of colour, he
saw nothing. They say he had trouble with his eyes.
His lyrics, if I may use the expression, are simply blear-
eyed.”

Latinus laughed, Menecrates went over to the barber
to get his hair cut. Lucan released himself from the

said Menecrates, teasingTne, BE OOD Y, 2 OE T

burr-like aesthete and hastened over to Seneca’s couch.

“Is there anything new?” asked Seneca abruptly,
his tone betraying his excitement. .

“T didn’t want to tell you before those two,” whis-
pered Lucan, “I leave tomorrow.”

“For home?”

For these two Iberians home still meant Spain. In
Rome they felt they were only guests or strangers, or at
best triumphant conquerors.

“For Cordova?” repeated Seneca.

Lucan did not reply.

“Where then?”

“For Gaul, or some other place—anywhere. I am
banished.”

“Banished! Why?”

“Why?” Lucan repeated the question. “The Em-
peror.”

“Impossible,” declared Seneca in amazement.

‘He summoned me before him and came straight to
the point. He forbade me ever to appear publicly in
Rome again. You understand; it’s because my Orpheus
won the poetry contest. He had been trying for the
prize himself. He was furious at the success I had re-
cently when I read my Pharsalia in the theater. He
left abruptly without waiting for the conclusion, stating
that he had to attend a session of the Senate. Nero at
the Senate! He just couldn’t endure my triumph. I
felt a premonition that very moment.”

“If I had only been here,” lamented Seneca, “this
would have been avoided.”

Lucan made a gesture of disdain. “It doesn’t mat-THREE POETS AT THE BATHS 83

ter. I can keep on writing anywhere. It’s all the same
to me.”

On a couch a short distance away lay a young man,
his head wrapped in a damp cloth. He opened his eyes,
rubbed them, glanced about him, then took off the head-
band and arose. Lucan and Seneca bowed with great
respect and amiability, for they recognized Britannicus,
the cast-off son of the Emperor Claudius.

Britannicus was a lean young man, dreamy and af-
fable, with a pale smooth countenance and the enchant-
ing grace lent by silence. Modestly and with quick
cordiality he walked over to the two poets and embraced
them.

Britannicus was suffering today. He was cursed
with epilepsy and the previous day he had had an at-
tack lasting several hours. After such a seizure his
head would ache for a week.

He lived a retired life, withdrawn from public affairs,
guarding jealously his distance from the rest of man-
kind. He refrained from airing his griefs in conversa-
tion, for he loved his sister Octavia dearly and she was
Nero’s wife. He bore patiently, almost with silent joy,
every insult and humiliation. But he was unable to
withstand the temptation of conversing with his literary
friends, for he himself was a writer.

His entire production thus far consisted of a few
short poems. He did not himself know how they had
arisen. In those days of agony after he could no longer
weep, he had finally sunk himself into a quieter grief
that kept him poised safely above the abyss of despair;
and then the poems were written, almost against his84. THE BLOODY POET

own will. Britannicus gave little thought to these poems;
only a small circle of friends had ever seen them. He
smiled when anyone reminded him of them or urged
him to continue writing. Sometimes he entertained his
friends by chanting his exquisite verses, his thin hands
plucking the golden strings of his harp almost inaudibly
and his warm beautiful voice singing softly. Lucan
spoke of Britannicus’ poems with feverish delight,
called him the poet of the future; even Seneca admired
him.

The three poets now faced each other confidentially.

“We were speaking of him,” began Lucan.

Britannicus knew immediately to whom this referred.

Lucan turned to Britannicus. “Do you know that
your friend red-beard had his beard shaven off and
sacrificed it to the highest god in a jewelled casket?
But he cheated poor Jupiter. For beside the red hairs
he placed one of his own poems engraved on a gold tab-
let. This was intended to avert the anger of the gods.
The heavens broke loose promptly. Jupiter thundered,
hurled his lightning bolts in response—in a word, re-
jected the poem violently.”

Seneca uttered a low, cautious laugh.

“What would you expect?” continued Lucan. “Jupi-
ter is a literary connoisseur. Even Neptune tried to
drown the earth in a downpour heavy enough to wash
those dreadful verses off the tablet.”

Britannicus listened in silence, offering no comment.

Lucan turned to Seneca. “Tell me, has the fool gone
quite mad?”
“Apparently,”

9

replied Seneca. “He keeps turningTHREE POETS AT THE BATHS 85

 

out those poems incessantly
ways recites them to me.”

“If he only had a single spark of talent,” said Lucan.
“I have never seen anything to equal it. A coachman,
a slave, a growling barbarian has more imagination.
He’s a miracle too, in a way, because he’s so clever at
disguising his complete lack of talent. He has culture
and learning but that only makes his fundamental lack
the more dangerous. And he’s always dragging in
the gods. Nothing less will do. He’s quite incapable
of calling anything by its real name. When he has a
stomach-ache he says instead that he is visited by the
patron deity of stomach-aches. If I were he I’d dedi-
cate my poems to Nephitus and Cloacina—and you
know what they represent.”

Lucan spoke heatedly. He detested the trite Latin
mythology, the clumsy Roman tradition, these eternal
wigs and masks; and Seneca felt the same way. In this
city of tradition they were typical Spanish aristocrats,
vigorous and bold, original and impetuous.

‘A barbarian stuttering in Greek,” continued Lucan,
scornfully. “Have you heard his first poem? ‘Thou
dearest father that in desolate Hades descending ...’”
and he began to declaim the poem through his nose
speaking like a swaggering actor with an ironical dis-
play of emotion.

~The subject is the death of Agamemnon,” threw in
Seneca. “But it really refers to his father, his real
father, the pro-consul Domitius Aenobarbus.”

“Poor man,” said Lucan, “and his son desired to
glorify him! ‘Thou dearest father that in desolate

and worst of all, he al-THEY BEOoODY RoOrET

Hades .. .2. How I pity you, O dropsical Pro-consul,
who are not only in your desolate Hades, but abandoned
forever to the clutches of that horrible poem which de-
files your tomb. It’s stark, staring idiocy,” he contin-
ued indignantly. “The poem sounds as if the words
were stuck together with rotting paste.”

“But you are fortunate in not knowing the others,”
whispered Seneca. “The Agamemnon is at least en-
durable. But the poem on Apollo and the one on
Daphnis and Chloe are devoid even of meter. They are
stammering inanities. But when I begin to reflect on it,
the situation seems less amusing,” and here his face
darkened, “‘it’s frightful.”

“Yes,” added Lucan. “It’s frightful and unnatural.
He takes on the violence of a weakling in power. Do
you know what’s the matter with him? The genuine
poet is kissed on the brow by the Muse. Nero couldn’t
get the Muse to do this for him so he kissed her instead.
A clear case of rape.”

Britannicus, who had not uttered a single word dur-
ing the entire dialogue, said mildly, placatingly:

“Let him alone, he is a weak poet.”

Lucan was about to speak again but Seneca pulled
his mantle suddenly.

“Be quiet,” he whispered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look over there,” and he pointed to a couch a little
distance away.

On the couch a stranger whom they had not noticed
before was lying quietly. He had the blanket pulled
over his head and was snoring.

   

4
’“Some drunken rascal,” said Lucan, “you can see
he’s sleeping.” They listened. In the sudden silence

THREE POETS AT THE BATHS’ 87 \
the snoring sounded loud, a little too loud. |

“Be careful,” said Seneca to his friends, “not another i |
word.” 4

Lucan beckoned to Britannicus and proceeded to the ve
dressing-room, followed by Seneca. ii

On his way out the latter kept looking back at the Mi 4
couch suspiciously. oi

|
“I wonder who that could be,”’ mused Seneca. {Chapter Eleven
BROTHERS

 

THE SLEEPER, NOT DARING TO PUT HIS HEAD OUT OF
the covers, continued snoring for some time. But when
the sound of the footsteps finally died away and he felt
quite safe he abruptly arose from the couch.

It was Zodicus. He dressed in the greatest haste,
hardly stopping to throw his toga over his shoulder and
rushed to the palace.

“Seneca, Lucan and Britannicus,” panted Zodicus.

“Britannicus?” said Nero, surprised, seizing upon
the name.

Zodicus told him exactly what Britannicus had said.

“Ts that all? Nothing more? Then he didn’t mock
me?”

“No,” reported Zodicus.

“That was all, then,” said Nero, breathing heavily.
“So he didn’t even smile. Thank you.”

“These were his very words,” went on Zodicus and,
eager to improve on the story he imitated the voice of
Britannicus. It sounded like a wolf trying to bleat.
“He said: ‘Let him alone, he is a weak poet.’ ”

“T heard it the first time,” interrupted Nero, growing
red with rage.

But although Britannicus’ words stirred his blood
and roused all his emotions to a pitch of excitement, he
forgot them immediately. They left him with merely a
sensation of pain and contemovt, a vague feeling that
88BROTHERS

 

89

made him dizzy. In this condition he was completely (
at a loss to comprehend the words. “He is a weak i}
poet.” He had not the slightest idea why this particular

expression should have been used or what could have /
induced his step-brother to use it. He groped about
for an explanation. Perhaps Britannicus had spoken it i
out of the pain of humiliation, in the bitterness result- :
ing from his past deprivations; perhaps he had a secret hy
ambition toward the throne. Everything was possible.

What should he do?

He need no longer worry about Lucan, who was go-
ing into banishment. Nor need he trouble himself over |
Seneca, whose character he knew perfectly and whom at
he could handle with ease. A mere gesture would be
sufficient to make him speak quite differently the next :
time. He would deny everything, of course. But t
Britannicus—Britannicus was important. He must see ;
him.

They seldom met each other. Britannicus lived like
a man condemned, in the custody of strict guardians a
who had been carefully selected by the imperial court An
and were themselves rigidly supervised. But Nero had i
come into no personal conflict with Britannicus since ly
that time long ago when the little prince, in the heat of i]

a childish dispute, had called him “‘red-head.” At the i |
time Nero had pardoned him, but Britannicus insisted i |
on apologizing. At the Circus he appeared in a scarlet- .
trimmed child’s toga as an indication that he recognized ‘VR
the authority of his brother. On that occasion Nero | q
assumed the white toga of victory which only men might | i
wear and stood smiling beside the shame-faced young-

490 THE BEOODY POET

ster. Now the court spies kept him informed as to his
younger brother’s every movement and nothing sus-
picious had ever been reported. Nero knew that
Britannicus’ spirit was broken, that his tastes drew him
toward the arts and to writing, that his singing and
music lessons took up most of his time.

It was Seneca who had brought the young man’s re-
cent poems to Nero’s attention and at his request recited
them aloud. The Emperor found nothing extraordinary
in them. They were very short, not dramatic enough
for declamation, almost incomprehensible.

Now, however, upon re-reading them he grew pale.
He began to feel that subtle music which the words
exhaled like a soft breath. Here were verses quite natu-
ral and obvious which yet had something miraculous
about them as if, imprisoned within the lines, were the
soft movement of the viewless air or the capricious play
of the waves. He sought the key to this mystery but
found no explanation. The more he desired to pene-
trate into the soul of the poems the more formidable
grew the wall cutting him off from it.

At noon Britannicus was led before him. Nero re-
ceived him seated on his throne, a golden wreath on his
brow. He wore a toga shot through with gold. He
wanted to exhibit his power.

“Emperor!” Britannicus saluted him and bowed to
the ground. Nero looked at him aghast. Since their
last meeting, Britannicus had wasted away to half his
former weight. It was obvious that illness was devas-
tating his body. With his parchment-like skin heBROTHERS

 

9]

looked very pitiful to Nero. Through the Emperor’s
mind flashed the thought:

~The poor fellow won’t last long.” With satisfac-
tion he thought of his own healthy body, now beginning
to take on weight.

He pointed to a chair and Britannicus sat down.

“What do you wish?” asked Britannicus with the
perfect casualness of one brother addressing another.

Nero, unable to reply, merely gazed at him. On his
lips hovered the same question:

“What do you want of me?”

And so, for a long time, they faced each other, poet
and Emperor.

Finally Nero opened his lips to speak, then hesitated
a moment. Yes, he would restrain his anger, he de-
cided; and furthermore he would not even touch on
the question that tormented him. Despite his anger he
could still call up gay ornate sentences. He, too, could
play a part; he, too, was something of an artist in his
way.

Still speaking from his position of eminence, he
began:

“I desire to resume our old friendship. I wish you
to love the Emperor who looks lovingly upon you. Let
us remove every misunderstanding that divides us, let
us forget the past and our childish anger. I would be
happy to see you at my court, Britannicus.”

The other made a slight sound.

“Don’t be scornful. You can see that my words are
sincere. I want to do only what is right and just.”THE BOO DY sr Oo Ed

“Yes.”

“Our paths lie in the same direction,” went on
Nero, “I have great plans for your future. The honour
of a quaestorship or a consulship is open to you, so as
to allow your brilliant talent to shine publicly for the
good of the Empire. Or perhaps you would like a
province? You have merely to say the word. Bithynia,
Syria?”

aos:

Nero felt that he had taken the wrong tack. His
attitude had been much too patronizing; he must de-
scend to a more intimate level Anxious to cement the
union at once, he assumed a new tone. Adept at chang-
ing his role from moment to moment, he began anew,
speaking smoothly, quickly, modulating his voice in-
geniously.

“Brother,” he said, with a shade of intimacy that
yet preserved a slight gulf between them, “my dear
brother, I don’t like to see you so retiring. Claudius
was the father of us both; your father by blood, mine
by affection. He loved us equally. You must keep
in mind that your conduct is accountable both to him
and to me. I do not consider it right for you to live
in solitude and to take no part in the glorious work of
the Empire. There are cases where modesty becomes
immodesty.”

“T am a sick man.”

“IT know it.” Nero arose.

Once, when they were children, Nero had seen Britan-
nicus overpowered by one of his seizures. His face had
turned blue, his neck had swollen convulsively, he hadBROTHERS 93

frothed at the mouth. It had happened at a popular
celebration and the gathering was immediately dis-
pelled, for such a seizure was considered a bad omen.
Britannicus still suffered from epilepsy, the divine
malady, the sacred disease which the Romans called
the Sickness of Hercules. The one attacked by it was
at once accursed and prophetic, blessed and damned.
The Emperor did not really pity him; in fact, he en-
vied him a little. The disease rendered the poet all
the more interesting.

He continued:

“Nevertheless you must not keep yourself so far
away from me. I never see you at the games, the
feasts or at the gladiatorial contests.”

“I have no time.”

“I know, you are busy with your writing and music.
Ah, art is long and life is fleeting, said Hippocrates,
the Greek physician, thus indirectly attesting to the
mortality even of the immortal poets. I have the same
feeling. We must indeed make haste. I have been
reading your poems. Some of the lines held me fast,
enchanted me; you have a marvellous talent, Britan-
nicus, fresh and original. Your ideas are clear, the
form, the rhythms of your poems are finished, per-
fect. It is interesting to see that you prefer the dactyl
and the anapest to the trochee and the iamb. I do, too.
I always say that the iamb is mere child’s play. But
in our ideas and general approach to art we also have
something in common. You too have written about
Apollo. And one of your other poems, written in
aesklepadian strophes, has a faint resemblance to myMONEE DAR ORAL ALLELE LOL LEDER CLO ALLELE ITEC, OLE IO LE | LLP

     
   
  
 
 
   
  
 
 
 
   
   
    
    
 
   
  
 
 
 

94, THE BLOODY POET

Agamemnon. Naturally, it is an entirely different
thing; but, despite that, it would indicate that we are
poetically related. Don’t you think so?”

“Of course.”

“T assume from your remarks,” went on Nero, “that
you scorn politics and public life. Perhaps you are
right. What the captains and kings create passes
quickly. The arch of triumph decays and is forgotten.
But Homer died a thousand years ago and Sophocles
has been dead six hundred years. Aeschylus has been
dead for four centuries, but even today we know more
about him than about Cesar or Augustus.”

Pes.”

“We must hold fast, not to what we possess natu-
rally, but to what we think and feel. I too build my
life in that fashion. I am writing a play now about
Niobe. Lucan wanted to steal a march upon me. Just
imagine it—somehow he had learned about my idea
and wanted to use it. He already acted as if his play
were about to be presented in Pompeii. I had him
summoned; not as Emperor, naturally, but simply as a
colleague. I explained to him how rigid is the Roman
law protecting private property and how anyone who
appropriates even the smallest copper coin or a bat-
tered tin pan is severely punished. Accordingly we
must also protect things of value in the world of the
spirit, all the more so as they are more precious than
gold and pearls. He grumbled a bit to himself but
finally saw that I was right. To tell the truth, I don’t
ordinarily bother myself about such matters, but you
know that this particular subject is very dear to me.BROTHERS 95

“What a marvelous theme!” he began to declaim.
“The daughter of Tantalus, who inherited infinite pain
from her father, became the happiest of mothers in
the possession of her laughing children—only to have
the jealous gods slay them before her eyes! The be-
ginning has been very successful. I work at it every
day and I’m writing it in Latin, so that it may be un-
derstood by the common people. I’d rather do it in
Greek, of course, but even the greatest artists must
make compromises. I’m including all the details. The
transformation into stone takes place toward the end
in full view of the audience. It’s as if Niobe were
freezing with pain. Indeed, the entire act is one cry
of anguish. The mother robbed of her children cries
out like Nature herself, groans like the rocks when
swept by storms. Do I bore you? Possibly you are
more interested in lyrical poetry?”

“Oh no, not at all.”

“At any rate, in that field you are a master. The
drama is a strange new province for me, also. I like it
and it stimulates me; but the lyric, the ode, the epi-
gram, remain my real and eternal loves. . . . I hear
that you sing and play the harp beautifully. I too
sing. My harp-teacher, Terpnus, a first-class Greek
master, works me so hard that my fingers get stiff and
the nails begin to bleed. But I bear the pain gladly;
we acquire nothing worth while without paying for it.
. . . The other day I composed a pretty little song for
a harp accompaniment. I would be glad to render it
for you, in case you are interested. . . . But no; we
will leave it for some other time. Now we want only to96 THE BLOODY POET

become acquainted with each other, don’t we? Britan-
nicus, we must keep together. We both write poetry,
we could help each other a great deal. Perhaps could
correct our poems together. Have you been writing
anything lately?”

‘No, nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Everything you write in-
terests me. You must come to my garden festival with-
out fail. It will be a sort of little literary evening,
very informal; but for connoisseurs only, a very exclu-
sive company, you understand. Poets and other writers
will recite their latest works. You must be sure to
come.”

Nero rose from the throne. His gold fillet felt un-
comfortable. He put it down on the table and let his
mantle fall to the floor. Dressed only in his tunic, he
turned to Britannicus, speaking now with unambiguous
directness.

‘“Ton’t misunderstand me, I shall not relegate you to
the background or overshadow you in any way. I guar-
antee you a good place on the program, first or last,
whichever you prefer. How you all persist in mis-
understanding me! I cannot disclose myself to you
completely, I cannot speak to you from my inmost
heart. You have no idea of what I am or, more impor-
tant, what I shall be. The painful exercises, my daily
labour, make me humble, make me to realize how infi-
nitely long is the path to perfection. But I hope for the
laurel-wreath even as you do. I have faults, of course,
but who has not? My development is not complete.BROTHERS

Every artist is imperfect at the start. Oh, if you could
see into my soul, you would begin to love me and my
poems also, which you can never understand without an
insight into my life. They are the outgrowth of titanic
shapes, terrifying horrors. And my despair, Britan-
nicus—like the wounds of a lion festering in the Afri-
can sun; ulcers oozing yellow pus with living rings
of worms writhing around them. Nevertheless I speak
as calmly as any of the others. The Emperor stands
high above those whom he rules; but the realm of art
knows no distinctions. There we stand as equals. You
and I—we are equal.”

Britannicus made a vague gesture but said nothing,
continuing to regard the Emperor in silence.

Nero grew nervous. His blood rose to his head and
he gave a short ugly laugh. He felt that he had lost
his battle, that the ground was slipping from under his
feet. He stepped nearer to his brother until they were
close together, so close that their breaths almost mingled.
Controlling his anger, the Emperor jerked out the
words:

“Why do you hate me?”

Britannicus was taken aback:

“I don’t hate you.”

“But you don’t love me.”

“You are mistaken.”

“No; you feel yourself something quite different,
quite apart from me. Even my poems are different so
that you cannot comprehend them at all; or perhaps
you don’t attach the least value to them.”98 THE BEOODY POET

“T hardly know them.”

“But they are declaimed everywhere,” retorted Nero,
stung to the quick. .

“T don’t frequent society.”

“‘Haven’t you even read my Agamemnon?”

“T heard it recited once.”

“T know what is your one mistake. You are proud,
very proud, very arrogant. You think I am cherishing
wicked designs against you. Perhaps, too, you think
that I’m not speaking sincerely or that I don’t esteem
you as a poet. It’s not true. My heart is pure, there
is no hidden vileness in it. The simple fact is that I
love you and you don’t love me. It’s not I who am bad,
but you!”

“That’s possible.”

“Why don’t you speak? If you hate me, out with
it! Tell me so to my face! I swear no harm will be-
fall you. Saturnalia! Saturnalia!” cried Nero, in the
voice of the priest in the Forum when, his hands out-
spread, he announces the beginning of the festival at
which the slaves assume the costumes of their masters
and are permitted to insult them freely. “Yes, let us
play at Saturnalia,” and he began to hum a wanton fes-
tival song.

Britannicus was dazed.

“Call me ‘red-head’,” cried Nero, “or ‘fire-top’, as
you used to! Pinch my ear, stick out your tongue at
me! I am in excellent humour today. Say anything
you wish, only don’t dissemble! I can’t bear this silence
any longer!”

He covered his ears with his hands and paced up andBROTHERS 99

down the room in a frenzy. His fleshy forehead was
sweating. Suddenly he stopped and said abruptly:

“You are concealing some secret.”

= INO.”

“Then why are you so mysterious?”

“I am naturally quiet.”

“Naturally quiet?” said the Emperor, mocking him.
“Yes, you mean you are keeping something quiet. I
know you—the three of you, Seneca, Lucan and your-
self. Always together, through thick and thin; at night
you whisper together secretly. It’s some plot you are
evolving. Behind my back you send each other signals
which only you understand. I know, you have a secret
understanding. You look at each other with the same
kind of glance; I remember noticing it now. You
avoid plain speaking, your phrases are veiled, intricate,
ambiguous. Yes, all three of you, your very glances
have something extraordinarily in common.”

“IT don’t understand you.”

“I think you do. For example, another mystery.
You yourself are to all outward appearances very calm,
yet you are always suffering. You have had all kinds
of sorrows, frustrations; and you are ill, as you said
yourself. For reasons of state, I had to treat you
severely, but you were cunning—you acted as if this
pleased you! And it is possible that, as a matter of
fact, it did please you. You are an expert in grief, like
those miserable wretches who pray to idols under the
ground in catacombs. You know whom J mean. Tell
me, what is it?”

“What?”Tine BO OD Wy. (POET.

‘Just this. If you are in pain, cry, scream, howl, but
at any rate, talk! Talk and keep on talking! Isn’t it
better to speak out? One’s troubles disappear. But
you persist in silence. Behind your words impends so
much silence that it piles up like a high tower. You
are so silent that you puzzle everybody. And I can
read the same thing in your verses. Each one of your
words seems to appear from your tower of silence, all
of them elusive, pale, full of significance. Tell me:
what is your secret?”’

“I have no secret,” stammered Britannicus.

“T said that you were hiding something, some magic
device or charm which you alone know,—and perhaps
your associates. The Achaians knew how to make a
fire that would not go out under wave and water. They
never told anyone the secret of its composition and now
we strive in vain to learn that formula. ‘Today there
is no one who can imitate the Tyrian purple dye, and
our purple is as dull and faded as an unripe cherry.
Tell me your secret, the magic of words!”

“What can I tell you?” said Britannicus, and
shrugged his shoulders in amazement.

“T know that you suffer greatly. Seneca told me that
all the great poets suffer, that this pain works within
them, is infused into their very blood and then ex-
presses itself in their poems in some mysterious way
we cannot know. I did not understand this. And he
said too that they pursue suffering, they almost love
it. For only through suffering are they able to view
the world. He who does not suffer is blind: he can-BROTHERS 101

not write. Is it true, is suffering good, a good thing?”

“Tt is good,” answered Britannicus, and added
hastily, “it is also bad.”

‘““Good—and bad too? More riddles! Evidently
you wish to confuse me. I have suffered too. I am
suffering now as no other can suffer. But I don’t like
to suffer and I can’t see why I should. Yet I would
load myself with more pain if I only knew how to make
use of it. Teach me! Look, I go on my knees to you,
I cry at your feet, like an animal! Pity me, help me,
my brother!”

Britannicus was much moved. He raised Nero to
his feet tenderly.

“Everything is mine,” cried Nero, beside himself,
stamping his foot. ‘Even that which does not exist.”

But Britannicus had shaken his head, as if saying to
himself :

“No, that is mine. Beyond the material all is mine.
That does not belong to you—only what is belongs to
you.”

A silence.

Again the Emperor was brought face to face with the
same wall which he sensed in the other’s poems.

“What shall I do?” he cried, torturing himself into
a new access of fury. “You are a traitor, a rascal, an
extortioner! Is it the throne you covet?” and he pointed
to it. “I give it to you! I don’t need it! Only tell
me what I ask! You are at my mercy, you miserable
fool! I know what you said of me! I know every-
thing!” He began to scream. ‘You said... You102 THE BLOODY 2 Orr

said .. .” and he gasped out something so quickly
that he did not understand it himself, nor did Britan-
nicus. |

He could not make himself repeat the words.

Then, with a sudden gush of emotion:

“I pardon you, pardon you everything. It was a
rash, ill-considered remark, a piece of stupidity, wasn’t
it? Why don’t you say something?”

Britannicus stood before him, rigid with terror. He
felt the dark headache coming on, the pain which al-
ways preceded his attacks. Soon his heart would begin
to beat madly and his consciousness desert him. White-
faced, sunk in silence, he stared at Nero, his eyes grow-
ing large and mesmeric. The hypnotic silence disarmed
the Emperor; his outburst of rage ebbed slowly. So
they stood for a long time, face to face. Astounded,
Nero looked at his brother, this fallen aspirant to the
throne from whom he had taken everything, the crown,
freedom, happiness; this suffering stripling who wanted
nothing and towards whom he, who wanted everything,
turned; this poet, divinely silent, eloquent in his very
stillness, leaning tiredly upon his chair, every moment
becoming greater, more incomprehensible, more mys-
terious, growing richer the more one took from him.
If he had only wanted something, one might have been
able to approach him. But this complete passivity
made him as elusive as the wind.

In the imperial garden the sun was sinking. A few
beams penetrated the shrubbery and surrounded with a
magic gleam the head of Britannicus, who seemed toBROTHERS 103

tower in the dark hall with unearthly mystery. Around
his forehead shone a wreath of pure gold.

For a few moments Nero stood gazing at him, endur-
ing this apparition. Then, pitilessly, he stepped in front
of him, cutting off the flood of light. And the face of
Britannicus grew dark and withered as if it were being
annihilated by the shadow of the Emperor.SoU Gueeeeae

ECEEREReeeee

Chapter Twelve
PHYS TGLANS

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NERO DESCENDED TO THE GARDEN. HE LIKED TO
linger here at twilight near the fountain which threaded
the air with its cool white foam and whose plashy sound
brought dreams to the spirit.

From this point he had a view of the Esquiline Hill
which not very long ago had been occupied by the
paupers’ burial field, with its zigzag lines of open pits
where the dead slaves were piled. On warm days the
atmosphere of all Rome would be impregnated with the
germ-laden reek of these graves. Since the altars
erected to the goddess of fever were of no avail, and
malaria continued to exact an enormous number of
sacrifices, it was decided to abandon the use of the hill
as a cemetery; and so Maecenas, some time ago, had
turned it into a public playground and promenade.
Now the place swarmed with frolicking boys shouting
as they threw their three-cornered balls or trundled
their iron hoops; and in the bushes little girls played
hide-and-seek.

A hundred years of lying fallow had benefited the
soil. Successive generations had fertilized it and as a
result every bush and flower grew luxuriantly. The
weeds multiplied so quickly that the gardeners could
not keep up with them. Thick vegetation covered the
ground, insolent creepers twisted themselves about the

limbs of marble gods and the winds blew among the
104PHYSICIANS 105

columns and gravestones. Brilliantly colored flowers
shone on the greensward: ruby, amethyst, topaz. To-
wards evening the atmosphere became so heavy that
anyone who stopped there long was seized with dizzi-
ness. The lilies poisoned the air with their thick, al-
most human exhalations. At this hour, witches could
be seen on the magic mountain. Here came sorceresses,
their feet bare, their skirts pinned up, sacrificing the
blood of goats, grubbing among the abandoned graves
with their long nails as they searched for that strange
grass from which had been brewed the magic potion
that drove the Emperor Caligula mad. Myrtles and
palms guarded the silence. Here and there, like an
eternally burning torch, glowed a red rose.

Contemplating the splendour, the Emperor sat down
on a bench to listen to the sound of the water, for
whenever he wished to work he fancied that he could
draw inspiration from the rhythmic splash of the foun-
tain and by its help attune his ear to music. He had
thought of a new scene for his “‘Niobe” which he wanted
to put into writing. But today the work would not
progress. Ideas refused to appear; his mind was con-
fused and feverish. He could not envision his charac-
ters, he could not compose their speeches; he saw only
the face of Britannicus, he heard only the voice of Bri-
tannicus.

He himself hardly knew what to make of the re-
cent encounter. One thing was certain: never in his
life had he had so mortal a struggle with any man.
His nerves were all on edge. He still continued to strive
with his invisible enemy, to answer him, to make an106 THE BLOODY POET

occasional gesture as if to drive him away. Yet he
could not remember a thing his brother had said.

When night came, Nero ate in gloomy silence, and
after the meal dismissed Terpnus, his harp teacher;
he felt tired. The next day Terpnus again announced
himself in vain. The old Greek, who was always drunk
and sobered down only when he held his harp, advised
the Emperor to drink a great deal of wine as this would
help him to regain his strength. He called attention to
himself as a good example. He drank, he said, from
dawn to dark and that was how he got his musical
facility, the ability to make music stream from his
finger-tips. Nero tried to follow this advice but to
no avail. He lost his energy and his condition grew
worse rather than better.

One day he discovered that he was really ill, seriously
ill. This was all the more surprising inasmuch as
there had never been anything the matter with him
and his body had always displayed wonderful resisting
power. To whom could he apply for help? He did
not believe in the gods, in fact regarded them princi-
pally as a good butt for his witty private jokes. Nor
did he place any confidence in those accomplices of the
gods, the physicians. It is true that at the beginning
of his reign he had opened a school of medicine on the
Esquiline Hill and had appointed as head physician a
follower of Hippocrates named Andromachus who, ac-
companied by his students, made regular inspections
of the sick persons in the city. But Nero thought the
entire arrangement nothing more than a ridiculous hoax.
Besides, the physicians were split into various op-PHYSICIANS 107

posing factions. The adherents of the Methodic school
ascribed all diseases to the activities of harmful secre-
tions, and effected their cures through dieting and the
internal application of hot and cold water. They hated
the new school led by the Sicilian, Athenaeus of Attala.
This school proclaimed that the soul was all important.
If the soul were treated first the health of the body
would necessarily ensue. These Pneumatics, as they
were called, were considered by the Methodics to be
quacks. Nero used them both impartially as targets
for ridicule.

Nevertheless he favoured the Pneumatics because in
them he saw the renaissance of the old magical practices
in which he still had faith.

Toward the last days of the Republic the magicians
had fallen upon evil times. Thousands of them were
driven from Etruria and Thessaly, powerful magicians
who could blight the corn crop, transport great build-
ings from one place to another, and, with the aid of
Hecate, had even drawn the moon to the earth. When
the Emperor Caligula ascended the throne, he pro-
pitiated the priests, restored the ancient privileges to
the haruspices and the augurs, and once again incor-
porated magic with the regular practice of medicine.
Nero likewise had not molested these priests, and so
there now existed in Rome hundreds of physician-con-
jurors from Egypt, Persia and Greece, who healed with
magical incantations or by the laying on of hands, and
who induced sleep by means of vapors so that the pa-
tient might in his dream learn from Esculapius the
secret of health.108 THE BLOODY POET

Nero, lying on his bed in torture, felt that he was
possessed. He could think of nothing but the recent
encounter with Britannicus. His body trembled con-
vulsively.

“Am I not epileptic?” he demanded, addressing the
Egyptian magician, Simon, who as high priest of Isis,
was versed in all the mysteries of the papyri and the
sacred writings of Babylon and Arabia and Assyria.
“IT often feel dizzy and I foam at the mouth.” With a
gesture of irritation he pointed to his tongue.

The magician looked at him and observed that Nero’s
face was fat and rosy and his eyes bright. This was
no epileptic, thought Simon. He pressed Nero’s head
carefully with his fingers. In his opinion here dwelt
the evil spirit who would not let the Emperor sleep or
think. But he was not clear as to which part it in-
habited, though the sixteenth and seventeenth parts
looked particularly suspicious. The medical art of the
Egyptians divided the head into thirty-two sections.

“Ptah is opening thine eyes, Saksi is opening thy
mouth,” intoned the magician, employing the traditional
phraseology of his sorcery. “Isis is killing the spirit of
destruction. Do you feel it?”

“Yes,” answered Nero, “but I am still full of evil
thoughts.”

“Spit then upon the ground, quickly. Everything
will vanish; evil thoughts are driven out with the saliva.
Do you feel better now?”

fA little.”

Yet he really did not feel greatly improved.

Simon the magician finally placed dried cow manurePHYSICIANS 109

on his breast; the substance was considered sacred in
Egypt and was supposed to relieve the spirit.

A Persian magician to whom he next applied sus-
pected that the spirit of Ahriman was inhabiting the
Emperor. He even saw the shadow of an enormous
dragon emerge from Nero while he was praying. Bal-
bullis, the Ephesian physician, ordered Nero to chew
hawthorne leaves which would purify the blood.

Nero obeyed all these commands conscientiously.
But one day when he was particularly restless he sent
for Athenaeus the Pneumatic.

A mild and smiling Greek with a long beard entered
the room. At first he seemed good-natured and
amiable, but suddenly the smile disappeared from his
face. His body stiffened; he assumed a terrifying
aspect.

“Do not move,” he said.

The Emperor stood stock still, as if paralyzed.

“You cannot stir,” went on the physician. “You are
rigid, rigid as a stone.”

Continuing in his hypnotic voice, he commanded
Nero to sit down and then held his index-finger imme-
diately before the eyes of the Emperor.

“What is this?” he asked him.

“A finger.”

“Wrong; a sword.”

“A sword,” stammered the Emperor.

“Feel how sharp the blade is,” he continued, pass-
ing his finger over Nero’s forehead.

Nero gasped.

Now Athenaeus took his patient by the hand.110 THE BLOODY POET

“Do you see me?”

“Yes, I see you.”

Athenaeus covered his face with a piece of yellow
cloth.

“Now do you see me?”

Noi”

Athenaeus withdrew quickly into the shadowy re-
cesses of the great chamber and with red chalk drew
the figure of a man on the wall.

“What is this?” asked the physician.

“A man.”

“Observe him closely. What do you sense?”

“That he is looking at me.”

“And now that he is approaching you. He is telling
you tc be calm. Do you feel calmer?”

vives.”

Athenaeus bent over and whispered in Nero’s ear:
“Mark the word: ‘Death’! You are unable to pro-
nounce it. You shall never be able to pronounce it
again. Instead, you shall always say,” and his voice
dropped to a whisper, “‘you shall say: ‘Life’.”

paves!’

“What puts an end to life? Answer me.”

A short pause: then the Emperor breathed out:
* Life.”’

For a long interval Nero remained as if enchanted,
bereft of will, surrendering himself in utter obedience
to the physician, who was now describing wide circles
around his head. But finally he began to grow rest-
less. Athenaeus felt this, his magical gestures grew
more and more rapid; his face was tense; the nervesPHYSICIANS EE

about the eyebrows began to quiver. It was an agoniz-
ing struggle for both. The physician redoubled his
efforts, exerting all the force of his imperious will
which no patient had hitherto been able to withstand.
His hands moved as if he were binding the Emperor
with willow reeds and so great was the illusion that
for a moment Nero actually could not stir. But soon
he began to make frantic efforts to free himself. He
threw his arms out vigorously and made jerky move-
ments with his head; finally he drew himself free of
the bonds created by the other’s will. Athenaeus was
at first unwilling to believe that he was overruled, but
finally he was forced to admit to himself that he had
been dealing with a force superior to his own. He grew
as pale as if he himself were being hypnotized, trembled
and sank back.

“I cannot prevail against it,” he said furiously, “I
cannot,” and he released Nero, whom he had been
holding down with all his strength.

Nero sprang to his feet in a flash. In complete pos-
session of himself now, he pointed to the drawing of
Athenaeus and cried out: ‘‘Britannicus!”

“What?” asked the astonished physician.

“The picture, the picture gazing at me!”

“Be silent,” commanded Athenaeus. Forcibly he
closed Nero’s eyes, took his hand and led him to a
couch.

“Breathe in deeply through the nose. Now, hold the
breath and count up to seven. Now release it through
the mouth—slowly, very slowly.”

Athenaeus became his regular physician and, as longPh THE BLOODY POET

as he was present, Nero managed somehow to control
himself. But after his departure, his condition would
grow worse immediately. On this account Athenaeus
found it essential to discover some means of exerting
his influence even when he himself was absent. Ac-
cordingly he prepared a number of small tablets on
which in brightly coloured letters were inscribed phrases
intended to reassure and buoy up Nero’s spirit.

On the first tablet, in blue and yellow, the colours of
calm and peace, appeared the words:

I am very calm.

The Emperor, lying on his back, was instructed to
gaze attentively at this tablet. Following this, the slaves
would present another tablet which the patient was like-
wise instructed to gaze at for a few minutes. In red
and blue letters was inscribed a Grecian proverb:

All Strength is Mine.

Then the words of beauty in letters of lilac and
yellow flowed past his eyes:

Apollo Smiles upon me.

The next tablet was in orange and green, the colours
of happiness and joy:

I Sing Marvellously.

And finally appeared letters of pure, unmixed red,
forming the positive and unassailable declaration:

I am @ Great Poet.

Nero fastened insatiate eyes upon this tablet and
then obeying Athenaeus’ commands, repeated the text
softly:

“T am a great poet.”
The slaves were about to remove the tablet, but hePHYSICIANS

stopped them quickly:

“No, not yet.”

His eyes fixed on space, he murmured again: “I am
a great poet.”

This treatment was more successful than the others,
but only for a short time. Athenaeus’ therapy had made
him superstitious; everything he encountered now pos-
sessed a special significance. If he chanced to sneeze
around the middle of the day, slaves must run to the
sun-dial immediately to see whether it was already past
noon; for if one sneezed in the morning it was a very
favourable omen, but if in the afternoon, it was an ex-
tremely bad one. If his toga caught on a chair or if he
stumbled on entering a room, he would refrain from
leaving thé palace that day. One morning he ran bare-
headed into the temple of Castor, whispered a ques-
tion into the ear of one of the wooden figures and
rushed out to listen to the first words of the first chance
passerby in the street. In that accidental phrase he as-
sumed he would find the answer to his question. He
feared cats and loved bees and ants; but he reserved
his greatest affection for lions, which he rated so highly
as animals of good omen that he had one done in
marble and set up before his bed. His superstitious
fancy continued to conjure up fresh disasters and, in
order to avert them, he had to adopt such drastic meas-
ures as kissing a dirty stone or abasing himself in pub-
lic before a dog. All these symbols, this endless cycle
of causes and effects, filled his brain with buzzing con-
fusion. He no longer knew what he should do or say.
Only one thing was certain: it was quite impossibleTHE BLOODY POET

for him to think of writing or singing.

“I give it up,” he declared at last, addressing his
court physician, the Cretan Andromachus who was a
world-famed Methodic: “It does me more harm than
good. I will tell you frankly what the trouble is.
Something is repressing the spirit of song within me.
It imprisons my voice and restrains the flow of poetry.
You must release them.”

“A perfectly simple matter,” replied Andromachus.
“Tt is entirely a question of diet.” He was one of those
who swore by the dieting system. “After all, what is a
man? Flesh and blood. You are what you eat. If
you will agree to change your manner of eating and live
according to my instructions, I guarantee to bring
about all that you desire. I will make you happy and
change you back into the divine artist that you were.”

“I feel dessicated,” complained Nero, “‘all withered
and dried up. My body juices do not flow as freely
as they used to. I am torn with dry agonies, for I can-
not weep, I cannot sing. My voice is weak. Do you
hear how it trembles? My emotions have been dead
for ages. You must give all this back to me!”

“Listen to me and follow my advice. Beware of all
fruit, for fruit spoils the voice. Apples make it hoarse
and pears cause congestion of the chest-cavity, which
the singer above all needs to keep free and open. You
must leave them on your plate. And not for all the
world should you touch peaches, because they dissipate
the vital fluids around the heart and thus reduce your
sensitivity. Partake sparingly of figs, quinces, melons
and dates. And remember that all sweet juices thickenPHYSICIANS EIS

the blood. You may feel all right but you will not be
able to do any work.”

Nero followed these directions implicitly. Soon
however he discovered another cause for complaint.

“T’m too fat,” he declared, striking his round and
generous belly. “I must get thinner,” and before him
appeared the slim figure of Britannicus.

Indeed, the Emperor had been growing steadily
stouter, a fact that made him decidedly ugly, for his
stature remained somewhat below middle height and
his small protruding paunch shook pitifully between
his thin child’s legs like the belly of a pregnant woman.
A diet for reducing was prescribed. Nero accepted
cheerfully all the privation it entailed and followed the
régime conscientiously. He completely forbade the
serving of his favourite dishes; often he would eat noth-
ing for an entire day, only drinking some hot water in
the evening. If he had to partake of food when among
guests, he would proceed, immediately after the meal,
to have his throat tickled with a feather in order to force
up the food. Soon he was keeping a pitcher of emetic
beside him and after every bite he would take a swal-
low of it.

Nero was successful in his attempts at reducing, but
this very success produced a new ailment. His chest,
he complained, was becoming hollow. Accordingly,
Andromachus ordered stones to be placed on it. The
pressure of the stones was supposed to compel very deep
breathing and thus develop the chest cavity. Nero had
to lie under this weight for several hours every day.
One evening, after a particularly strenuous treat-

    
   

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ment, Terpnus was announced.

“You look very pale,” said the teacher, “you should
eat something.”

““No, let’s begin at once.”

Not for all the world would Nero have touched a
morsel of food. In anticipation of a goal almost at-
tained he found pleasure in his bodily torture. But his
eyes refused to stay open.

“Perhaps you had better rest a bit,” suggested Terp-
nus, noticing that the Emperor was falling asleep on
his feet.

“No,” said Nero decisively, “we must learn at least
this one song.”” He choked down a mouthful of hot
water. ‘And be sure to wake me if I should fall
asleep.”

“T promise.”

“But immediately, you understand; and whenever
I make a mistake, I want you to strike me, rap me over
the knuckles. Is that clear? With that whip over
there.”

“That will not be necessary.”

After a few minutes Nero, exhausted, glanced up at
Terpnus:

“Am I making any improvement?”

“Decidedly, but this little song still doesn’t go as it
should. Your little finger is not sufficiently elastic and
your tone is not quite smooth enough. Grasp your harp
more firmly. Now repeat it after me.”

Terpnus began to play. With stiff fingers Nero
plucked at the strings, trying to follow him. Suddenly
he stopped.PHYSICIANS 117

“Who is that?” he cried, his voice trembling. His
eyes stared into blank space.

Terpnus, seeing that no one had come into the room,
made a gesture to indicate the fact, but Nero, quite
certain in his hallucination, persisted.

“Is it you? Stand still! Don’t keep turning your
head!” His tone changed to one of entreaty: “Why
don’t you speak? I know, you want to drive me mad
with your silence. Raise your face from the darkness,
that pitiful thin face. I can see it anyway. Then,
with an accent of compassion:

“I am sorry for you. You are so young. I could
grind you to pieces.”

Terrified, Terpnus drained a beaker of wine, led the
Emperor into his bedroom and ran out.

Nero stood beside the bed, shaking his head in denial:

“You are a mere shadow. You are nothing. I—I
am strong.”

The slaves listening at the door heard Nero’s voice
break. The words came forth between sobs:

“If you were only stronger, no matter how strong,
even as strong as Hercules. But no—you are weak
and so I can do nothing against you.”

A long pause. Then the fearful voice continued:

"Why are you always singing?”

Suddenly he fell to the ground, whimpering. He
raised his head and his hair stood on end with fright
as he saw the figure of Britannicus once more before
him.

“Britannicus,” he screamed, “I love you. But you
don’t love me!”raat rnc occener canta a pesceotie image me

118 THE BLOODY POET

He groped about on the ground and somewhere found
a plate. With all his strength he smashed it against
the wall. |

“You filthy hound!” His voice rattled in his throat.
A silence. The Emperor arose and ordered the lamps
lit. He threw himself on the bed without any desire
for sleep. Then he drank an emetic and waited for the
effect to take place. Two slaves held his head, dripping
with sweat. Then he ordered the stones placed on his
chest. Under their heavy pressure his sighs and failing
breath came and went with difficulty. His jaws worked
convulsively; his face shone dead white. His eyes,
worn out with fever, strayed about the room.

All through the night he lay there, watching,
suffering.Chapter Thirteen
MURDER

 

How LONG CAN A MAN SUFFER? ONLY UNTIL HIS EN-
durance gives out. When that point is reached all suf-
ferings burst their bonds and consume themselves.
Even he who struggles most despairingly in the greatest
torment still preserves one final hope: he feels that
when the pain becomes unbearable it must cease or at
least change its form.

Nero wrestled with his torture till morning came.
Then relief came with a strange abruptness. His mind
was no longer possessed with the lacerating terror that
had dominated him; he no longer felt the sense of ig-
nominy and frustration from which he had struggled
to free himself. He sat up in bed. He had a new
and absorbing thought. Into his mind slid the image
of an old hag crouching in the corner of a tavern. He
had noticed her on one of his night escapades. Her
name was Locusta and under cover she sold powerful
poisons which she prepared from berries and grasses.
Her concoctions had brought death to so many that she
was now serving a prison term.

In the dim and early dawn when all were still asleep,
Nero arose and dressed. He sent for Julius Pollio,
the tribune, and ordered him to release the old hag and
have her await him at her hut. Then he gave instruc-
tions for a large banquet to which he invited all the

leading personages of the city: senators, soldiers and
119THE BLOODY hort

poets, including Britannicus.

A calm and beautiful morning was spreading over
the city as he stepped from the palace. An atmosphere
of melancholy lassitude hung over everything. The
grape-clusters in the vineyards were ripening, drawing
in every possible ray of heat in impatient anticipation
of the harvest. The ruddy grapes glowed transparently
as the sun’s rays shot through them. One could see
the mild wine within, the sweet and foaming juices.
The sky was cloudless. Autumn was enjoying a silent
victory.

Walking through narrow little streets and _ alleys,
Nero made his way quickly towards the outskirts of the
city. Every stone, every house in this section was fa-
miliar to him. Here he had sought to forget in revelry
the anguish he could not express. Here he had fled to
escape the visions that had come to him in his bed-
room. He had thirsted for love, for a plenitude of love.
He had imagined Rome another Athens and himself a
great poet among poets. But none of this had come to
pass. The streets were just as they were before, nor
had any of his own hopes been realized. Dazed by the
brilliant sunlight, he peered about, shuddering at the
memory of the nights he had spent here. But the streets
also reminded him of his poems and this in turn re-
called the intoxication of his first efforts and the glow-
ing hopes held out to him at the beginning. Almost
mad, he swayed and staggered along like one drunk.
At the gutter’s edge grew thistles, henbane and worm-
wood. In terror he grasped his bristly chin, likewise
overgrown with the thorns of his ugly red hair, for he121

had not shaved for days. He could not contain the
thought any longer; he screamed it aloud so that his
deafened ears should not hear it.

“One merely has to do it,” he repeated. “The whole
thing is so simple.” He smiled. It was so simple.

Breaking into a run, he soon reached the hut, sur-
rounded by a muddy court full of pigsties. Nero
shoved the door open. A tiny shrivelled old hag whom
he recognized as Locusta stood before him.

Give me some poison!” he panted.

Locusta pushed something in front of him.

“No!” cried Nero. “I don’t trust you. It’s been
weakened by standing so long. You must mix some
fresh stuff, right here before my eyes.”

The old woman left the room and came back with a
handful of roots. She took out a bowl and a glass from
the cupboard and mixed a doughy paste.

“Does it taste good?”

“Yes x

“And is it deadly? I want a poison that really kills
—nhone of your concoctions that merely make a man
vomit, give him diarrhoea and then leave everything as
it was before. Does this kill immediately?”

“At once.”

“Let me see.”

The hag drove a pig quivering with fat into the
room, mixed the poison with some bran and then pushed
the mess toward the swine. Nero rose from his chair
and watched in great excitement. The pig snuffed at
the mixture with its filthy snout and then devoured the
bran greedily. It had no sooner finished it than it

MURDERTHe: BLOODY POET

rolled over on the earth and lay still.

“It’s dead enough,” said the hag with a leer of tri-
umph. |

“No,” replied Nero, “‘it’s still grunting.”

Then the swine grew quite still. The Emperor
crouched over it suspiciously. All at once the animal
gave a last convulsive movement with its legs. Nero
started back as if before a ghost, uttered a cry of ter-
ror and tottered to the wall. Sweat dripped from his
forehead.

“That’s his last breath,” said the old woman re-
assuringly.

For several minutes they contemplated the pig that
lay there, still, unmoving.

“How repulsive,” said the Emperor. He spat upon
it and then kicked it in the belly.

“Monster! You are gone, monster!” He broke into
a happy laugh and left, bearing with him enough of the
poison to kill a whole herd of swine. At the palace
Zodicus was already awaiting him.

“At the beginning of the meal, then?” was his imme-
diate question.

Nero shook his head: “No, at the end. He must eat
first.”

Thalamus, the court barber, came in flourishing his
instruments. Laden with combs and brushes, scissors
and razors, he made a profound reverence and minced
toward the Emperor. Shaving him, he held his breath
as his fingers passed carefully over Nero’s mouth and
nose. Then, while he curled the light wavy hair with
hot irons, the gossipy Sicilian began to release all theMURDER 123

news he had heard on the Forum. He spoke of orators,
of gladiators, of women, while Nero, mirror in hand,
gazed absorbedly at a face which was clouded with the
traces of many sleepless nights. As he desired to look
fresh and youthful tonight, his next visit was to the

bath.

Several guests were already assembled as Zodicus
entered the banquet-hall in the left wing of the palace.
Groups of senators were standing about, admiring the
wonderful movable ceiling which was kept revolving
day and night by a mechanism in the cellar. It was
inlaid with ivory and contained a representation of the
entire vault of heaven, with all the stars included. They
tried to identify this or that star and planet. Gradu-
ally savoury odours began to drift in to the company.
The soldiers—Vespasianus, Rufus, Scribonius Proculor
—were gathered about a table, listening to Burrus, the
commander of the guard, who was telling a story.
Zodicus greeted the senators and the military party and
hastened through the great hall into the kitchen to see
about the wines.

Agrippina appeared, heavily adorned with precious
stones, glittering like a peacock in the sunshine. She
was wearing a lilac-coloured robe lavishly trimmed with
silver. “The best of mothers”, as her son called her,
was already greying. Around her temples shimmered
the white strands of hair which she combed under care-
fully or covered with a veil, for she was anxious to
preserve the appearance of youth. The rouge collected
thickly in the cracks of her dried lips. What betrayedNy Ae et, O10, Yt ob OF EEE

her age most plainly was the loose flesh of the plump
bosom revealed by her low-cut dress. She was sur-
rounded by tall, strongly muscled youths, all of them
blond and blue-eyed. These were soldiers from the
Germanic troops who composed her personal guard,
the only ones she trusted. Beside these fair giants the
Roman soldiers appeared like feeble dwarfs.

Agrippina moved forward slowly, diffusing an at-
mosphere of pomp and majesty. The senators and sol-
diers, who hated her, bowed instinctively before her
stately form. They sensed that this was the same Em-
press who had once been led up to the Capitol in a
triumphal chariot, like a goddess in glory. She sat
down in the place of honour. Pallas reclined beside her
and whispered in her ear that Britannicus was also in-
vited. Agrippina’s mood grew lighter; she rejoiced
that she would not be the only outsider amid this circle
of court sycophants. Britannicus was the only one she
could pit against Nero, whose growing ambition she
sought vainly to control.

Now Octavia, accompanied by a few soldiers, came
in with Britannicus, who advanced to Agrippina. Last,
Nero entered the hall with a light step and sat down
on the couch beside Octavia. From his carefully
shaven face emanated an odour of perfume. His white
toga and elaborately curled hair gave the impression of
a fop. In his left eye, which was weaker than the
other, he wore a piece of ground glass. He surveyed
the crowd of guests, looking for Britannicus, whom in
his first excitement he failed to discover. At last, after
his glance had traversed the table several times, heMURDER 125

 

spied him beside Agrippina and directly opposite his
own couch. His heart beat rapidly. He had not fore-
seen that they would be so close together. From this
position he would be able to follow Britannicus’ slight-
est gesture.

Amid these adorned and decorated courtiers the poet
had a decidedly insignificant appearance. His black
hair was cut short about his surprisingly small head.
He exchanged a few polite and formal phrases with
everyone, but appeared to be looking through rather
than at the company about him; only upon his sister he
rested a glance full of affection.

The Emperor caught the eye of Zodicus who was
reclining beside Fannius, surrounded by a group of
poetasters. Zodicus nodded; the arrangements were
complete.

The stewards and attendants, clad in white tunics
and sashes, threaded the great hall bringing in the
hors d’oeuvres. Nero ate great quantities, wolfing it
greedily. He wanted at one stroke to make up for all
the food he had missed during the past few months
of fasting. Released from his diet restrictions, he de-
voured with relish the fresh oysters, accompanied them
with radishes, asparagus and olives and gorged him-
self with his favourite dish, ostrich brains. He was
already stuffed full by the time the hors d’oeuvres were
finished.

~ You don’t seem to be eating,” he said to Britannicus.
“I hope you’re not ill. You look much better, I think.
You must be recruiting your strength little by little.”
Octavia and Agrippina were listening, the one anx-THE BLOODY POET

iously, the other with a stern expression on her face.

‘Fat, my brother. Poets too have to feed themselves.
The gods alone can live on ambrosia.” :

His poetic circle laughed at the sally. Agrippina
raised her small, plump hand, yellow as butter; silence
ensued.

“Don’t you care for anchovies?” continued Nero in
the same tone of malice. “Or hot black-puddings
spiced with cloves? I can recommend them heartily—
they strengthen the voice.”

“His voice is strong enough,” replied Agrippina.

“IT know,” countered Nero, “but it has no fire.”

‘Warmth is preferable to fire.”

“Then he had better eat meat,” was Nero’s irrelevant
response. He was confused; he hardly knew what he
was saying.

“These eels are not good.”

He asked for bread that he might wipe the oil from
his greasy fingers. A plate full of slices with gilded
crusts was brought to him. A page brushed the bread
crumbs from the table with a tiny purple broom.

“Where is Seneca?” asked Agrippina, who was al-
ways watching the movements of her greatest antago-
nist with a close and jealous eye.

“He asked to be excused,” replied Nero, turning to
his mother. “Our great moralist is laid up with an
attack of the gout. Besides, he feels all worn out.
He has just finished his play—sent it to me yesterday.”

“How do you like it?” piped up Fannius, his mouth

crammed full.
“Well—rather sober and pedestrian as far as theMURDER 127

style is concerned. A good many platitudes—hardly
one of his best productions. But then he’s past his
prime. Written himself out, I’m afraid.”

“What is the play called?” asked Octavia, in order
to contribute something.

*“Thyestes.””

“Ah-ha.” There was a rustle among the poets.

“Do you know who Thyestes was?” asked Nero,
addressing Octavia.

No.”

“Tl tell you all about him if you wish. His grand-
father was Tantalus.”

“You mean the Thyestes,” said Fannius, “who ate
his own son as a prime roast?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” repeated Nero.

“Oh, the famous chef?” contributed the jocular
Zodicus.

“Quite so,” replied Nero coldly. “Nor did the
grandson show himself unworthy of his great ancestor.
Aren’t you familiar with the story? It begins with an
account of how Thyestes strangled his step-brother.”
His gaze rested full on Britannicus.

At that moment the poet looked very beautiful. His
dark eyes glowing with a subdued and languorous
light, he listened unsuspectingly as the Emperor told
the story whose point he knew in advance. But his
boredom was obvious.

“It’s nothing but an old myth,” said Agrippina flatly.

“True enough,” assented Nero, “but what a splen-
did myth!” He wiped away the red juices which the
spiced goat’s flesh had left dripping from his mouth.THE BLOODY “Pon T

“] prefer goat’s meat to capons cooked in milk. Some
salt, please.” He salted the meat, took it up in his
hands and continued: “Thyestes was really a nice young
fellow but a little too rash in love. He seduced the
wife of his brother Atreus and she bore him several
children. Well, at this point Atreus lost his temper.”
Here Nero laughed so heartily that the wine spilled
over his chin “‘and he had his wife thrown into the sea.
Quite the proper thing to do, wasn’t it?”

Zodicus put his oar in: “It would receive the com-
plete sanction of the moralists.”

‘ven Seneca?” asked Fannius, amid the laughter
of the company.

“But that’s not all,” continued Nero, turning to the
Empress. ‘“Atreus was no fool. He managed to get
a pretty revenge on his high-spirited brother. Feigning
a reconciliation he invited him to dinner. Delicate, ten-
der meat was brought in on smoking hot plates.
Thyestes crammed himself full. When he had finished
he was told that he had been eating the flesh of his own
son.”

“Horrible!” Octavia shuddered.

“All good poetry is horrible,” declared the Emperor
grandly, turning to address the poets. “Nothing milk-
and-waterish about it. Even the sun was so upset and
horrified at the ghastly meal that the next day, in con-
fusion, it rose in the west and set in the east. What are
you eating, Burrus?”

“Thrushes,” replied the old warrior briefly.

“Ah, thrushes. I like them too—well peppered.”
He looked down at the plate with mock emotion. “ThusMURDER 129

ends the career of the song-bird.” There was a chorus
of laughter from the poets. Nero followed up his tri-
umphal sally with the solemn words: “Dear comrade,
heavenly singer, with the love of one colleague for an-
other, do I now swallow thee.”

Then he continued his account of the fortunes of the
Atridae. Agrippina listened with scorn and dis-
approval darkening her face.

“What I particularly esteem in the noble and vener-
ated family is the logical consistency of its behaviour.
Thyestes, for example, entered into the most intimate
of relationships with his own daughter. From this
happy and classical union was born a daughter. Now
Atreus, deprived of the wife whom his brother Thyestes
had seduced, absent-mindedly married this maiden who
was at once Thyestes’ daughter and granddaughter
or is that wrong? That family tree certainly has its
roots in Hades. I’d better stop before I get completely
confused.”

The banquet was nearing its end. Dessert plates of
fresh and stewed fruit were being served. Nero de-
voured the fruit ravenously—apples, pears, peaches,
everything that the physicians had strictly forbidden.
He had stopped worrying about his voice entirely. He
gobbled and talked, and talked and gobbled. Zodicus
was stealing impatient glances at him in an endeavour to
find out whether it was time to act. But Nero motioned
to him to sit quiet; he wished to savour the irony of the
situation to the full.

“These brothers had large eyes,” he continued,
“large, calm, inscrutable eyes. Well, from this treeLah BL eopy Fh OE T

sprang Agamemnon who is the subject of my poem—
the one that pleased Britannicus so much. Didn’t it?”

Britannicus, deep in conversation with Agrippina,
had not heard a single word. After a moment or so,
Nero’s question percolated into his consciousness.

“Yes, your Majesty?”’

“We were discussing my elegy.”

“Yes?” said Britannicus.

“Wondering as to your opinion about Agamemnon.”

“He was a great king,” replied Britannicus and turned
to Agrippina.

‘““You seem to find it hard to talk,” called out Nero
gaily. “Swallow a little wine, perhaps you'll recover
your voice.”

Pythagoras brought in a jug of Falernian. The wine,
filled with aloes and other spices, was as thick as honey
and had to be separated with a knife, poured into the
goblets in thick lumps and then thinned with hot water.
As was the custom, the servant tasted the wine and
then handed it to Britannicus. Nero looked at Zodicus
in amazement as Britannicus took up the cup. The
poet tasted it, found it too hot and asked for some
cold water, whereupon Zodicus sprang up and poured
some out of his own glass. Britannicus emptied the
goblet.

Agrippina was cleaning her teeth with a quill. She
felt that the conversation was flat and was anxious to
see the banquet ended. But Nero, raising his voice,
continued with his recital.

“Now Agamemnon, the king about whom I wroteMURDER ta

my poem...” At this moment Octavia pointed to

Britannicus and screamed: “he is ill!”

Britannicus choked down a sob. His head fell for-
ward into the gold plate before him.

“Just like the pig,” thought the Emperor. “Exactly
like the pig.” And he noted with satisfaction the deathly
pallor of Britannicus’ face. “It’s merely a seizure,”
he declared loudly. “He’s epileptic, you know. Noth-
ing to get excited about. Have a little more wine,
brother. You'll be all right in a few minutes.” Nero
calmed the women, who had risen from their seats and
rushed to Britannicus. The Emperor felt that all eyes
rested upon him in suspicion; but he betrayed not the
slightest sign of nervousness. He continued: “Let me
go on with the story. This excellent family flour-
NOISE Yi

But now many of the guests had started up from the
table in terror. “He is dead,” they cried. Octavia,
paralyzed with horror, stared down at her brother. His
head lay motionless on the table. But she dared not
weep or lament. Agrippina rushed from the hall in a
frenzy, dragging Octavia with her.

The corpse was carried out and the banquet con-
tinued. Now they drank heavy Greek wines from
Rhodes and Cyprus, mixed with figs. The dwarf Vani-
tius was brought in. They unbound his chains, plied
him with wine and crowned him with a wreath of flow-
ers. The poets crowded around the Emperor who,
boisterously intoxicated, was shouting and making
pitiful attempts to sing.THE Loopy Port

“The singing bird.” said Fannius, in allusion to
= > >

Britannicus.
“Right you are,’

?

replied Zodicus, “the poor thrush,”

and he imitated the sound of a thrush.Pu eHO neue

ee Fourteen

GONE

 

 

“AT Last!” CRIED NERO, ALONE IN HIS ROOM, “AT
Jast, at last!” And he laughed and shouted and paced
to and fro and stood still and sat down and smiled and
cried and felt exuberantly free, felt that at last he was
safe from all injury, that he had overcome his greatest
obstacle. All the heavy oppressions that had tormented
him at night and prevented him from sleeping and
breathing, vanished. His freedom was complete. The
great step was taken. He had never believed it could
be so easy. The entire proceeding was accomplished
with terrifying smoothness and rapidity.

Britannicus had died immediately. At table Nero
displayed such complete sang froid that he astonished
not only the guests but himself. He acted as if the
situation were a perfectly ordinary one; not for a mo-
ment did he lose his poise, not even when he heard
that small blue spots, the evidences of poison, had ap-
peared on the face of the corpse. He had the face
smeared with plaster so that the spots might not be seen
and that same night the body was buried before a great
crowd in the midst of a drenching rain. To the Senate
he explained that this hasty burial was due to his desire
to shorten his own agony of pain and sorrow at his
brother’s death.

He was filled with one thought: Britannicus is gone.
He is neither in heaven nor on earth nor under the
133134 WHE BLOODY POET

sea . . . he isnowhere. It gave him the greatest pleas-
sure to contemplate the void left by his death. He took
a malevolent delight in savouring the peace he had at
last attained by exorcising his evil genius. It was tre-
mendous to contemplate. With one stroke he had
opened the path to peace of mind, the chance for ac-
clamation, the poet’s wreath and life, life itself in all
its fullness now falling so suddenly into his hands that
at first he hardly knew what to do with it. He could
begin life again, he could eat everything, and above
all he could write, undisturbed, as he had written at
the beginning.

Again he repeated to himself: “Britannicus is gone.”
How childish it seemed now, the modesty which had
been implanted in him by lying old men and nourished
by Seneca. The result of his introspections had been
to convince him that men were evil, vulgar and en-
vious. He himself desired only good but they would
not let him practice goodness, and it was clear that the
fault lay not with him but with things outside of him-
self, with the world that rejected his love. That he
had not sooner recognized this fact was his only mis-
take. He must now establish order and submission in
the external world and not bother himself with the fruit-
less conflict in his own soul. It was his humility that
had brought him to his present degradation: he would
protect himself against this relentlessly. That was the
function of strength—to protect true worth as the body
protects the breath within it. Power itself becomes a
noble thing when it serves worthy ambitions. And what
could be more sacred than his own ambition to surroundGONE 135

himself with a wall of strength and power so that he
would be free to create without interference? With-
out this protection even the finest poet will be destroyed
by outside forces.

So Nero learned how to command, he adopted a bold
and trenchant tone which enforced immediate obedi-
ence and he rode rough-shod over differing opinions.
Now he learned how to use his power over the souls of
men. What he could not do himself the state must do
for him. He began to pay attention to the activities of
the different parties, a thing he had never bothered his
head about before, and to observe the habits of the
masses who, he realized, make up the final audience
of the poet. For the first time he felt that he was
mighty, that he was the Emperor; and he was happy in
the realization.

He did not forgive his mother for her uncompli-
mentary words at the banquet. A curt command gave
her notice that he was depriving her of her Germanic
body-guard; she was ordered to leave the imperial pal-
ace and move to the palace of Antonia. Agrippina
attempted to implore clemency but the Emperor, who
received her in the presence of armed soldiers, was in-
exorable. He lifted his head and looked at her. His
glance was stern and strangely remote. His mother re-
tired, beaten.

His physical aspect too had changed as completely
as that of an actor who assumes a new role. He had be-
come unbelievably fat since his abandonment of the
mortification of the flesh. Now that he ate everything
his eyes and mouth desired, he had developed a double136 THE BLOODY POET

chin, rolls of fat hung on his body and formed rosy
little sausages of flesh on the nape of his neck. His
face seemed covered with a huge mask, an unfamiliar,
almost godlike reflection, a luminous aura of egotism,
self-assurance and power. It was a face to confuse the
beholder.

His sense of omnipotence was strengthened by the fa-
vourable reports coming in from all quarters of the
Empire. From the East on the Armenian battle-field
came news of splendid victories. The eagles of Rome
were advancing. Corvulo, with a few hastily recruited
eastern legions, had been marching against the Arme-
nians and their allies, the Parthians. Finally, losing
patience with the continual retreats of these crafty and
cautious eastern troops, he had determined upon a de-
cisive course of action. He dismissed his old legions
and levied new troops in Cappadocia and Galicia. Now
he proceeded to destroy Tigranocerta and Artaxale and
to defeat the Armenian king Tirades in open battle.
Rome was illuminated and Nero received the title of
Imperator. He ordered the statues of the former Em-
perors torn down, for they depressed him; and in their
stead had a statue of himself erected in front of the
portico, a bronze colossus one hundred feet high which
looked so terrifying that his own heart leaped when he
gazed upon this gigantic image of himself. All his
old clothes were burned and every morning he put on
a new toga which he would discard in the evening.
Sea water was piped from twelve miles away so that
the ocean might flow directly into his bath. From an-
other tap ran a hot stream from the sulphur springs ofGONE lov

Baiae. He now took personal charge of the household
affairs and received the reports of the imperial cook,
jeweler, perfumer, tailor and cobbler. The halls and
chambers of his palace, together with its wine-cellar
and family vaults, constituted an appreciable portion
of the city. In the park tame panthers and lions paced
back and forth. From behind every tree some marble
god was watching him. But his greatest concern was
the problem of his study, which he decorated and beau-
tified continually. He had the walls incrusted with
precious stones and mother-of-pearl and placed statues
above his writing table.

Here he would sit from early morning to evening.
His hand grew cramped, the stylus fell from his stiff
fingers—he could produce nothing. He puzzled over
the cause of his sterility. One day there arose before
him a woman’s face, pale and thin. Octavia.

“Yes, it’s her fault,” he said aloud. “It’s all her
fault.”

He was amazed that he had not realized this sooner
for he had never loved her, not for a single instant, not
even the first day of their marriage. Since that time
his indifference had augmented gradually to a feeling
of repulsion. He suffered whenever she came into his
presence. Her thin black hair was combed back
smoothly and there was something strange and alien
in her face that crushed any tendency toward passion.
She spoke falteringly and had to think out the words
before uttering them. A painful feeling of discomfort
was created by her changeless blue eyes that always
stared straight before her. In contrast to the other138 THE BLOODY POET

women of the time she had received an academic liter-
ary education and she was entirely uninterested in the
things Nero talked about. |

After her brother’s death she never appeared at
meal-time. She ate alone. Whenever she was in the
society of others—which rarely happened—she would
look fearfully around to make sure that no one was
standing behind her. Ordinarily she stayed in her
room, playing with her gaily dressed dolls ranged on
the couch. Their staring, immobile eyes looked as un-
human as her own. She would dress and undress them
and sing them little lullabies. She had no children.
At the feast of Lupercalia, where sterile women sub-
mitted to flagellation, the Emperor had her led forth,
and the high priest himself touched her loins with the
whip. But even this had no effect.

“She is sterile,” thought the Emperor, “and she
makes me sterile also.”

Nero was still quite unfamiliar with women, knowing
only Octavia’s tasteless kisses and barren embraces.
He was convinced that she deadened his talent, this
Octavia whose frigid body, as it moved about the palace,
froze the very air and congealed in Nero the passion
which he should have been able to express. His frus-
trated spirit began to conjure up voluptuous fancies.
He imagined a love which would release the elements
in him which now lay dormant; he thought of the deli-
cious exhaustion of two bodies, of feverish waves of de-
light which would obtain a final expression in poetry.
What could he hope for from Octavia? He answered
his own question with a gesture of contempt.GONE 139

Zodicus and Fannius, too, often spoke of this prob-
lem, but the Emperor had already tired of them. They
repeated themselves constantly and cheated him with-
out even an attempt at concealment. He wanted a new
circle, a society composed of handsome, elegant, witty
youths who would amuse him and keep him in good hu-
mour. Epaphroditus, his Greek secretary, arranged
such a group for him with an artist’s eye, so as to pro-
cure the greatest effect by setting off one type sharply
against another. It was like an elaborate menu designed
to tickle the palate. Paris, the darling of the Roman
ladies, represented amorous success; Doryphorus,
Nero’s scribe, was beauty; Anicetus, the rough sea
captain and a forum tutor of Nero, was rude man-
hood; Senicio could drink ad infinitum; Cassinus could
tell anecdotes; and Anneus Serenus, a relative of
Seneca, was that indispensable person—a good listener.
Finally, wit was represented in the person of Otho, an
elegant and resourceful Don Juan who would relate
love adventures on two continents with sparkling humour,
and repeat dubious jokes that he had picked up at the
mimes in the theater.

In this assemblage the Emperor felt at ease. It was
a relief to be among these young men whose polished
manners made a thing of grace out of each passing mo-
ment and who did not, like the literati, intrigue among
themselves. Life lived in this fashion seemed bearable.
He was particularly fond of Otho, a quaestor and the
scion of a distinguished family, who spent money with
engaging recklessness and, though unacquainted with
dogma, was an Epicurean of Epicureans. A contented140 THE BLOODY POET

smile played continually about his lips. He ate and
drank in moderation, but his appetite for women was
inexhaustible. He completely dazzled the Emperor with
his account of the mysteries of the bedroom, his extraor-
dinary list of mistresses, fresh virgins and mature ma-
trons, dignified wives of senators, bakers’ and shoe-
makers’ wives, not omitting a detailed account of all
those worthy cuckolds who remained in unsuspecting
innocence.

Once Epaphroditus brought some women to the pal-
ace. After the meal, as the guests were sinking back
upon the cushions, the most renowned beauties paraded
past the Emperor’s couch. Some were notorious courte-
sans but there were also patrician women of distin-
guished families who had received secret invitations.
Indifferently Nero watched them all file by. Then his
gaze rested upon a slave-girl seated in a corner, looking
neither sad nor merry, and, unlike the others, who were
straining for his favour, making no effort to please him.
She looked still and serene like a rich bursting fruit.
Nero motioned her to his side, and in her arms he knew
the sweetness of desire, nourishing as bread, thirst-
quenching as water. From that time on it gave him a
secret pleasure to look at Octavia and realize how he
had humiliated her. But all the other joys of love
were denied him, for he cared for the slave-girl only
as long as she remained with him; when she was gone,
he forgot her. Whenever he tried to think of her his
only feeling was one of satisfaction in the mere fact of
her existence. His desire recognized only the pleasure
of the moment; it knew neither past nor future.GONE 141

He asked Epaphroditus: “Can this be love? If so,
where are all the eloquent phrases? Why don’t I weep
and lament as the poets do?” |

Then he reverted to the society of the gilded youths
who were now beginning to be bored with him. But
he needed them badly; he feared solitude as much as
he had once loved it. He shuddered at the prospect
of being alone and was obsessed with the desire to hear
the sound of voices, even his own. At all costs, he had
to avoid silence. Every night, Epaphroditus would
conduct him to his bed and talk to him until he fell
asleep.Chapter Fifteen
A WOMAN IN THE AUDIENCE.

 

ONE EVENING, ACCOMPANIED BY KPAPHRODITUS AND
Paris, he visited the theater of Marcellus. He took his
seat in a box very near to the stage and diagonally
across proscenium. Three immense tiers were crowded
to capacity with row upon row of hard faces surmounted
by black, uncombed bristly hair, the genuine Roman
mob, nourished on wolf’s milk. At Nero’s appearance
they sprang from their benches, one arm upraised in
ereeting, calling his name. Happy amid this animal
howling, Nero flung out his arm in response and the
bellowing broke forth afresh. Virgil had been the only
one to receive a similar ovation. Then he closed the
grating of his box so as to be able to stretch out com-
fortably upon his couch. Paris and Epaphroditus sat
down beside him.

This theater played comic sketches of complicated
intrigue and amused the mob with short trifling farces,
songs with a flute accompaniment or indecent panto-
mimes. The age of great tragedy had passed. These
were the only things for which the audience had
patience.

The performance began. ‘Two actors appeared, one
representing a fat, the other a thin fellow. They be-
laboured each other with abuse that was not particu-
larly witty, stuck out their tongues and concluded the
act by a general rough-and-tumble exit. The galleries
142A WOMAN IN THE AUDIENCE 143
oh
went wild and a storm of laughter spread over the nf
theater. it
“Dull,”” was Nero’s comment, “always the same in
thing. What else is there?” i)
Paris, who was not acting this evening, described the . Up
bill. ‘“Doesn’t look as if it would be particularly inter- mh

esting. Antiochus and Terpnus are going to sing, ac-
companied by the harp. Their supporters are out in :
equal strength tonight but they’re unorganized. Do
you hear them?” |
Antiochus appeared on the stage and was greeted .
with applause and hisses. Terpnus met with a similar uf
balanced reception. }
“What's next?” asked Nero.
“A pantomime follows. At the end Pammanes will
appear but he doesn’t count. The poor fellow sits in
the dentist’s chair all day but it’s no use—his teeth in-
sist on dropping out.” |
The back drop of the pantomime representing a hi
mountain and a brook was enthusiastically applauded nih
by the mob. The action moved in familiar channels. |
Venus appeared, followed by Vulcan, armed from head :
to foot. The audience howled with delight as he began
to pinch the naked goddess. Nero turned away from
the stage and raised the grating of his box, preferring ye
to look at the audience. Before him was all Rome, ij
the vulgar city that was content as long as it could :
laugh. The populace sat there sweating, tightly packed
in the semi-circular theater, men and women side by
side, girls linked closely with soldiers. In the parterre i
beneath him, amid a row of noble youths, Nero noticed Val144. THE BLOODY POET

a woman who, he felt, had just glanced up at the im-
perial box.

“Who is that?” he asked Paris. :

“Don’t you know her?” whispered Paris. “She
comes here every evening. That’s Poppaea Sabina!”

“Otho’s wife?”

The lady, aware that she was the subject of discus-
sion, averted her head at once and kept her eyes glued
on the stage. She was wearing a diaphanous veil which
covered the upper part of her face, leaving visible only
her sharply defined mouth.

“Poppaea,” repeated Nero, “that means a puppet, a
little doll. How curious.”

He let his eyes rest on her. Her body hardly moved
as she breathed. She was small, with round, sleepy
breasts, a soft tender chin and delicate hands, Her
beauty was difficult to seize, evanescent; and to Nero it
was like some stinging potion. He noticed that her
amber-yellow hair was not thick and hung in a dispirited
fashion, diffusing a strange melancholy aura.

“She looks as if she were sleeping,” remarked Nero,
“or as if she were suffering.”

“Her mother loved an actor,” said Paris, “and com-
mitted suicide because of him. She too was a famous
beauty. All Rome was crazy about her.”

Just then Poppaea bent forward and with a slow
sensual gesture pushed back her veil. Now her face
was completely visible.

“Ts she always as pale as this?” asked Nero.

The essential charm of the face consisted in the deli-
cate appealing nose and those tiny irregularities which,A WOMAN IN THE AUDIENCE 145

taken individually, would be merely blemishes but
which fused as a whole into a breath-taking and
troubling beauty. She would not have furnished a good
subject for either sculptor or painter. How changeable
and elusive her face is, thought Nero. He looked again
at her mouth; it had lost its quality of severity; now it
was pleading, now it assumed a petulant expression.
The space between mouth and nose is extremely short,
thought Nero; there is something alluring in her low
forehead; her eyes are grey and vague dreams slum-
ber in them, and her slender bones lend grace to her
body.

When one looked at her, one thought at once of her
resemblance to her mother, the romantic courtesan; but
there was in Poppaea something more mysterious and
exciting. She glowed with the radiance of an early
autumn day that yet retains all the heat of the dying
summer. Now she replaced the veil so that only her
lips were visible again.

“Who is that sitting with her?” asked the Emperor.

“Alityros.”

“What is he?”

“‘An actor. She lives only for art
for it.”

“Then she is certainly not a Roman. Is she Greek?”

“As far as I know she’s a Jewess.”

The Emperor leaned back reflectively.

“The Jews are idol worshippers, too. They are just
as dangerous and rebellious as the Christians. Four
thousand of them were exiled from Rome in the reign
of Tiberius.”

 

and would die

 

 

a146 THE BLOODY POET

“Why doesn’t she turn this way?” broke out Nero
impatiently.

The pantomime had come to an end. The: old
Pammanes, once the idol of the theatergoers, today
nothing but an honourable ruin, appeared on the stage.
The Emperor was still admiring Poppaea. Paris, who
knew her well, continued his gossip.

“Her first husband was Rufus Crispinus. One fine
day she gave him the slip and then married again.”

“I must see her tomorrow,” declared Nero.

Paris descended to the parterre and sat down beside
Poppaea to deliver the invitation of the Emperor.Chapter Sixteen
POPPAEA SABINA

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
    
    

POPPAEA CAME THE NEXT MORNING.

“T am here secretly,” she began. “Nobody knows
about it, not even Otho.”

Her air was apprehensive, like a timid school girl.
Nero murmured to himself: “She is sweet, she is
strange.”

But she was not the Poppaea of yesterday. From a
distance she had appeared enigmatic; now she seemed
simple, almost naively candid. Around her nostrils
were a few freckles that Nero had not noticed in the
theater. Her dress, made of expensive Chinese muslin,
was without ribbons or trimming. She wore no jewels.
Her unbound breasts revealed a charming roundness
under the robe. She had always despised the rouge pot,
for her mother had taught her that only common women
rouge their faces and, with the traditional refinement
of one descended from a long line of courtesans,
Poppaea abstained from this vulgarity. There was
nothing but a little black on her eyelashes and a pale
blue shadow on the lids.

For a long time she had been expecting this meet-
ing, certain that it would come eventually. Indeed, it
was the reason for her appearance in the theater. Yet
she made no particular preparations for the visit. Be-
fore leaving her home she had swallowed a few drops
of a stimulant which would lend her freshness and
147

nO aT DEP SORES

 

et148 THE BLOODY POET

vivacity. And when the sedan-chair arrived at the
marble steps of the palace she took out of a box a little
cake of myrtle and chewed it to sweeten her breath.

Though the glittering splendour of the palace dazzled
her, she betrayed no sign of embarrassment and looked
straight at the Emperor with perfect unconcern. Nero’s
heart beat rapidly. He wanted to say something but
the ideas would not come, his brain was dry. Finally
he stammered out the words: “Sit down,” pointing to
a soft couch.

Poppaea had reflected minutely on her exact course
of action. Rejecting the proffered couch she sat down
on a low footstool a few paces away. Both felt that
the gesture was unnecessary and disrespectful. But
they also sensed that it had somehow altered the at-
mosphere of the room, that, contrary to what might be
expected, it had broken down the formality of the oc-
casion and brought them unbelievably closer to each
other. Nero felt pleasantly relieved; now he could talk
to her without constraint.

“Why don’t you remove your veil? I should like
to see your face.”

Poppaea drew back the veil.

“I had imagined you differently.”

“Are you disillusioned?”

“No, but I thought you would look somewhat—
sadder. At the theater yesterday you seemed so sad—
and beautiful.”

Poppaea laughed. Her voice sounded a little hollow
and exhausted as if it had tired itself in its ascent from
the voluptuous sweetness of her breasts.POPPAEA SABINA 149

“Sad?” said Poppaea, and went on lightly, “I re-
member once seeing myself crying. I stood in front of
the mirror gazing at the pearls rolling down my cheeks.
It was so strange. Tears are salty, you know, just like
the sea.”” She pronounced the last few words in Greek.

“You know Greek?”

“Of course. It’s practically my mother tongue. My
nurse was Greek and so were my teachers. And my
mother spoke a very good Greek.”

Accordingly the conversation now continued in
Greek. The Emperor was delighted to listen to
Poppaea speaking this literary tongue, which was
so fashionable in Rome and sounded so aristocratic
in contrast to the everyday flatness of Latin.
They chatted and laughed. The atmosphere trans-
formed itself. They seemed to be gliding rapidly
down a singing stream in a flower-decked boat to
the accompaniment of the murmuring waves beneath
them.

The Emperor’s eyes lit up. He exclaimed fervently:
“Tt’s remarkable. Everything you say is interesting.
The other women stay at home spinning or nursing their
babies; they bore themselves and they bore me. Per-
haps it’s because they’re afraid of me, they show too
much reverence. What they need is a little courage.
You, on the contrary, are bold; the words fall naturally
and gracefully from your lips. Because you are with-
out constraint. I too feel at ease in your company; I
can talk with you.”

Poppaea disregarded the direct compliment. She
seemed suddenly to collect herself, sighed as if she were150 THE BLOODY POET

about to say something. A silence ensued, a silence full
of meaning, not at all an unpleasant silence.

“You look troubled,” said the Emperor.

“T am afraid. You're sure that there’s no one here?”
She glanced about the room. Then, in a confidential
tone, she continued: “I came in a closed sedan, through
narrow, unfrequented streets. If he had the slightest
suspicion that I were here, it would be terrible.”

“Who?”

Poppaea made no answer for a moment; then she
said: “Feel how my heart is beating.”

Tenderly the Emperor laid his hand on her breast
and felt within its cage the furious beating of the little
heart.

The alien tongue they were speaking lent him cour-
age. “You are beautiful,” the words forced themselves
from his lips. ‘“No—you are not really beautiful.
But you are strange—and that is exactly why you please
me. I have always laughed at Venus, always scorned
her, the official goddess of beauty. I never liked her
nor any of the others either, Minerva or Diana.
They're fit only for the sculptor’s mallet. Whatever
is regular and too justly proportioned can never be
really beautiful. It is ugly. Only that which is irregu-
lar, which has in it something startling, some sort of
distortion—only that is beautiful. And that is what
you are, you strange little creature, with your restless
eyebrows and your trembling nostrils that quiver like
tiny sails.”

This was as far as Poppaea had planned to go. Dur-
ing the entire conversation she had watched and guardedPOPPAEA SABINA 151

her every breath, thoroughly conscious of all she said
or did. Now she arose and held out her hand. This
was enough for one day. On her way out she dropped
a few more faltering words about Otho who, it seemed,
was waiting for her somewhere. She sighed; she had
to go...

In the afternoon, Nero sent for her but she was not
at home. The next day he was informed that she was
ill. She did not come until the third day.

“Where do you disappear?” asked Nero. “You flee
from me and now when I look at you, you seem not to
know me. You make me feel as if you were someone
else and not the Poppaea I sought. How large your
eyes are, and how dark!”

Before coming Poppaea had taken care to drop a
little belladonna into her eyes so that the irises were
almost hidden by the pupils. Nero, lying back on the
cushions, rattled on: “You are a bird, a swallow, an
airy swallow. Or a falcon with sharp beak and claws.
No—that’s not it—you are a delicious fruit or a rose.’
Then: “I love you.” He threw the phrase at her em-
phatically as if it were a material object: “I love you. s

Calm, silent, motionless, Poppaea sat there before
him, her elbows on her knees, her head resting be-
tween her palms. She seemed to be paying no attention,
as if Nero’s words possessed no interest for her. Then
she stroked his forehead as she would that of a whimper-
ing child.

“Calm yourself,” she said, “calm yourself.” A
pause. “Now then, we can talk sensibly. What I came
for was to tell you that we must part, quickly, without152 THE BLOODY POET

anger, and now when it is not too late. What is the
use of anything else? You and I are both suffering;
it is pitiful. You are mighty,” here she lowered her
eyes with the affected deference of a little girl, “but
even you cannot make the impossible possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because of the others.”

“Otho?” asked Nero quickly.

“Yes, because of him,” replied Poppaea, “and on
account of her also.” She pointed to the wing of the
palace where the Empress lived.

“Octavia?” Nero’s voice was scornful. “That poor
child?” he added with a slight accent of sympathy.

“But they say she is beautiful.”

“Perhaps. But for me only you are beautiful. You
are like a hot fever in my blood, your hands and feet
are warm, hers are cold as ice. And your honeyed
mouth which I have never kissed. I want it!” His lips
approached her face. Poppaea shrank back.

“No. The Empress is greater. She is the grand-
daughter of the gods—or their daughter. I don’t know
which.”

“Never mind her.”

“She is your wife. She will be the mother of your
children.”

“Yes,” laughed Nero. ‘Mother of the Gracchi. She
will never have children.”

“But she is sublime. There’s nothing sublime about
me.”

“Oh, it’s disgusting, all this talk about sublimity.
It’s such a bore!”POPPAEA SABINA 153

“But you are committing a sin against her.” Pop-
paea’s objections were losing their strenuousness. “She
could make you happy.”

“But don’t you understand that I don’t want to be
happy? It’s when I’m happy that ’m most unhappy.
Do you know that story about the Greek poet? He’was
ill, withering from day to day, unable to eat or sleep.
At last he went to a famous physician, who cured him
of his illness. Now the poet could eat and sleep, but
he could not write. So the unhappy fellow ran back to
the physician and said: You gave me back my health
but you took away my art. You are a murderer ¢

““And what did he do?”

“He killed his physician,” said Nero, breathing
heavily.

“Then what is happiness?”

“This is happiness,” replied Nero sadly.

“This? When we dare not love each other?”

“Perhaps. How can I tell? Even when you are
away you are really here; you never leave me. I feel
you always at my side. You let me starve at the same
time that you seem to be feeding me. It is an empty
goblet that you give me to drink from. You will not
kiss me and my lips are parched. One can never grow
tired of you, for one never really has you.”

Now Poppaea was listening, her cunning little ser-
pent’s head raised. Her voice took on a decisive
accent.

“You are an artist,” she said reverently, “a poet.”

“Yes,” replied Nero, like a sleep-walker who awakens
for a few moments, and is puzzled to account for his154 THE BLOODY POET

situation, then closes his eyes again to continue his walk
on the edge of the abyss. “But I have not sung for a
long time.”

“Sing something for me.”

Nero brought out a lyre and fingered the strings.
There was a confused, discordant sound. But Poppaea,
consummate musician that she was, continued her own
playing on Nero’s vanity and sensuality.

‘Have you written anything lately?”

“No, nothing.”

“You are neglecting your work. That’s too bad. I
know some of your songs by heart. You have many
enemies, haven’t you?”

“Many,” cried Nero hoarsely and sat down again,
throwing the lyre on the table. “They’re all enemies!”

“That’s easily understood. Artists are always jeal-
ous, always trying to outdo each other. Why do you
surrender so easily? After all, your poems and your
voice are almost unknown. You have kept them from
the world; you have hidden your talent from every-
body.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Your own private audience was small and, being
composed of rival poets, was hardly the most sympa-
thetic. If the people could only see and hear you once,
thousands and thousands of people! A small narrow
circle can never content an artist. To be sure, the Em-
press is fond of music, isn’t she?”

“The Empress? No.”

“That’s strange. Not even flute-playing?”

“No. What makes you say that?”POPPAEA SABINA 155

“T heard something about it. You know, of course.
Everyone’s talking about it.”

“About what?”

“Why speak of it?”

“T must know what it is,” demanded Nero, much
excited.

“It’s the flute-player,” said Poppaea. “They say he
plays for her in secret. But it’s only empty gossip,
naturally.”

“Who is he?”

“I’ve forgotten his name. Wait a moment—that’s it!
He’s called Eucaerus.”

‘“Fucaerus,” said the Emperor. “Yes, I remember
him! A young Egyptian.”

Poppaea nodded.

“He plays the flute before the imperial gardens under
her window every night. Often it disturbs my sleep.”

“But they say he’s a mere child,” added Poppaea and
began to speak of something else.

She had to leave. Nero offered her a string of pearls.

“No. I never wear pearls,” and she gave them back
to Nero as if they were worthless pebbles.

“What shall I give you?”

“Yourself,” said Poppaea, without a moment’s hesi-
tation.

““Aspasia, Phryne, Lais!” cried Nero madly.

“Poet!” flung back Poppaea, slipping out of the
room.

In the street she lowered her veil and hurried home,
where Otho awaited her. They were both satisfied with
the day’s proceedings, although Otho was eager for

 

er =

ee156 THE BLOODY POET

more decisive developments. His money had almost
given out and his quaestorship was hardly a lucrative
post. For the present, however, they agreed that Pop-
paea was to accept nothing from the Emperor, neither
pearls nor gold. It would be foolish to mortgage the
future by being too impatient. Otho had his eye on
promotion, a governorship at the very least. But his
wife’s ambitions were different—and they were set
much higher.

On the evening of the same day Octavia’s apartments
were invaded by soldiers. The body-guard made short
work of it. An extremely brief cross-examination was
held. The servants would confess nothing. To the
soldiers’ queries they returned insolent answers and spat
in their faces when the guards whispered the slander in
their ears and then tried to extort the suggested false-
hoods. Eucaerus denied all the accusations and was
dragged off to prison weeping, his hands manacled.
When questioned Octavia made no reply whatsoever.
She was quite unable to explain why she had been weep-
ing so much lately. The circumstance was therefore
interpreted as being caused by grief for her lover. The
Emperor determined upon immediate banishment, and
the next morning she was taken to Campania under
military escort.

Poppaea had gone off on a short journey. In the
meantime she sent her friend Alityros to the Emperor
together with a brief note in which she recommended
her old acquaintance as an excellent actor, who by his
simple but successful methods had instructed hundreds
in the very last secrets of the art. As a matter of factPOPPAEA SABINA 157

Alityros’ method really was extremely simple. He was
enthusiastic over everything Nero did; he did not cor-
rect his mistakes and heaped abuse on the fruitless
methods of the old drunkard, as he called Terpnus.
Nero liked him immediately and the old drunkard was
dismissed.

At Poppaea’s return Alityros let her know exactly
what had occurred and she made preparations for
her appearance at the palace. The previous evening
she beautified herself very carefully, rubbing her
hands with crocodile mucus to make them milk-white.
Before going to sleep she smeared her face with a
special salve whose recipe she had learnt from her
mother. It was a delicate mixture of cooked barley
and oil. Upon rising she washed her face in luke-
warm milk and then bathed. The slaves dried her
body with swan’s-down, filed her nails, and stroked
her tongue with flat ivory sticks to make it soft and
velvety.

All smiles and radiance, she was borne into the
palace.

“Daughter of ancient kings,” was Nero’s theatrical
greeting, accompanied by a sweeping gesture. “The
Emperor loves thee.”

“But I do not love him,” said Poppaea meaningfully,
“but you.”

“I have been suffering because of you,” went on the
Emperor, sighing.

“I wanted you to—for my sake and for the sake of
your art, O Poet, to whom I now give my mouth, my
tiny red mouth. I am yours.”158 THE BLOODY POET

They kissed one another, panting. Poppaea tore her
mouth from his. Then she put his arm in hers and
already quite at home, led the poet down the staircase
into the imperial gardens.ipa

 

  

ba

      

Chapter Seventeen

THE DAY OF SILENCE

   

 

ROME, GIGANTIC, RESTLESS, NOISY Rome. WONDER
of the world, rumbling from dawn to sunset, with its
brazen voice compounded of the words of men, the
clang of arms, the clatter of tools. Early in the morn-
ing the uproar begins; the baker’s cry is heard as he
passes from house to house; the milkman startles the
sleepy with his sharp call. Gradually the city rouses
itself. First come the huts tucked away under the
shadows of the hills, then the lodging-houses with their
filthy, worm-eaten steps and their proletarian lodgers,
sleeping in verminous beds together with their wives
and five or six children, eating their few scraps of sour
black bread for breakfast. Then the center of the city
becomes alive with a discordant sound of labour issuing
from the interior of workshops where saw and hammer
and chisel contend with each other. Some drivers who
almost run over a slave are swearing volubly. A strug-
gling mob of pupils and street vagabonds crowd around
the entrance to the gladiator’s school. Barbers stand
in front of their shops, enticing the passersby with a
thousand servile bows and smirking gestures of invita-
tion. In a tavern someone has just received a blow
on the nose and cries out in pain while his companions
accompany him with a chorus of shouts and yells. At
the corner, holding forth in tones stentorian enough to
drown the noise of the passing carts and chariots, are
159160 THE BLOGDY POnT

charlatans, buffoons, snake-charmers and pig-trainers.

Indifferent to all this the crowd streams by, the
masters in the sedan-chairs, the slaves on foot, groaning
under enormous burdens. But not everyone who sits
comfortably in his sedan-chair is really a man of prop-
erty. A good many elegant togas conceal sharp rascals
of one kind or another, legacy hunters, imposters with
hardly enough money in their pockets to buy a meal
but who are covered with imitation jewels calculated to
win the confidence of credulous old provincials. This
vicinity is always densely thronged with foreigners.
Leaning out of some high corner window one would
hear the cosmopolitan babble where Latin mingles with
the singing accents of Greeks, Arabs, Egyptians, Jews
and Moors, and with the barbaric guttural of Parthians,
Alani, Cappodocians, Sarmatians and Goths.

This incessant,uproar ceases but once, on the Feralia
or Festival of Dead. During this day of lamentation,
the heralds are silent, temples and shops are closed,
music is nowhere to be heard. All citizens direct their
thoughts to those lying underground. Pluto releases
the shades from the underworld and these spirits wan-
der into the city, waving their burning torches among the
tombs or before the monuments erected to famous
Romans.

On this day of silence Nero was sitting alone in the
same room where with such feverish enthusiasm he had
composed his first poem. No one was to be admitted
to the imperial presence today. Outside the winter rain
dripped monotonously. Considerable time had elapsed— ae nubian sind ekomeenpanenie aus

     
 
 
  
   
   
 
 
 
  
   
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
   
  
  

ae DAY OF SIE EN @E 161

since Britannicus was laid to rest in the mausoleum of
the Augusti. Until today Nero had been so free from
thoughts of him that he had even managed to compose
a poem in honour of his new mistress. Alityros had
written the music for it and Poppaea, whom Nero con-
sidered a competent judge, was delighted with both
efforts. As for Nero, he hardly troubled himself about
its essential value; indeed it would have been difficult
for him to make an intelligent judgment for what he
sought now was only the adulation that radiated from
the faces of those about him.

But today he was again assailed by misgivings that
recalled the dry despair of those horrible sleepless
nights. It was a dull grey winter afternoon, with the
sky completely overcast by heavy snow-clouds. Nero
was once more troubled by thoughts of Britannicus.
He was mulling uneasily over a fearful tale he had
heard. On the day of the funeral the heavy rain had
washed off the plaster from the face of the corpse and
the blue spots had reappeared. Nero was terrified lest
on this day the spirit of Britannicus might be released
with the other shades and steal into the palace. Despite
his fear an irresistible curiosity finally drove him to
visit the north wing which had contained Britannicus’
apartments. These rooms had been sealed up imme-
diately after the burial. Now the Emperor ordered
these seals broken and, escorted only by a single soldier,
entered the apartment. As soon as he set foot within
it he was frightened. “Who is there?” he called out.
No answer. The pool of silence which had been dis-

 

ee162 THE BLOODY POEL

turbed by his voice reverted to its original calm immo-
bility; the stillness grew even more intense.

Nothing in the room had been touched. Near ‘the
wall stood an unmade bed; there were two chairs, one of
them overturned on the floor; on the table stood a half
empty glass of water. The close air still preserved
something of the dead autumn’s warmth. Almost im-
perceptibly the gloomy afternoon was changing into
twilight. Nero stood motionless, lost in thought. He
gazed at the bed waiting in vain for its owner, at the
table, at the mutely eloquent water glass and the over-
turned chair. He tried to extract some meaning from
these symbols but none came to him. Looking for new
clues in the next room, he stumbled over his brother’s
broadsword with Britannicus’ name cut into the blade.
Coming upon a small mirror he felt a joyful relief in
recognizing his own face in it. There was nothing else
here but clothing, hundreds of togas and tunics made
to fit Britannicus’ slight form, and an equally numerous
array of high shoes with crescent shaped buckles and
gilded laces. Britannicus had been fond of elegant
dress. Finally, on a tabourette, he discovered the poet’s
lyre.

“Ah ho,” breathed Nero, smiling strangely. “So
that’s still here.”

This instrument that had seemed almost living, al-
most instinct with a soul, lay there crushed beneath thick
layers of dust. Nero thought its silence even more pro-
found than was his who had once played upon it.
Seized by an insane impulse, he bent over the lyre,
stretched out a trembling hand and plucked a string.THE DAY OF SILENCE 163

The golden tone resounded through the dead chamber.
Perhaps on the day of silence, the vibrant and melodi-
ous note of music was the only one to be heard through-
out the length and breadth of the mourning city. It
echoed for a long time, then died away. Behind him,
eternity, an invisible wraith, seemed to move vaguely.
Nero picked up the lyre with an awkward movement.
“IT didn’t know this was here,” he said. Then he
wrapped the lyre in his toga and quickly left the room.

The same day Seneca received from the Emperor an
unexpected invitation which he was at a loss to explain.
For some months now he had been living away from
the court, using as a pretext his illness which he simu-
lated with such scrupulous care that he limped even in
the presence of his own slaves. He had heard of the
murder of Britannicus the same evening it had occurred
and the news made the blood freeze in his veins, for he
had the premonition that his turn would come next.
His face grew ashen.

His first impulse had been to hasten to the Emperor,
admit the mistake that he himself had committed when
he had so ingeniously implanted the delusion of poetic
grandeur in Nero, and rescue him from the bloody
abyss that he was approaching. But if he did that—
what would be the consequences for himself! Would
the Emperor be strong enough to endure the unpalatable
truth? In his own elastic and flexible manner Seneca
had pursued this train of thought with the same lucidity
and ingenuity that he displayed in his letters. He ended
by convincing himself that he was entirely blameless,164 THE BLOODY POET

that he had been a passive instrument in the hands of
fate, and, for the rest, that he could, under no condi-
tions, sacrifice the quiet of his own soul, the greatest
of life’s values. There was no other alternative: he
would have to submit to the Emperor.

Then, continuing to ponder upon the problem, he
resolved to make a definite avowal of his attitude. His
ambiguous behaviour in regard to Nero had worried
even himself. In his own mind he induced the feeling
that Britannicus had conspired for the throne and that
Nero was not such a bad poet, after all. All this he
used to repeat aloud to himself, walking up and down in
his park. He realized that he had been too sure of
something no one could be sure of; and so, his spirit
once more at rest, he had sent to the poet of the “Niobe”
his own laurel wreath as an indication of his homage.
Up to this moment, however, he had received no
answer.

And now came this surprising and mysterious invita-
tion. Late in the evening, as the time approached for
his interview, he was overrun by disquieting premoni-
tions. On his way to the palace, he met people return-
ing from the cemeteries, wet to the skin, stumbling
through the dark streets, coughing as they made their
way through the fog and rain. It was an ugly, un-
friendly night, a night one might well choose for death.
But when Seneca was ushered into the palace and looked
at the Emperor, he took fresh courage. Nero had re-
gained all his brightness and cheerfulness. He greeted
Seneca with unwonted heartiness.

“T asked you to come,” he began, “‘in order to letTre DAY OF STLENCE 165

you know of my decision to divide Britannicus’s estate
between you and Burrus. And his lyre also belongs to
you by right.”

He handed it to him. Seneca was overcome with joy;
his eyes shone with utter devotion and fidelity.

“Britannicus was a traitor,” he declared, “and he
deserved his fate for he aspired to your throne.”

“Yes.” There was a trace of contempt in Nero’s
voice. He was thinking how completely Seneca mis-
understood his nature. “But you are and will remain
my friend, won’t you?” And he embraced him.

In this way Nero rid himself of the lyre, but no great
relief ensued. The sound of the golden strings vibrated
continually in his ears and the invisible poet continued
to wage the old struggle. From now on Nero decided to
abandon all half-way measures about his own art. It
became clear to him that he must oppose himself
definitely to Britannicus, show that he had been the
greater of the two and so deserved the right to act as
he had done. Now he was prepared to acknowledge the
murder quite frankly to himself for it gave him a
pleasing, rather flattering sense of importance. What
he desired henceforth was success, an overwhelming
success which would dispel all his misgivings; nor
would he trouble himself much about the method of
attaining it. Poppaea was right: the people did not
know him, they did not even know who he was. He was
consumed with a growing desire to see himself a famous
singer, to have everyone, without exception, eager to
listen to him. At times he anticipated his triumph so
keenly that he felt it already with him and his face166 THE BLOODY POET

would light up with exultation. But the fantasy gave
him no real peace or satisfaction. From the beyond,

his eternal rival hunted him and drove him onward,

always onward...Chapter Eighteen
APPLAUSE

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
     

PopPAEA HAD WAYS OF HER OWN. FROM TIME TO
time she would disappear without warning and no em-
bassy from Nero could entice her back. On her return
she would tearfully complain of domestic quarrels and
scenes of mad jealousy. Ordinarily Nero sent at once
for her, but now he was so absorbed in his own thoughts
that he forgot even his beloved. Poppaea therefore de-
cided on a decisive course of action, and resolved to
enlist Seneca’s help. The porter opened the gate for
her, and as she passed up the gravel path between care-
fully laid-out grass-plots and flower-beds, two beautiful
white dogs ran out to greet her. At the far end of the
garden, behind the Corinthian columns of the peristyle,
a woman, richly adorned with rings and diamond ear-
rings, sat reading. It was Paulina, the young wife of
the aged poet.

Seneca himself was sitting at an ivory table in the
park, writing.

“Master,” said Poppaea, “will you pardon me for
intruding upon you and frightening away the Muse?”

“That is impossible,” replied Seneca, with the smile
of an old cavalier. ‘One Muse can never disturb an-
other.” He offered Poppaea a chair.

“In that case I will sit down. In my own capacity
I would be a disturbance, but I know that the Muse is
a habitual guest in your house.”

167168 THE BLOODY POET

“You are most gracious. Can I help you in any
way?”

“Yes, you can,” Poppaea replied candidly, “I want
to have him appear before the public.”

“Who?”

“Him!”

“Him ?”

“Yes,” said Poppaea. “You know he’s been very rest-
less now for some time past. He’s always talking about
it. The point is that he’s bored with his poetic circle:
what he craves is to appear before a large audience.”

“Tn a theater?”

“Yes, with everything properly arranged, of course.”

“Which theater?”

“T hardly know. I had the Bulbus in mind. It’s a
bit small. The Marcellus might do. Or the Pompeii,
perhaps, except that it would probably be too large.
What is its capacity?”

“About forty thousand.”

“No, we can’t have it there,” said Poppaea with a
little smile. “You understand my idea, I think.”

“Perfectly.”

“That was why I came, so that we might consider
everything carefully. We must safeguard ourselves
against accidents. You know Rome well enough—as
the Emperor says, it is a barbarous city, scornful, rude
and boisterous. In short, we must make detailed prepa-
rations for his appearance.”

“Very well,” said Seneca reflectively. “May I enlist
the aid of Burrus?”

“Of course.”

2APPLAUSE 169

Seneca clapped his hands and several slaves in sleeve-
less tunics came running up. One of them was
despatched to Burrus.

‘“‘And what will he recite?”’ asked Seneca.

“A poem, of course. The last one he wrote—about
a Bacchante.”’

“The Bacchante with the laurel wreath?” and he
nodded toward Poppaea in homage.

“Yes,” she replied, with a hardly perceptible trem-
bling of the lips. ‘He'll wear a green toga. And he’s
already had the mask prepared—my face, in fact. I
think some one should announce him first, Gallio, per-
haps. Do you think he’s competent?”

“Quite. Now, let us reflect a moment. The Juve-
nalia are coming soon, his own festival, introduced in
remembrance of the sacrifice of his first beard to
Juventa, the goddess of youth, and so forth. An ex-
cellent setting for his first appearance.”

“Very good. Will you arrange for the other artists?
Paris should appear, by all means, for the people are
very fond of him, especially the women. And Alityros,
too, the Emperor likes him.”

At this moment Burrus came in, groaning heavily as
he clambered out of his sedan-chair, for he was troubled
with a leg-wound received in battle. The old com-
mander of the guards had become gloomy, suspicious,
and, since the murder, very taciturn. He despised him-
self for having silently assented to this outrage, and he
despised still more the entangling web of intrigue which
was settling over the throne more tightly every day.
He heaved a sigh as he removed his helmet, revealing a170 THE BLOODY POET

pale red mark on his forehead.

“Perhaps we had better change to another table,”
said Seneca. “The sun is too hot here.” He conducted
his guests to some dark green shrubbery where they
found another ivory table under the shade.

Seneca’s villa rivalled the Imperial palace in splen-
dour. Everywhere were statues, bas-reliefs, pictures,
curiosities, obviously the collection of a connoisseur.
Seneca’s fortune was estimated at three hundred million
sestertii. He had a huge revenue, and lent his money
to Britain at high rates of interest.

“‘You must see to the protection,” he said to the com-
mander of the guard. “The Emperor makes his début
at the feast of Juvenalia.” Burrus looked inquiringly
at Poppaea. In the half-light of the shadows her pale
face was so lovely and enchanting that the grey old
soldier was struck with admiration.

“The performance must not be interrupted,” went on
Seneca. “There have been several disturbances lately;
the actors are booed and hissed in the theaters. The
same thing occurs at the circuses and the arena. Last
week one of the actors was even hit and badly wounded.”

“Why?” asked Burrus.

“Because they thought he was too fat,’ Seneca in-
formed him. “But tomorrow they are just as likely to
thrash some one because he is too thin. We must make
certain about such eventualities and I think that the
guard will be necessary to insure good order.”

“How many in the audience?”

“About ten thousand.”

“Then [ll need five thousand men. One legionaryAPPLAUSE ad

for every two spectators. Armed with broadswords and
scourges they'll keep the noise-makers quiet, and every-
thing will go off as smoothly as you wish.”

“Excellent.” Seneca turned to Poppaea, smiling.
‘And about the rest of the program. How will that go?”

Poppaea had been silent up to this time. Now she
mentioned the Emperor by name carelessly as if she
were already his wife. The two men looked up at her
with involuntary respect. “Nero desires that no excep-
tion be made in his case. He will appear not as Em-
peror but as artist. And so he will enter just like the
other competitors, throw his name in the urn and have
his place on the program decided in the usual way.”

““Nevertheless,” remarked Seneca, “in the interest of
the festival itself it might be a good idea to discuss one
or two things. The applause, for instance.”

“My soldiers can do the applauding,” suggested
Burrus.

“By no means,” objected Poppaea, “I know that they
have strong hands, but I want a different kind of ap-
plause. Slaves have no idea of when to laugh and when
to cry.”

“Do you want them to laugh?” inquired Burrus in-
nocently.

“Nero,” said Poppaea with dignity, “is appearing as
a tragic singer. His poem must be greeted properly
with applause—but it must of course appear to be quite
spontaneous. We need some educated people to lead it
—patricians.”

“T can speak to a few friends of mine,” suggested
Seneca.172 THE BLOODY POET

““That’s not my idea,” explained Poppaea. “The
people ought to be paid for their trouble. There are a
great many poor, ruined nobles, you know, who have
nothing left of their nobility but the name. They idle
about the Forum in hundreds, looking more wretched
than the slaves who loiter beside the Tiber. As leaders
of the festival they would receive forty thousand ses-
tertii. Well, why shouldn’t they earn it? Their entire
work will consist in leading the applause by starting
or stopping according to the signals they receive. But
we must accomplish it skilfully, for Nero is very sensi-
tive and shrewd. No coarse, clumsy triumph will do.
The applause must not start immediately after the first
effective lines. We must let a little time pass as if the
crowd were hypnotized and could recover consciousness
only gradually. But then the applause must break out,
you understand, and terrifically, rhythmically, irre-
sistibly. I have yet to decide where it should come in.
You realize that I don’t want it to go on forever. There
is nothing more dismal than applause when it dies down
to the patter of a few hands, followed by silence. It
arouses a feeling of emptiness, and we want it to break
forth again. Finally we end by wishing it had never
started. I’ve heard that from many actors and from
Alityros. Therefore the end must be as decisive as the
beginning. A few can even disregard the dictates of
decency and, in defiance of the soldiers, fearless of
their scourges, cry out a few words, not many, you un-
derstand, and above all, not respectfully, but hysteri-
cally, just broken expressions of wild delight and en-
thusiasm. Then they must stamp with their feet so thatAPPLAUSE 173

the dust rises to the nostrils of the divine actor. It’s
all quite simple to arrange. But we will have to talk
it over more thoroughly another time. As for the lead-
ers of the applause, they had better come to the palace
for a rehearsal.”

Poppaea talked rapidly, without hesitation, with a
deftness and charm that made Burrus gasp. He hardly
knew what to answer. But Seneca, whose admiration
had increased with every word, clapped his hands in
mock applause as Poppaea finished. The slaves
brought in sedan-chairs. Poppaea lowered her veil,
got in, and was borne away quickly, for it appeared that
she still had a great many arrangements to make.

Seneca and Burrus remained in the garden, silent for
some minutes. Finally Seneca spoke. “Do you realize
what has just happened?”

Burrus was puzzled. “You mean the Emperor be-
coming an actor?”

“‘No—Poppaea becoming Empress.”Chapter Nineteen
THE DIVINE ACTOR

 

ZopIcUS AND FANNIUS, BOTH MORE THAN A LITTLE
the worse for wine, were making their way through the
park toward the exit gates of the palace grounds. It
was close on to midnight. As they reached the end of
the immense building, which was perhaps a half-hour’s
walk from the Emperor’s apartments, they suddenly
heard a great rumbling.

“Thunder?” inquired Fannius.

“No,” replied Zodicus. ““They’re having a rehearsal.”

They stopped to listen to the sounds coming through
the night air.

“Again,” cried a voice. “Quicker this time—a little
more spontaneously. That doesn’t sound very enthusi-
astic. Now then!”

Another roar of applause.

“That’s something like it. You, over there in the
corner—you always begin too soon.”

The oil-lamp in a room on the first story revealed the
gesticulating figure of the conductor of the claque. He
was a tall patrician with greying hair. In front of him
sat a number of young noble ne’er-do-wells in elegant
togas. Occasionally a few of them would emerge into
the hall to swallow a little wine or blow on their smart-
ing palms.

“Once more!” cried the voice imperatively. The
whole palace shook with the responsive roar.

174THE DIVINE ACTOR Li5

“That’s the last one,” declared Zodicus. “They seem
to be on to it at last. Nero appears tomorrow.”

The Juvenalia celebration began early in the morn-
ing, and Rome bedecked itself for the event. From
every gable swung wreaths and garlands; musical pro-
cessions paraded the streets, the shops distributed free
food and drink to everybody, all work ceased and the
people rode about in flower-covered chariots.

Nero received no one. For days in order to save his
throat, he had not spoken a single word. He sat all
hunched up, a silk cloth wound about his neck, Alityros
at his side. As he dared not speak, he wrote on a wax
tablet: “A happy people entertained by an unhappy
artist.” Alityros read the tablet and nodded with en-
tire sympathy and understanding.

The Emperor went out on the portico to review the
procession. Borne on a triumphal chariot came the
phallus made of fig-wood, followed by a crowd of
priests and street urchins and a mad concourse of high-
born matrons and street women. At the stadium the
young men were cutting off the downy hairs of their
first beards and throwing them into the fire as a sacri-
fice. Then followed gladiatorial contests and chariot
races. Nero took no part in the games; he was saving
all his strength for his appearance later in the day.

Early in the afternoon he was seized with an excite-
ment so intense that he was quite unable to control him-
self. He paced back and forth, his hands gripped be-
hind him, his forehead bedewed with sweat. He felt
that this day would decide his life. His ears burned,SS a ae

en
_ ee

 

176 THE BLOODY POET

his face was a sickly green. Hot and cold waves passed
over him alternately; he felt a corresponding desire for
cold and hot drinks, but as either of them might be
harmful and ruin all his careful preparation, he dared
not avail himself of them. He shivered feverishly.
Soon he began to experience pains in his stomach. New
bodily torments swept over him up to the time he en-
tered the theater.

The place was empty, as the performance was not to
begin till late in the evening, after the illuminations and
the fireworks. He went immediately to the dressing
room and lay down on a couch. Soon Poppaea ap-
peared, looking very worn and agitated.

““Ah!” said Nero, and put his hand over his mouth to
indicate that he was forbidden to talk. He took up a
tablet and wrote the words “I am very nervous.” What
terrified him most were the rules which every competi-
tor must obey under penalty of being disqualified for
the prize. For instance, during the song one was not
permitted to expectorate or sit down; it was forbidden
to touch one’s forehead even with the edge of the toga.
Mopping his brow, Nero repeated the regulations to
himself. He was particularly worried because there
was no reference to sneezing; he had a slight cold in the
head.

“Don’t be afraid,” Poppaea comforted him.

‘“‘Have some wine sent up to me on the stage,” he
wrote. ‘Yellow Samian and red Lesbian. I want them
both warm. No, not warm,” he added, “lukewarm.”

He walked out on to the stage to compose himself
and looked out over the gigantic theater, now empty,THE DIVINE ACTOR ee

dark and threatening. He returned to the dressing-room
and wrote: “I’m done for. I’m growing faint with
nervousness.”

“Have courage.”

“Has my name been posted? What is my position?”

“Fourth.”

“Ts that a good place?”

“The best one.”

“Who else is singing?”

“Alityros and Paris.”

“‘And who precedes me?”

“Old Pammanes.”’

Nero smiled.

Outside in the street before the theater the lamps were
lit and the rockets sent off. Nevertheless the crowd
gathered very slowly. The guards were the first to
enter. They marched in with iron tread and took alter-
nate seats in accordance with the arrangements. Here
and there, in advantageous positions, Burrus had placed
special spies so that their lynx eyes could command a
complete view of the audience.

“Have many come in yet?” wrote Nero.

“Yes, a good many.”

He peered out and a grateful dizziness overcame
him.

“There are too many of them. It might be better to
have the audience a little smaller. But perhaps you are
right, Poppaea. Have they selected the judges yet?”

“Yes, just a minute ago; all five of them.”

“Do you think they will be severe with me?”
“No; they can hardly wait to hear you.”178 THE EBELOODY POET

“But they certainly look very severe.”

“Not in the least.”

“Only no favouritism,” he wrote. “I don’t want them
to make any exceptions.” Every minute he wrote down
a command which contradicted completely the one pre-
ceding it. He had no notion of what he really thought
or wanted. His melancholy feverish glance wandered
unsteadily. He grasped Poppaea’s hand and pressed
it in silence.

Lucan had slipped away from his place of banish-
ment to attend the festival and stayed concealed at the
house of his friend Menecrates, who told him all the
latest gossip and introduced him to his guest, the prae-
tor Antisius. The praetor was no fonder of the Em-
peror than was Lucan, and had in fact written several
amusing lampoons on him. The three of them decided
to attend the performance together for it would have
been a crime to let such a glorious opportunity slip by.
In high spirits they set out for the theater.

A tremendous crowd was now thronging the gates.
Heated by the day’s entertainment, they pressed for-
ward, making insolent remarks to the gatekeepers, and
handed over their grimy ivory or lead coins which they
had been holding in their hands for hours. A perilous
jam ensued. A woman carrying a tiny child was trod-
den underfoot. Undeterred, fresh detachments stormed
over the two corpses, shouting exultantly. Nor did
things go more smoothly at the inner entrance. As they
held out their tickets, torches were thrust in their faces
by the soldiers and after a careful searching they wereTHE DIVINE AGTLOR

allowed to squeeze in. One young man seemed to need
no ticket of admission; a mere gesture and they made
It was Zodicus, who enjoyed the right of
free entry to every performance, together with a seat
directly next to the Imperial box.

Lucan and his two friends made their entrance after
him and seated themselves in the third row of the gal-
lery, where the slaves were allowed to sit under military

way for him.

supervision.

ning of the performance.

petition began.

This evening the actors, in deference to Nero, com-
peted only with a view to seeing who could sing the
worst. They really had a hard time of it because
Alityros, the first singer, without any apparent effort,
sang so off key that the others reproached him for un-
fairness. As for Paris, he simply butchered what would
have been a brilliant rendition.
more qualified to distinguish himself in such a compe-
tition, surpassed them both.

Before the fourth number the curtain was lowered
and a very long intermission ensued.
gulped down water and gasped for air; it was fearfully
hot in the theater and the rank breath of the crowd was
not in the least neutralized by the flowers strewn abun-
dantly about the house. In the front row, directly in
front of the stage, sat the high priest, together with the
augurs and haruspices; behind them sat the senators.

noise of the wind machine was
already audible; the property man was making the
sound of rolling stones, which announced the begin-
Andalusian and Egyptian
dancing-girls executed a few steps and then the com-

But old Pammanes,
He was the worst.

The audience180 THE BLOODY POET

The military, too, had turned out in imposing numbers,
fresh from the holiday manoeuvres. Among them were
Rufus, Scribonius Proculor, and Vespasianus, who had
just returned from a review of the troops, and sat down
wearily, hardly able to hold his grey head erect.

The crowd grew impatient, but the legionaries were
there to quell any outbreak. They stared sternly at
everyone who made an unnecessary movement, as if
to ask: ‘“‘Not satisfied, perhaps.” Here and there a
scourge whirred through the air and some giggle or
imprecation ceased with sudden abruptness. “Be quiet,
there!” shouted a stupid African soldier in the third
row, making more noise than the disturber.

“He’s coming now,” whispered Lucan to Menecrates.
The three of them were leaning forward in eager ex-
pectation of something unusually amusing. Still no
Nero. The curtain was raised to announce the resump-
tion of the performance. Gallio, the actor, appeared on
the forestage with the simple announcement: “Domitius
follows.”

“Who?”

“Domitius,” he repeated.

Cries rang out: “The Emperor! The Emperor!
Domitius! Domitius!” The theater was full of whis-
pers, for this name, indicative of Nero’s dubious royal
descent, was forbidden; anyone uttering it was severely
punished.

“Nero, Nero!” several cried in answer. “Why
Domitius?”’

Gallio smiled. “The poet, not the Emperor, fol-
lows.”THE DIVINE ACTOR 181

“Tid you hear that?” said Antisius with a grin, turn-
ing to Lucan.

But the condescension tickled the fancy of the mob,
and they broke into applause. The stage remained
empty for a few moments and then the procession be-
gan. First came the body-guard with broadsword and
helmet; then came the tribunes; finally the commander
of the guard appeared.

“Poor Burrus,” sighed Lucan. “He looks preity
miserable.”

Then an old man stepped timidly on the stage, daz-
zled by the powerful stage lights. His face was as thin
as parchment. He glanced about him in nervous con-
fusion.

“Ti’s Seneca,” gasped Lucan. “Dear old Seneca. I
could hardly recognize him in the midst of all this
farce.”

Finally a page crossed the stage with a solemn, slow
step, carrying the Emperor’s lyre in a silk cover. He
laid it on the altar of Dionysius. By this time the audi-
ence had worked itself up to such a pitch of expectation
that the bald-headed, toothless Pammanes, who func-
tioned as the leader of the actors’ troupe, entered the
dressing-room of the Emperor, fell on his knees and
implored him not to keep the audience waiting any
longer, for the delay would only injure his chances
of success, and besides the rules of the contest did
not provide for such long intervals between the num-
bers.

Nero tottered toward the stage. Before making his
entrance he swallowed another mouthful of oil in which182 THE BLOODY POET

an onion had been shredded. ‘This was intended to
strengthen the voice.

“There he is,” said Lucan. All three bent forward
eagerly. But the sight that greeted them was not what
they had expected, for it was not amusing, but frighten-
ing, terrifying. The Emperor was elevated upon enor-
mous cothurni which made him appear much taller than
the others. The cothurni were attached with gold
clasps; he wore a starred green toga, the sight of which
made the mob gape, for they had never seen so magnifi-
cent a garment. The costume was completed by a linen
mask designed to imitate Poppaea’s face, and topped
with a loose mass of honey-coloured hair. The Emperor
was sweating profusely under the weight of the wig.
The only air he received came through a horrible, dis-
torted hole that was supposed to represent a mouth, and
contained a funnel to magnify the voice. A mass of
vari-coloured ribbons hung from his arms. The excess
clothing gave his body a bloated and puffed-up appear-
ance.

“Horrible!” whispered Lucan, genuinely startled at
the sight. “Perfectly horrible!”

Poppaea was watching the stage from behind the
erating of the imperial box.

Nero distinguished nothing as he stepped out towards
the audience. The scene grew black before his eyes
and the theater seemed as empty as when he had first
viewed it. Suddenly a storm of applause burst out,
almost deafening him. Blind and deaf, he tottered out
on the clattering cothurni. His heart was hammering
against his breast. And now the spasm of tremblingLHaE DIVINE AGTOR

which had troubled him in the dressing-room grew un-
controllable. What he desired most fervently was to
grow faint, stagger back the length of the stage, dis-
appear and forget everything. His nose burned beneath
the mask, the sweat rolled down his forehead and he
dared not dry it; his throat was parched and constricted.
The animal excitement which swept up toward him from
the benches and the tense interest he felt all around him,
filled him with a sort of courage despite his fear. He
stepped forward.

“Hear me,” he said weakly.

Ordinarily the performer never uttered a word more
than was necessitated by the lines of his poem, so that
this prelude surprised Nero’s audience; they did not
know exactly what it signified. As for Nero, he imme-
diately became seized with the idea that he had broken
the rules. His agitation increased and, in desperation,
making up his mind to everything, he said boldly: “A
mouthful of wine, just a little mouthful of wine and then
I will sing something for you in a pleasanter voice.”

The mob seemed to take the awkward words as an in-
dication of simplicity and directness. They were
greatly pleased; a few of them began to applaud. Up
in the gallery Lucan clapped with such enthusiasm that
his skin nearly burst. A soldier gave him an angry
glance.

“Aren’t you permitted to applaud?” asked Lucan.

“Not yet,” was the stern reply.

As the Emperor swallowed his wine, a few voices
called out:

“Your health.”184 THE BLOODY POET

Nero bowed, grasped his lyre and began to sing. His
reedy falsetto voice was weaker and more tremulous
than ever, and the flute-players in the orchestra had to
work valiantly to cover its defects. They corrected his
pitch, increased or decreased their tempo as he varied
his own, and wheuever a note was too obviously off key,
they played so loudly that nothing else could be heard.
He started all over again several times, upon which the
terrified orchestra would stop, begin again, and catch
up with the singer at some place or other. In this way
the long dithyramb to the Bacchante finally crawled its
way to a conclusion.

Everybody broke into applause, Lucan, Menecrates,
Antisius, the gallery, the mob, the soldiers, the sena-
tors, the priests, the legionaries on the stage, the actors,
Burrus, Seneca. The thunderous applause was accom-
panied by unintelligible and enthusiastic acclamations.
It had never gone off quite so well at rehearsal; the
leader of the claque was in the seventh heaven of de-
light. The storm lasted for several minutes until the
decaying building threatened to collapse under the
vibration. Ribbons and wreaths were thrown toward
the triumphant poet, and nightingales, their wings set
on fire, were released and began to sing in their
death-agony. Shrieks and roars and bellows filled the
air.

Nero had not expected anything like this. His eyes
glowed with joy. Impatiently he tore off his mask and,
in order to enjoy a more complete sensation of triumph,
revealed his own face, his real face. The applause now
swelled to a frenzied crescendo. As Nero looked outTHE DIVINE ACTOR 185

upon this mad sea of human beings, tears sprang to his
eyes, genuine tears of naive emotion.

“T thank you,” he stammered. “I thank you,” and
then wept as he said, “I do not deserve this.”

Someone called out: “Divine one!”

“It is the people who are divine!” cried the Emperor,
and fell on his knees before the majesty of the mob,
spread out his arms and threw kisses in all directions.
But the uproar still continued. Another song was de-
manded. Nero hesitated, glanced at the judges who
were on their feet applauding, then, without bowing
walked out arrogantly. Nero would take no extra fa-
vours.

He staggered into the tiny dressing-room and found it
crowded with kneeling, applauding people who greeted
the hero with wreaths of olive and fig-leaves and laurel.
Nero walked through this lane of senators, actors and
poets, mask in hand, wiping the sweat from his fore-
head. At first he could hardly contain his exultation,
but the sight of so many worshippers forced him to
master his feeling of triumph. He swallowed his tears
of drunken bliss, and, assuming an expression of timid
uneasiness, sighed with affected modesty.

“T played badly, very badly.”

The replies shot back: “Do you not hear the ap-
plause? They are still clapping.”

Nero sat down.

“So many wreaths and flowers! The air is heavy with
them. I am choking.” He ordered the flowers to be
thrown out. The first person of whom he became aware
was Paris, standing in a corner in silent homage.186 THE EBLOODY POET

“You were very good, Paris. A splendid rendition.
I heard you.” He lied, for he had not listened to any
of his rivals. “What a voice! What a delivery! ‘No
use denying it—you are the artist, not I. I am but a
poor struggling aspirant making a weak attempt. Don’t
say a word. What I feel, I know. I have lost the prize
tonight. Not a chance in the world for me. I made so
many mistakes, and besides, I didn’t obey the rules as
I entered and left the stage. I spoke and took off my
mask. I forgot myself. But the people seemed to like
my singing, I was sure they would, and | got quite a
little applause, don’t you think?” He listened. The
storm of approval had not yet died down. “‘Alityros,””
he continued, offering his hand to the actor. “And you
too, Pammanes, yes, you sang splendidly. Don't look
so modest. When I look at you I seem to see the very
essence of the struggle of a long and honourable life, a
noble, artistic career. Here, these wreaths are for you,
for all of you. I shall be disqualified, I am positive.
Take them,” and he handed each actor a wreath. “To
art belong the laurels. All that I have belongs to you—
even my heart!”

Heralds entered from the stage to announce that the
judges had ordered an intermission following the Em-
peror’s song as they did not consider it fitting for an-
other singer to appear immediately after him. It was
also announced that they had withdrawn for consulta-
tion. Now Nero fell prey to the greatest anxiety. All
the worst probabilities rose up before him. He thought
he would be humiliated; perhaps he would be barred
from further appearances because he had violated theTHE DIVINE AG rOR 187

rules, and although he did not really consider this prob-
able, his imagination painted such disheartening prob-
abilities that he felt like withdrawing his name from the
contest. He had no fear of Pammanes; he was too
inferior to be considered. As for Alityros, he was very
young and had already received the prize the preceding
year. The only problem was Paris. But it was not at
all certain that he had sung any better. Paris himself
denied it, said that he had had a bad day. To allay his
excitement, the Emperor told jokes to which he himself
did not listen. Claimed alternately by hope and de-
spair, he sat down between Paris and Poppaea and for
a whole hour wrestled with spells of dizziness from
which his assiduous physician Andromachus sought to
relieve him. At last the decision of the judges was an-
nounced. This was to the effect that the Emperor, in
response to the people’s desire, must make one more
appearance, for an artist of such greatness and majesty
could not be appraised after a single audition. The
jury insisted upon this so that their judgment might be
unprejudiced and uninfluenced by Nero’s position.

He changed his costume, a process which took up
quite a long time; and as no other performer could ap-
pear during this interval the audience waited in a state
of bewildered expectancy. It was drawing toward mid-
night. Many grew sleepy and would have been glad
to go home, but the doors were closed and the soldiers
had received orders to allow no one to leave his seat.

This time the Emperor made his appearance in an
immense rose-coloured toga and high boots that came up
over his knees. Now there was no restraint in his ges-188 THE BLOODY POET

tures; he made a profound obeisance in the direction
of the jury and did not once avert his eyes from them
during the entire recital. One after another he de-
claimed his entire repertoire, the Agamemnon, the Far-
darting Apollo, Daphnis and Chloe. Every poem was
followed by applause. The claque was still doing its
duty with reasonable vigour, but it could not be denied
that as the night wore on, even it began to get somewhat
perfunctory in its acclamation, despite the best efforts
of Burrus and the supervisors. A thunderstorm would
break out in full force but soon die down quickly to a
slow and meager trickle. Nero himself quieted the
applause with a gesture. It no longer seemed neces-
sary. The only thing of importance was to continue
with his poem, which he did without any further solici-
tation, his whole body suffused with warmth.

When an hour had passed he asked for an intermis-
sion, and, submitting to the regulations, did not leave
the stage but had food brought to him and ate it there.
His meal finished, he continued his declamation with
no sign of fatigue. Utter uncertainty prevailed as to
when the performance would end. Cultivated old gen-
tlemen who had studied at Athens during their youth
were loud in their resentment of this declamation that
threatened to last to eternity. They declared it was a
disgrace to Rome that such a performance should be
permitted. By this time the whole audience was bored,
both the credulous mob who had taken the performance
quite seriously and those who had at first enjoyed it as
a farce. The people were desperate; just as they felt
sure the end had come Nero would attack a new song.THE DIVINE ACTORE 189

All they could do was to abandon themselves to a grey
cloud of boredom.

The old patrician, Vespasianus, sitting in one of the
first rows, dozed off. His thin weazened head dropped
to one side, his mouth gaped. He dreamed that the re-
cital had long since ended, that he was home lying on
his comfortable bed. Suddenly he was startled by a
rude shove. Two legionaries laid hands on him and
steered him towards a sort of dressing-room now serving
as a place of detention. A centurion demanded an ac-
count of his behaviour, threatened him with imprison-
ment and finally released him only out of respect for
his age.

The news spread about among the audience who be-
gan to tremble in terror lest they too fall asleep. They
forced themselves to keep their eyes open and asked
their neighbours to pinch them in case they should doze
off. The intense heat made many of them ill; a woman
gave birth to a child and was carried out by the soldiers
on a litter. This lent courage to some of the bolder ones
who wanted to get home at any cost. They fell to the
ground, stretched out stiffly, and had themselves borne
out as corpses. But still the recital dragged on and the
theater began to resemble a city in a state of siege.

Lucan, Menecrates and Antisius, however, were not
bored in the least. The trio up in the dizzy heights of
the gallery were having a merry time of it. After every
stupid line they looked at each other with an amused
glance of common understanding. Lucan did not regret
that he was sitting here at the peril of his life; the enter-
tainment was worth it. He clapped his hands till theTHE BLOODY 2e.Or Tt

skin burst, and shouted himself hoarse. And as the
Emperor, with a final bow, ended his performance, he
felt that it was not half enough, that it could easily
have lasted a little longer.

Without holding any further consultation, the judges
arose, and the oldest, a reverend greybeard, announced
in a voice that trembled but was nevertheless rather
powerful, that Nero was victor. Then he pressed the
wreath down on his forehead and, amid a storm of
applause, Nero stood there for some minutes, utterly
exhausted, swimming in bliss, while the claque, sight-
ing relief, put forth its last ounce of strength.

Emerging from the foul air of the theater, one imag-
ined at first that dawn had already come. Bright lights
glowed everywhere. Bonfires were still burning, green
flames were flaring on the Aventine and red ones on the
Palatine; hill and valley were brightly illuminated with
a thousand torches.

In the dressing-room Nero was kissing his fellow-
performers and offering those who had received no
prize the consolation that next time they would emerge
victor. He had surpassed them only because he had
succeeded in producing a few notes during the second
part of the program whose equal had never been heard
before from any other singer; and besides, the last few
poems had been particularly effective. To every one
Nero showed the greatest kindness and amiability. As
they left the theater the citizens received little baskets
containing Egyptian dates and figs; and he had gold
pieces scattered lavishly among the mob. Then in aTHE DIVINE ACTOR 191

chariot drawn by ten horses, on either side of which ran
slaves holding burning torches, Nero was driven to the
central merry-making square.

The Tiber was illuminated in flaming splendour and
on the boats the feasts were already in full swing. The
mob ate greedily. The masters of ceremony paid par-
ticular attention to the many naked harlots, honouring
them by giving them advantageous positions next to
senators’ wives. The squares were full of flute-players
to whose music the mob danced. The Emperor desired
no one to hold himself aloof from the revelry. “We are
all equal!”’ cried Nero. “As we were in the Golden
Age! In the name of Art, sacred and immortal ari!”
He applauded them. Zodicus and Fannius kept them-
selves busy among the crowd that surrounded the Em-
peror. They took careful note of those who tried to
withdraw from the dancing and brought them before
the Emperor. He punished them by decreeing that they
must dance under the light of the brightest torches with
whomsoever he designated as a partner. To avoid be-
ing forcibly chosen, some of the ladies put on masks.
But Zodicus and Fannius, to the huge delight of the
mob, tore the masks from their faces. The mood of
jollity was reaching its peak to the accompaniment of
yells and screaming. It was then that Aelia Catella, a
matron of eighty and the universally respected wife of
a patrician, Aelia Catella, who had lost two sons and
three grandsons in the Parthian War, broke loose from
the crowd, rushed deliriously up to the Emperor, raised
her dress, revealing her skinny ankle-bones, uttered a192 THE BLOGDY POET

strange bleating cry and began to dance with a slave.
The crowd raised a shout, but Nero bowed in deep hom-
age and kissed her hand.

When dawn broke both men and women were in a
state of intoxication. The Emperor betook himself to
bed and the people dispersed. On the heels of this
poisonous night which had enfolded the city like a dis-
torted nightmare came dawn, dismal and gloomy.
Wreaths of fog and mist floated through the air. The
pedestrians trod on crushed wreaths, dying flowers,
garlands exhaling their last breath. Here and there
little pools of wine had collected and shone like puddles
after a rain. An elephant which had lost its master
lumbered into the Forum, lay down on its belly in front
of a statue and trumpeted.

As Seneca was being borne home in his sedan-chair,
he passed another sedan before the Temple of Jupiter
and heard a voice call out.

“Seneca.”

“Lucan,” said the old man, leaning out.

They stared at one another as if they were two shades
who had loved each other in life and were now meeting
in the underworld. Since Lucan’s exile, Seneca had
received no letters from his nephew and did not under-
stand how the other could have successfully traversed
the distance separating Rome from his place of banish-
ment. For a moment he thought the encounter was a
mere vision, the last phantasm of a night of madness.
He rubbed his eyes. They got out of their sedan-chairs,
their faces sober, ashen in the morning light.

“Well, what did you think of it?” asked Lucan, andTHE DIVINE ACTOR 193

broke out into a loud hearty outburst of laughter. Then,
exhausted, he leaned his head on Seneca’s breast over
the heart of the old poet.

“Alas,” said Seneca, “I shall laugh no more.”

“Why not? Wasn’t it great, the poems, the singing,
the whole performance?”

“No,” was Seneca’s response. He looked very miser-
able and spoke with the emotion of an old man. “You
did not know him before, but it was I who educated
him. You should have seen him years ago when he was
fifteen. He learned and believed and was ambitious
like you and me. You cannot conceive the depths to
which he has now fallen.” He pointed with his finger
to the ground. His eyes filled with tears, tears that ran
in thin rivulets over his sad and lifeless face. “Poor
wretch,” he said. Back in his sedan-chair he was still

crying.Chapter Twenty
TRIUMPH

 

Tue EMPEROR ENJOYED A LONG, DEEP AND NOURISH-
ing sleep which filled his limbs with a delicious languor.
The sun was already high in the heavens when he opened
his eyes and felt the joyous sunbeams on his face. All
around him were garlands and wreaths, the spoils of the
previous evening. He admired them, feeling fresh and
completely rested, relaxed with that pleasant languor
which is the result of a long sleep, a delicious lassitude
in which all desires are stilled except the desire to
savour again a few drops of the exquisite wine of rest.

His hair was rumpled in a thick tangle about his
head. At the moment he seemed almost handsome.
With his flushed face and hairless breast, he looked like
a happy young man or a successful artist enjoying the
recollection of those former days of enforced struggle
which had once embittered his life. In his throat was a
sweet taste which he savoured till he wearied of it. Then
he stretched his limbs in the enormous bed to release
some of his body’s superfluous energy. It seemed quite
certain now that the world was not at all as bad as he
had thought. People too in general seemed pleasant
and amiable; it was just a question of knowing how to
handle them. Everywhere he saw the bright gleam of
success and happiness. Why had he been groping in
the darkness for so long? His reveries were disturbed
by Epaphroditus announcing the morning visitors. A
194TRIUMPH 195

huge crowd had come to congratulate him, nobles, com-
mittees, private citizens. Their names covered six wax
tablets.

“I can’t receive anyone now,” yawned Nero,
very fatigued. Why do they disturb me‘ I’m not in-
terested in them.” But his triumph had so mollified his

ee

lm

temper that he finally surrendered to the temptation of
looking over the list. He stopped for a moment at a
name.

“Otho? I wonder what he can want. I think Pll
have him in, anyhow.”

Although Otho began with the usual flattery, the
Emperor was quick to notice a shadow on his counte-
nance.

“T hope that there’s nothing worrying you.”

His friend hesitated, but finally came decisively to
the point. It seemed that he had changed his philosophy
of life; not that he felt himself able to subscribe to the
principles of the Stoics, but it seemed clear that the
Epicureans had forgotten that not every one was in a
position to live according to their rather expensive
philosophy of pleasure. His fortune was rapidly ex-
hausting itself, he was tormented by his creditors, his
estate would soon be forfeited. Then he began to talk
of a little summer villa on the ocean, which had been
offered him for purchase. But of course at the present
moment he could not even consider such an offer.

Nero was not slow in seeing the point. While listen-
ing to Otho’s story, he was writing something on a tab-
let. He handed it to Otho and told him to redeem it
at the treasurer’s office. At first Otho demurred but196 THE BLOODY POET

finally acquiesced. It was a large sum, much more than
he had hoped for.

“Anything else?” asked the Emperor, passing to a
new topic with the easy smile of the happy man.

“Nothing new.”

“How about your old circle—Anicetus, Senecio,
Annaeus, Serenus? Do you still meet?”

“Very rarely.”

“No littl—adventures?”

“No, nothing.”

“No little orgies, nothing of the sort?” asked Nero
with a significant smile. It amused him to talk with this
deceived husband who apparently knew nothing. Otho,
his head sunk on his breast, said softly:

“No, absolutely nothing. The fact is,” he added re-
flectively, “I’m in love.”

pont?”

nes.”

“With whom?”

“With whom?” Otho forced himself to smile. “It
may sound strange. With my wife. Yes, my own wife.
After a thorough experience of all kinds of women,
blondes, brunettes and red-haired beauties, I have come
back to her. Not with any spirit of penitence but with
renewed desire. Marriage has its periods, you know,
and one of them is when the old love awakens to new
life, is transfigured as it were. What was before some-
thing quite ordinary suddenly becomes something quite
exciting, as delicious as a sin. We re-discover all we
once loved; the aroma of the past comes back to us and
inevitably comes the new passion. After the monoto-TRIUMPH 197

nous tedium of blue and brown eyes, I am again struck
with admiration when I behold grey ones in which are
united the riches of all colours. You see that I dream
of her like a romantic schoolboy. To be quite candid
about it, the summer home I was speaking about is a
part of this very dream. We are tired of the city and
would like to leave it. Nothing but dust and noise and
buildings. But to live somewhere far away from all
this, in crystal silence, to fall asleep to the sound of the
waves, to see nothing but herds of sheep, to bathe and
iba.

A cart full of iron bars rattled by in the street below,
and put an end to this improvised idyll. Nero had not
been paying much attention to Otho’s words. He did
nct attach any importance to them, for he was convinced
that Poppaea loved him alone. He said with a smile:
“As for me, I prefer the city. Rome and Athens, noise
and light, purple and rags. I love it all!”

Otho now received permission to depart, and hastened
to the treasurer to cash Nero’s gift. The entrance halls
were already full of people; there were a great many
deputations of artists who had come to welcome the
Emperor as a new colleague, illustrious and unrivalled.
The tragedians, singers and buffoons were chattering
in loud arrogant voices. Their every gesture betrayed
their consciousness of the fact that they were now the
favourites. A crowd of poor citizens, wretched and de-
spairing suppliants for small favours, who had been
searched as they entered to see that they carried noth-
ing suspicious concealed on them, had been waiting
since early morning, and still had no notion of when

i g
ae. c ae o = ———198 THE BLOODY POET

their turn would come. They looked with awe at the
actors whose every word and movement were mysteries
to them. As for the artists, it was difficult to decide
whether they were acting or no. Pretence had become
so natural with them that they had lost their original
voices and talked continually as if they were on the
stage.

One of them, an actor connected with the Pompeii
theater, who was generally cast for Jupiter or Hercules,
appraised the suppliants with a scheming glance. As
for these poor wretches who trembled whenever a door
opened, they began to speak timidly to the artists. They
asked them questions concerning the Emperor and
strove anxiously to gain their goodwill and favour. The
widow of a senator, with tears in her eyes, was telling a
piteous story about her son, who, it seemed, was going
about in rags. Next to her an old man was lamenting:
for twenty years he had been a labourer in the imperial
purple factories, but now that he was too weak to work
he had been discharged. He was in search of a pen-
sion sufficient to enable him to support his sick wife,
who needed special nursing. He raised his palsied,
trembling arms in the air, thus attracting the attention
of the entire company, and uttered a whimpering cry;
the actors gathered around him, examining him from
every angle as if he were a rare curiosity. The actor
who represented Hercules and Jupiter determined to
make use of this awkward but extremely effective ges-
ture the next time he played Priam.

The secretary admitted the deputations one by one.
First came the members of the Pompeii theater, thenTRIUMPH 199

those of the Marcellus and Bulbus, after them the Flute-
Players’ Union, and then the Society of Roman Zither-
Players. These were to have been followed by the
dancers and the charioteers, but the Emperor abruptly
concluded the audience. He had heard some one
knocking at his private door.

Poppaea entered. She had not seen him since his
appearance in the theater. She felt now that she could
justly claim part of Nero’s triumph as her own. She
approached him as if she were already ascending the
steps of the throne.

“To you love me?” Her voice was a challenge.

“Yes, I love you,” replied Nero.

His face was calm, more composed than usual. It
had lost its old look of bitterness and irresolution.
Poppaea felt that her last obstacle had been removed.

“My sweet singer!” she said with an adoring look,
and kissed him on the mouth, her body pressed to his.
“Are you tired?”

“No. Yes—a little.” He sat down.

Poppaea did not understand why he should be tired.

“Ts that anything surprising?” asked Nero. “You
know, I am still dazzled by all the brilliance, and the
applause is still ringing in my ears. I feel weighed
down by too much happiness. I’m drunk with it, sur-
feited with that wonderful god-like food!”

It seemed clear that the Emperor was satisfied with
his reception; he could speak of nothing else.

“To you recall it all?” he continued. “Did you see
everything? Did you hear the people, the judges, the
poets, all so generous in their applause for me, but soSS

 

 

 

200 THE BLOODY POET

sparing of it as far as my rivals were concerned that
they paled, the wretches! A miserable pack. How they
would have liked to be victorious over me! But no,
Nero has conquered everybody, everything! The defeat
of the Parthians was not so great a triumph!”

He drew her over to look at a few of the wreaths and
then spoke at some length concerning his next appear:
ance. But he mentioned nothing else: he hardly noticed

Poppaea. He made no love entreaties, paid her no

homage, but kissed her casually like a man who could

bind her by his love alone.

Poppaea grew thoughtful. “Is it possible that I’ve
made a mistake?” she mused. “T helped him to win
his success, I arranged for all the applause. But
now
At the moment it looked like defeat. She had ar-
ranged the evening, worked out the details, gone to
+mmense trouble and paid the claque. Now she noted
with amazement that the Emperor no longer desired her
as he had done before.

‘Has anyone been here?” she asked.

““Y es—Otho.”

Actually she herself had sent her husband to see how
the land lay and to pave the way for further develop-
ments. Her voice trembled.

“What did he say?”

“The usual thing. Just chattered.”

“Did he mention me?”

SOW ac.”

Nero went on to examine the wreaths again. Poppaea

could not contain herself.TRIUMPH 201

“Listen, that’s why Icame. I can’t live this way any
longer. He follows me, spies on me in secret!”

“Really ?”’

“And I’m afraid of him. He looks at me so
strangely, sometimes, and doesn’t say a word. He just
keeps on staring. It’s horrible—he’ll kill me some
day!”

“Who—Otho?” Nero’s voice was scornful. “Not
he! He’s nothing but a poltroon.”

“But he wants to take me away, away from you!
Somewhere far away, near the sea! Save me!” cried
Poppaea. Then, changing her tone: “Don’t let me go
with him. Keep me with you. I don’t love him. I love
only you, only you!”

She broke into convulsive sobbing. Shining beautiful
tears rolled down her cheeks and broke on her lips,
unnatural tears which she could summon as easily as a
laugh or an angry look. The Emperor, with a superior
and patronizing air, kissed the tears away.

“You don’t love me,” she sobbed. “It’s true, it’s
plain as day. Now, when I am most in love with you
and you are great and foremost among men, you no
longer love me. I know it, I can feel it. Leave me!”
she cried, and then the next moment. ‘“‘No, don’t leave
me!”” Now her words became completely incoherent:
“Tm going away forever!—you will never see me
again!—I shall stay here at your feet!—you cannot
send me away!”

Nero made no effort to prevent her storm of love
protestations. He watched her weeping on his breast
until she exhausted herself like a tired little girl. It202 THE BLOODY POET

was not at all unpleasant to have her weep like this.
It was a sweet part of his triumph to realize that she
too had been conquered by the power of his art and that
he could do whatever he wished with her. He appeased
her with a few words and stifled her lamentation with a
kiss. Then, with a sense of exaltation he dismissed
her. It would have been pleasant to continue the inter-
view with her, but he had too many things to do today.
First he visited the Society of Roman Zither-Players
in order to have himself enrolled as a member; he had
his name listed, Lucius Domitius Nero. His member-
ship was required by the rules of the Society, and be-
sides Nero felt that he owed the gesture to his colleagues
who no longer looked on him as a dilettante, but as a
real artist and one of their own number. He made a
large bequest to the Society, at whose rooms he was
importuned by further delegations. Ambassadors from
remote Eastern provinces entreated him to appear in
their own countries. Their people too desired to hear
and see the divine actor. One praetor promised him the
sum of one million sestertii for a single performance.
Nero shook the praetor’s hand gratefully, but excused
himself: “It is impossible: my days are already taken
up. After all I can hardly separate myself into a thou-
sand pieces, can [?”Chapter Twenty-one
BOOMERANG

 

ONE UGLY RAINY MORNING PoPPAEA SAT CROUCHED
before her mirror, sunk in reverie. There were dark
rings about her eyes and her face bore the marks of a
sleepless night. She looked not at all like the same
Poppaea who had enchanted Nero that first evening at
the theater. The wrap which she had thrown about her
shoulders when she sprang out of bed slipped down,
revealing her tired nakedness. She shuddered in the
chilly room; a horrible fit of trembling distorted her
whole body, from the base of the spine to her head.
In a distraught fashion she combed her short sparse
hair, revealing her impatience in her quick, jerky ges-
tures. She tugged angrily till her comb grew thick
with yellow strands. A restless host of new plans was
seething in her serpent-like little head.

“He’s only a clown! A simple buffoon!” she said,
her teeth clenched in fury. “What a fool I was!”
Nero was too stupid to comprehend her plans for him.
She had no power over him; her desires remained un-
fulfilled. It was her first experience of a rebuff from
a man. She should have been Empress by this time.
Why had it not worked out? The more she wished to
draw him to her, the greater distance he put between
them. Probably she had shown herself too eager, had
been too obvious in making clear her ambitions. That
was the wrong method. She must start on a new tack.
203204, THE BLOODY POET

When the morning had finally cleared up, Otho en-
tered the room and directed his usual question at her:
“Well, what progress have you made?”

“Back again at the beginning,” was her answer.

Otho shrugged his shoulders.

“You have ruined everything,” said Poppaea. In a
mood of fierce irritation she vented her wrath on every
trifle that occurred while she was dressing. The female
slave who handed her her garments received a scraich
that made the blood flow over the brown skin. When
she had finished dressing she did not stir from her
mirror. Now began her real work in the hours she was
to pass here, studying herself critically, considering
those gestures which she felt could still be improved
upon. She watched the flutter of her eyelashes, and
the trembling of her body, an unconscious movement
which she now sought to convert into a conscious and
useful gesture. She had noticed that after a while she
could effect whatever expression she desired. For this
reason she never abated this daily self-examination,
working on herself like an industrious artist; nor did
she leave her bedroom until she felt herself in complete
control of her body, until she felt that she had mastered
and made her own that charm which seemed io concen-
trate all her nervous energy to a fine point. Not with
her brain, but with her senses she decided what she
must do. She knew now that she had been too generous.
Very well, now she would deprive him of just enough.
She would throw him off with an agile gesture, such as
the circus conjurors use when they cast away the hoop,
firmly, yet with a hardly perceptible turn of the wristBOOMERANG 205

at the very end so that, after the forward motion of the
hoop is exhausted, it always rolls back to the starting
point.

She had herself carried over to the Campus Martius,
past the portico of Octavius where the patricians were
wont to promenade. In front of the theater of Mar-
cellus she met Menecrates, who invited her to his villa.
Of late Poppaea had been neglecting her favourite com-
pany of actors and authors; but now she sought them
out. [rom Menecrates, for example, she learned the
latest literary gossip. She heard that after his recon-
ciliation with the Emperor Seneca had given up his
scientific research and was now writing only poems, like
his patron. The performance over, Lucan had slipped
back into banishment, unharmed. Antisius, on the
other hand, had fallen into a trap. One evening while
he was reciting his satire on Nero for the benefit of
his dinner-guests, he was arrested and indicted for
lése-majesté. The death penalty seemed inevitable.
But there had been some stormy sessions in the Senate.
The courageous old senator Thrasea, with his small
band of followers, had risen to the support of the
satirist, while the court sycophants stood firm for the
death penalty. Finally the decision had been placed in
the hands of the Emperor, who had promptly returned it
to the Senate. Nero was content to see him banished,
this artist who had called him a dipsomaniacal fool. In
the last analysis, said the Emperor, he did not feel at all
insulted, for was not every poet a little dipsomaniacal,
and something of a fool, to boot?

Nero was generous to excess, good-natured, inclined206 THE BLOODY POET.

to pardon offences. His triumph had completely be-
wildered him. He went on a poetic tour through the
provinces with an escort of a thousand carriages; sol-
diers bearing lyres and masks trailed after him. He
was reaching the zenith of his fame. In the schools
the youngsters were busy cramming his Agamemnon,
which was taught side by side with the poems of Virgil
and Horace. Nero stood alone, without a rival, as if he
were a classic author. Whatever homage he received,
he paid back in lavish gifts, dispensing sums which
showed that he had entirely lost ‘any sense of the value
of money. Doryphorus, who had transcribed a few
of his poems, received two and a half million denarii;
and when it was suggested that this was perhaps ex-
cessive, Nero laughed, and had his treasurer count out
as much again.

Poppaea was gracious to him, kissed him frequently,
but in conversation assumed a trenchant accent of direct-
ness and intimacy. She generally regaled him with bits
of literary gossip which she had picked up at social
gatherings.

“Tucan is at work on a long poem,” she reported
once. “They say it is very beautiful. Have you heard
anything about it?”

“No. What is it like?”

“T saw a part of it. Its tone is heroic, the phrases
finely chiselled. Almost everybody admires it. And
there are a few new poets, too, from whom much is
expected. A new Virgil and a Latin Pindar.”

But Nero refused to catch fire.ae

BOOMERANG 207

“Seneca’s writing a good many poems too,” added
Poppaea.

“The dear old fellow,” said Nero, patronizingly. It
was pretty hard going for Poppaea. The Emperor
seemed no longer jealous of anyone; he strutted in arro-
gant supremacy.

Then Poppaea remarked quite casually: “Yesterday
I heard a little poem about the violet sea. The whole
thing was only a matter of a few lines.”

““Yes?”” Nero betrayed his excitement. Instinctively
he knew who the poet was. ‘Who wrote it?”

“Britannicus; at least, so I was told.”

“Ts it beautiful?”

“Beautiful?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t
know. Call it strange, rather.” Nero looked at Pop-
paea as if he were seeing a ghost rising from the grave.
Poppaea continued: “That’s what it is, strange. Once
heard, it is never forgotten. You're hardly aware of it,
yet before you know, you catch yourself repeating the
words.”

“But it is feeble, strengthless,” declared the Emperor.

“Yes, just like himself, pale and slight. A morbid
and aristocratic little poem . . .”

“But do you really think that a thing like that has any
permanent value? Ephemeral poems of that sort are
blown away by the next wind.”

“Possibly.”

“Health is a much greater thing,” said Nero fever-
ishly. “Upon it depends immortality. Why don’t you
answer?”208 THE BLOODY POET

“Frankly I know nothing about these things.” She
became abruptly silent.
| Nero continued: “I know what is on your mind.
Youw’re thinking I’ve never written anything like that.
Aren’t you?”
"Oh no.”
i “You don’t seem very sure about it.” Poppaea
. looked beyond Nero into the distance. “I’ve written
i | about the sea, too,” went on Nero. “I’ve caught the

i roar of the waves in the verses. They literally foam
A and froth—do you know the poem?”

“Yes.”

Nero felt that Poppaea was treating him with dis-
dain; he hated her for it but he was now unable to live
without her. He sent for her every day, and when she
came she handled him shrewdly, giving just the proper
amount of irritation to his self-conceit; and on the
other hand she often varied her procedure by doling
him out some small measure of praise. She no longer
fought single-handed but was assisted by a mysterious
ally, by the dead poet. The struggle would commonly
end with an orgy of agonized kisses which brought in
their wake neither satisfaction nor happiness.

Nero and Poppaea were in the habit of reading poems
together; and accordingly Doryphorus, his scribe,
would be summoned and requested to search for this
or that manuscript. He still copied Nero’s poems for
him, again and again, with hundreds of variations, on
parchment or papyrus, in red and black, with beautiful
letters like jewels. These innumerable copies were cal-
culated to deceive the Emperor into thinking that he

aaa _ aes A _ a = 6s a Praee
aa a SeBOOMERANG 209

was working. Actually this fashionable poet had
stopped writing entirely. He recited his old poems
and was living on an artistic capital already accumu-
lated.

Doryphorus was a young Greek, hardly twenty, and
two heads taller than the Emperor. He would enter
timidly with the melancholy peculiar to youth, and with-
draw in equal embarrassment.

“Who is that?” asked Poppaea once.

“‘Nobody—my scribe.”

““A handsome youngster,” she said, casually, and be-
gan to look over the manuscript Doryphorus had brought
in. “He has a beautiful calligraphy. Is he always so
shy?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He interests me. He looks very much like a statue
I once saw in Athens.”

Nothing further was said. But Nero knew that Dory-
phorus would soon appear again. And he began to de-
sire the encounter, to torment himself with the idea.
The next time Doryphorus timidly offered the manu-
script his hand moved out nervously, and by some mis-
take Poppaea’s burning palm met that of the young
Greek and rested there for a second. Then they awoke
from the momentary trance, startled. “He is awkward,”
said Poppaea, when Doryphorus had left the room.

One morning Poppaea appeared alone in the imperial
archives. She was searching through Nero’s poems,
trying to discover some new material, for the Emperor’s
eternal tours had exhausted the old stock. Doryphorus,
who was in charge of the archives, blushed at the sight210 THE BLOODY POET

of Poppaea. The white marble of his body became suf-
fused as he stood there, singularly like a statue. His
dreamy blue eyes glowed. For an hour they searched
the archives together. Doryphorus hardly dared to
utter a word. His heart was in his mouth; he felt as
as if he were participating in an unreal feverish dream.
Poppaea found some excuse for retaining him, and
took him with her for a walk in the park. She domi-
nated the conversation completely. The pair strolled
along the beautiful path beside the large lake, in the
cool proximity of trees and statues. Side by side they
walked together as naturally as if such a promenade
were a habitual occurrence. Without actually touch-
ing him Poppaea leaned toward the boy and her body
seemed to burn his; he drifted along in an ecstasy.
Nero was watching them from a window at the top of
the palace. For days he had been waiting for this,
had been imagining the scene in a thousand different
ways; now it was before his eyes, that ominous picture
which had been the torment of so many restless hours.

“Do you love him?” he asked Poppaea as soon as
he saw her alone.

“Whom?”

Nero whispered the name in her ear, and she broke
out into a ringing laugh.

“That youngster!”

“What do you talk about? Why are you always to-
gether? This isn’t the first time, either. At night he
stands before your house wearing a wreath of roses,
and cries and sprinkles your threshold with perfumed
water. Have you gone crazy? I know that you meetaay asain

BOOMERANG Zit

him in your house in secret. I'll have him brought in,
I'll give him to you. Love each other to my face if
you will, but tell me the truth. Look into my eyes.”

Poppaea did so. Her glance was so candid, so hon-
est, so direct, that it confused him. He saw nothing;
her eyes were clear as glass.

As it was no longer necessary for her scheme, Pop-
paea stopped her meetings with the scribe. But even
then the Emperor’s suspicions were not allayed. He
spied on both of them, and everything he saw seemed
ambiguous; out of their most casual words and deeds
he drew the most extravagant conclusions. He had a
feverish desire to open their heads to find out exactly
what they were hiding. He posted guards before the
door leading to the archives and the pair were assidu-
ously observed by his most dependable spies. The
very fact that nothing unusual was reported rendered :
the Emperor more suspicious. Consequently he de-
cided to spy on their actions himself. For a whole
night, in a streaming downpour, he stood disguised out-
side Poppaea’s villa. He kept his eyes fixed on the
lamp as it flared up and was extinguished. He listened
attentively to the slight flickering noises—but not the
least suspicious sign rewarded him.

Once, when Poppaea was expecting him, he managed
to conceal himself behind a portiére in her room. She
entered and sat down, her head sunk in her hands. Her
face remained utterly immobile. Her whole appear-
ance expressed nothing but the utmost simplicity and
innocence. At last Nero emerged from his hiding
place. Poppaea uttered a little cry.212 THE BLOODY POET

““You—what do you want?”

“Confess everything.”

“Stop torturing me—you know I am helpless in your
hands. If you wish, kill me.”

“No. I would never learn anything then. No—you
must live.”

“Yes, I must live, you say,” wept Poppaea. “But
it is a mere chance that you still see me alive. Yes-
terday as I was crossing the bridge of Fabricus, a
strange thought flashed through my head. The river is
deep and the current strong. It would take only a mo-
ment. No, I can’t endure it any longer!” she burst out,
wringing her hands.

“So you are suffering?”

Poppaea closed her eyes. ‘“Horribly.”

Now Nero began to fear that she might commit sui-
cide, which would mean the end of everything. He left
her, and alone, he was tormented with anxiety. Late
that night he had her brought to the palace.

“Well?” His voice was tired.

“Let us separate.”

“No, you must not leave me. Stay here. It is my
wish. We must talk everything over. Let’s go away
somewhere together. The heat here is so stifling one
can’t think.”

It was true. It was so hot in Rome that the city
lived by night and slept by day. On the scorching
streets slaves would get sunstruck and drop dead on the
spot, penetrated by the rays as if by a burning brand.

Nero and Poppaea left for Baiae, the lovely ocean
resort where notables, idle millionaires and city wits

?BOOMERANG 213

made up a brilliant and noisy throng of pleasure-
seekers. Those who suffered from nerves and the gout,
for whom the health resort had originally grown up
on account of the sulphur baths, now came but rarely
or lived quietly in the near-by city. The result was that
the health resort was entirely overrun by pleasure-
seekers who kept up their musical entertainment. the
entire night and prevented the poor invalids from sleep-
ing. Blasé patricians came here to tan themselves as
black as their slaves. The place was thronged with
manufacturers and shop-keepers, among them an enor-
mously rich family who had supplied the army with
military belts and cavalry equipment during the Par-
thian War, and were now living in the famous palace
of Lucullus.

Roses bobbed about on the waves in the bright sun;
offshore fluttered orange and red sails. Greek and
Egptian courtesans lay sunning themselves on the sand,
eager for the news of the arrival of millionaires. The
laurels and myrtles on the banks rustled in the after-
noon breeze, screening from view a multitude of lovers.

Nero’s villa extended out into the ocean whose waves
laved the marble steps. Here, after a two days’ jour-
ney, Nero and Poppaea halted at twilight.

“Do you feel better?” asked Poppaea.

eb.”

“You had best rest a little while,” she said, and
then for a long time was silent.

They sat in the open portico, commanding a view
of sea and sky and of the distant villas in which they
could see the lamps lighting the dinner tables of the214 THE BLOODY POET

holiday throngs. It was still excessively hot. Out of
her little pocket Poppaea drew a snake which she coiled
around her neck that its cold blood might refresh her
over-heated body. They were both tired. They had
travelled together in one sedan-chair, irritated by the
long journey and the interminable talk which led to
no happy conclusion; though their lips met often in a
kiss they were still estranged. Now it felt good to be
silent, to regard the apple-green sky as it melted into
the darkening water. Finally Nero broke the silence.

“Well, now we are alone.”

“Yes, a thing we could never be in the palace. We
were always spied on there.”

“Who spied on us?”

“Agrippina and everyone else. Don’t you feel that
this was partly the cause of all our suffering? It made
love impossible. But you made your decision to leave,
and everything is well now.”

She stroked his hand. Nero seemed absorbed in
thought. Poppaea smiled roguishly.

“So you were really released. You know, of course,
that everybody said you couldn’t move a step without
her permission.”

del Riki

“Yes, you. But at last the nice obedient little boy
ran away, didn’t he?”

Poppaea’s tone was mockingly maternal; she was
older than Nero. ‘Don’t frown that way. You look
like an angry Jupiter—the expression doesn’t become
you, my dear. If your mother saw you looking like
that she would be greatly grieved. Everybody admiresnae nn a caeanmcapneusioil

BOOMERANG 215

you for this filial love; future poets will certainly point
to you as a classic example of a son’s faithfulness.
They will say that he sacrificed everything for his mother
—even his throne.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Hasn’t she set herself above you? When the am-
bassadors came she took up her position on the throne
before you—and they paid her homage.”

“But now,” retorted Nero, “she no longer lives in the
palace. Even her body-guard has been taken from
hier.”

“Very good,” drawled Poppaea, anxious to draw out
the conversation. ‘And the place of retirement to which
she withdrew is today more important than your own
palace. But it’s possible that you haven’t the slightest
idea of what goes on there. Very few are frank with
an Emperor. Only those who love not the Emperor,
but Nero, can dare to tell you such things. I suppose
that it’s true that she has no body-guard—but on the
other hand everyone is her soldier. Secretly she has
managed to knot and connect the whole world with in-
visible threads, and now she rules from the center of
her web. All decisions of real importance bear the
stamp of her authority. The tribunes, the aediles, the
praetors hasten to her, not to you. You certainly should
know how violent and covetous she is in her desires.
They say she has amassed an enormous fortune and
her gold pieces work for her everywhere, to the ends
of the earth. You banished her lover, Pallas. With
what result? Ten more took his place. She has a
veritable army of Amazons in her service and a horde216 THE BLOODY POET

of gossipers who spread her propaganda everywhere.
You can do whatever you think best, but you ought to
know these things, otherwise you will cut a ridiculous
figure. I get wind of everything. Already the people
are calling you Empress Nero; but she is Agrippina,
Emperor of the Romans.”

“No!”

“Yes, I tell you! Look at this coin. On one side is
her head; on the other side is yours, the face of a suck-
ling infant. And that’s what you'll always remain, a
suckling infant.” Nero stared dully at the coin Poppaea
held out to him.

“You simply must look at things clearly,” she went
on. “Just the other day, when, together with Piso, you
were named consul for the second time—she actually
fainted. Couldn’t even endure that.”

Nero was dumfounded. “What is it that she wants?”

“T haven’t the slightest idea. Besides, it’s not really
important. It all depends on your point of view. If
the present situation is more satisfactory to you, why
change it? Not everyone is fitted to hold the reins of
power. There are plenty of people who only feel happy
playing with toys. At any rate you seem to be inter-
ested in other things.”

“I am an artist,’ said Nero.

Poppaea smiled.

“Why do you smile?”

“It’s amusing to see how careful Agrippina is to save
the artist any of the troubles of ruling. Yet she is not
particularly delighted with the artist either—the artist
whom the rest of the world applauds. Just remembera Sacer

BOOMERANG DAN)

your first appearance. She stayed away purposely at a
time when the whole world was at your feet. The divine
daughter of Germanicus was slightly ashamed to see her
son a favourite of the Muses. She would like to see
you abandon poetry for it hurts your dignity and im-
perils your throne—her throne.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s common report.”

“When I return to Rome,” said Nero, now speaking
with a dreadful determination, “I shall speak to her.”

“Be careful not to irritate her, though. She won’t
stand for any arrogance. Poor woman, she suffers
greatly.”

“Why?”

“Because of Britannicus. She loved him very much.
On the night of the Feralia she visited the mausoleum
bearing him a wreath—a laurel wreath . . .”

It was already quite late. Green moonlight shim-
mered over the sea, trickled down the trunks of the
trees and lit up Poppaea’s features as she continued
talking, her face cold and silver-green. In the distance
drunken shouts were heard, coarse jokes and witticisms.
Gradually all grew still. The chirping of crickets was
the only sound audible in the tropical night. Lamps
were brought out to the little table on the portico and
Nero remained alone while Poppaea went inside to
dress. What she had said about his mother left him
confused and undecided; he did not know what to do.
In his agony of irresolution he could think of nothing
but continuing the interrupted conversation; opposing
ideas swept over him. He could not make up his mind.oie

SS aa i

218 THE BLOODY POET

At last Poppaea came back, dressed in a light, white
a robe through which her naked body could be glimpsed.
On her tunic were the tiny flowers worn only by harlots;
she was strange and wanton tonight.

They tried to eat, but the food stuck in their throats.
| Pushing away the plates, they drank wine instead, glass

‘ after glass. The lamps disturbed them, and Nero had
them removed, so that they spoke now, their faces lit
i only by the ghostly will-o’-the-wisp rays of moonlight.
nell The cold light cooled Nero’s forehead. Despite the fact

i that she drank a good deal, Poppaea remained calm
and self-possessed, but Nero felt clumsy and heavy with
wine.

“What shall I do?” he asked.

“Oh, are you still worrying about that? It’s not.
worth the trouble. You mustn’t irritate her, for you
love her, you idolize her—everyone talks about it.
You may as well make up your mind that you cannot
torture yourself to death with this useless brooding.
Acknowledge that you’re beaten; get down on your
knees and apologize. Perhaps she will forgive you.”

“If she were not my mother,” said Nero, breathing
heavily, “I would know what to do.”

“But she is your mother—and you are her son.
Why all this farcical pretence? She cannot abide me.
She will hate me as long as she lives, and if she hates
you too, it is only on my account. I am in her way.
As soon as I leave everything will be all right again.”
i “T can do nothing!” cried the Emperor in despair.

“So it seems. Reconcile yourself with her and re-
call Octavia.” Nero shuddered. “Yes,” continued Pop-a ee

*

BOOMERANG 219

paea, “‘you must choose between me and her.” She
stood up. “Why are you so afraid? The time has
come for a definite declaration, one way or the other.
The people dislike me but they pity Octavia, the inno-
cent little flower, so young and helpless that they say
she caught some children’s disease during her banish-
ment. In Campania her darling little neck pained
her; she had a much better time at home where she
could take Egyptian flute-players for her lovers. The
people whisper that you treat her cruelly. She doesn’t
get enough to eat, they say; she is emaciated and cries
all day long. Really, it’s unmanly of you. Call her
back. It will begin all over again. You'll hear the
flute-player once more every night.”

“Be quiet,” said Nero masterfully. “‘No more talk-
ing.” He drew her over to him, set the light fragile
body on his knees and embraced it madly. In his men-
tal disorder her body seemed the one thing stable and
sure. Again they drank, and the red wine spilled over
the white marble table. Poppaea dabbled her fingers
in the wine stains and, obeying the custom of the friv-
olous Roman women, described a letter on the table:
a capital D.

Nero looked at it.

“Doryphorus,” he exclaimed. “Your lover.”

Poppaea rubbed her fingers over the spot.

“No,” she replied. “Dionysius, our god, the god of
love.”

Nero, with an awkward gesture, pushed her away,
and received a slap in the face from Poppaea’s moist,
wine-stained hand. “You wildcat!’ cried Nero, and220 THE BLOODY POET

rushed after Poppaea, who withdrew to the protection
of a large column in a far corner of the portico. She
defended herself with her nails. Nero’s eyes were
blazing.

“Madman!” she cried. They faced each other pant-
ing, two inflamed beasts of prey.

Nero uttered a short, low laugh, that puzzled Pop-
paea. He said between his teeth: “I’m laughing because
if I wish I could have your head cut off.”

They tortured one another for some time before the
inevitable reconciliation came. With little sensual cries
they threw themselves in each other’s arms, their lips
meeting in a long, bitter kiss. Their overwrought nerves
found relief for a few minutes. Then they sat there,
exhausted.

“I’m returning in the morning,’
went out.

“And I’m going with you,” said Nero, hastening after
her.

Like two accursed souls they pursued each other in
turn.

“The dawn is coming,” said Poppaea dully.

Thus a sterile night passed, and a fresh morning
wind arose. The water turned a lead colour and the sky
too began to draw dark clouds and long glassy veils
over its face. The lovers, dressed in their light cos-
tumes, shivered but did not stir from their places.
From a high window they watched the storm. The
ocean moaned feebly at the foot of the palace, tried to
engulf the marble staircase, even reached the top step
and broke against the walls. Scalloped white-capped

2

said Poppaea, andBOOMERANG 221

waves chased each other furiously. One wave pene-
trated to the entrance of the villa and broke on a col-
umn. The water spurted up into the face of a marble
satyr, who spewed it forth again from mouth and nose.
Tense and wakeful, the pair stood regarding the raging
ocean with drawn faces, as if they were trapped high
up on the bow of some storm-tossed ship.Chapter Twenty-two
THREE WOMEN

 

THEY DEPARTED EARLY IN THE MORNING. THE LAND-
scape, which they now passed through for the second
time, held no further interest for them, like the words
they had already spoken to each other. There was
nothing for them to talk about and so they lay in the
sedan, supported on their elbows, bored with each
other. When they reached Rome they separated. Nero
felt that his condition was no better, that nothing had
been settled and that the entire trip had been fruitless
and unnecessary. His first thought was to see Dory-
phorus. He was no longer troubled by desire. Noth-
ing remained of his love but jealousy, just as nothing
remained of his art but the dross of ambition.

“What is the matter with you?” he shouted at his
scribe. “You look like a ghost. And what sort of
writing is this? Your hand trembles.” He threw
away the copy. Doryphorus went out, a hunted look
on his face. The Emperor saw him trudging miserably
through the garden toward the archives, his head sunk,
his arms dangling. He began to regret that he had
been so brusque and that he had neglected to cross-
examine him. He sent after him, but Doryphorus was
already far off.

The Emperor was full of internal strife. He was ob-
sessed by shameless indecent visions of Poppaea and
Doryphorus which crowded continually into his mind

222THREE WOMEN 223

and which he could not dispel. They came to him
against his will, although he knew that he had invented
them all himself in order to increase his own agony.
He saw them always together, Poppaea and Doryphorus.
It is doubtful whether he would have been so troubled
had his fears actually been realized before his own
eyes. Poppaea let Nero alone, waiting for the effect
of the suggestions she had implanted in him.

He decided to see his mother. The banished Em-
press lived in the palace of Antonia, not far from the
imperial dwelling. She was surrounded by an army
of spies who reported her every movement to the Em-
peror and Seneca. All she could do now was hope for
better times. She too had her special agents who
mingled with the Emperor’s; the two parties were the
objects of mutual spying. But all Agrippina’s efforts
were fruitless. Since the death of Britannicus she had
concentrated all her hopes in using Octavia as a thread
wherewith to bind herself to the opposition party who
adhered to the family of Claudius. Octavia was to
have organized them into a unit which Agrippina could
make use of to re-establish the power in her own hands.
But Poppaea had frustrated the entire scheme. Her
son had entirely escaped from his mother’s control and
she soon became quite aware that he was not to be
stopped in his career. All she desired now was to see
him rush down the hill as quickly as possible.

Every evening a company of women congregated at
her palace and told each other in excited whispers that
the throne would shortly be the scene of a great revolu-
tion. It was merely a matter of waiting for the right224, THE BLOODY POET

opportunity. But the opportunity seemed to be farther
and farther away.

Nero’s sudden appearance disconcerted Agrippina.
He came without military escort, unarmed, as he used
to come in happier days.

“I want to rest near you,” said the Emperor, and
he threw himself down on a couch.

Agrippina sat down beside him and rested his head
on her breast. She gazed at the face of her son, born
of her own body, and rocked him slowly. With her
finely formed hand she closed the Emperor’s eyes and
bent over to shelter him with her great bosom.

“My son, my son.”

Nero abandoned himself to a sensation of lassitude;
he was soothed by the gentle monotony of Agrippina’s
voice. For a moment he seemed to sense the forgot-
ten taste of milk, to feel the peace and quiet which used
to sink over him after moments of peril when his mother
came to comfort him. She seemed to loom up giganti-
cally as she had appeared in the nights of his childhood
when she had held water to his feverish lips. And
Agrippina recognized in him her own flesh and blood,
her child, for whose sake she had done things the re-
membrance of which frightened her even today, for in
her soul still dwelt the vision of the bloody path she
had traversed.

Quietly and calmly she began to supplicate him:
“Poor child, why are you angry with Octavia? It is
really on her account that you are suffering. Everyone
in Rome pities her, and the Senate wants to have her re-THREE WOMEN Les

called. If she were back everything would be as before
and we would all be happy again.”

Nero’s head moved uneasily against her bosom;
Agrippina pressed him to her. She ordered a sedan
and had them carried about together; they lay side by
side conversing with their old intimacy. Not till the
day was done did she release him. In the evening she
appeared before him in all her majesty, she who had
won the throne for him. Her face was painted red, her
short, wispy hair was drawn down around her fore-
head. She embraced him, kissed him and then threw
herself desperately at his feet, her eyes streaming with
tears.

“Call her back,” she begged, “‘call her back.”

Nero started as if he had heard a distant echo.
Poppaea too had said: “Call her back, call her
back.”

From now on the relationship at the palace was a
puzzle to everyone. Nero went out walking with his
mother and under her influence grew calmer. With the
smile of a convalescent he acquiesced in everything.
One day it was rumored on the Forum that Octavia had
been recalled and secretly installed in a remote wing
of the palace. Knots of people gathered to discuss the
news, eager for some change. Here and there a group
could be seen making its way to the palace to greet the
Emperor who had shown mercy and the Empress to
whom it had been shown. On their way this crowd
fell in with other parties consisting of disorderly
trouble-makers and curiosity seekers. The two bandsae = TREN A

psa cr

   

 

| ee

226 THE BLOODY POET

combined and surged forward. The mob began to
grow dangerous. Their progress was marked by wanton
destruction. The statues of Poppaea were demolished
and the images of Octavia restored and crowned with
wreaths.

Rummaging among his books, Nero heard the up-
roar of the mob. He listened to it with vacillating
emotions. Not sure himself of what he had done, he
already regretted it. Outside the body-guard was
struggling with the crowd. With the butt ends of their
spears they thrust back the mob that had penetrated
into the palace and were already running up the broad
marble steps leading to the Emperor’s chambers. Sud-
denly his door flew open and before the anxious Nero
stood Poppaea, without a veil, all disheveled. It was
obvious that she had come on foot and had run through
the horde outside at the peril of her life. She was
gasping. This hunted Poppaea whose death was de-
manded by the shrieking mob outside and who now
flew in disorderly, disheveled, like a woman of the
streets, affected him strangely. Following the long
separation the effect of her beauty was doubly power-
ful. It upset him.

“What has happened?” Poppaea’s tone was accus-
ing. She sounded as if she were demanding justice for
a wrong done to her. Nero stood before her, his con-
science troubled.

“Just a comedy,” he replied. “The people are play-
ing theater. The usual uproar and demonstration. It
will soon be over.”

Music was heard. Flutes were playing before the

Se Ie el
Siete aes OOTHREE WOMEN liad

palace-window. The mob threw flowers. Poppaea
laughed.

“That’s for her. All the flute-players have good rea-
son to rejoice.” Then the crowd began to growl and
mutter and whistle and throw stones. “But that’s for
me,” said Poppaea, white-faced.

“And for me,” stammered Nero.

“For me and you; we're both lost. And they want
to see us fall. They say so openly—both of them—
the best of mothers and the best of wives.”

Nero sank into a chair.

“T’m leaving now,” continued Poppaea. “I came
only to say good-bye to you. But you mustn’t let your-
self be destroyed. You mustn’t let them take your life.
They have smuggled in Octavia and tomorrow they'll
easily find her another Emperor.”

Nero listened. The uproar was dying away. Soon
the guards announced that the mob was dispersing. The
Emperor begged Poppaea to remain. The danger over,
he sat her down beside him.

“I warned you in advance,” said Poppaea, despon-
dently. “I knew it. I spoke to you about it but you
wouldn’t believe me.”

“Whom shall I trust?” Nero still hesitated.

“Me,” replied Poppaea, incisively.

“You must promise .. .”

ri promise...”

“That you will never...

“Never,” declared Poppaea.

In silence the Emperor waited a moment, then grasped
her hand. “You were right,” he said. “You alone

9

29,228 THE BLOODY POET

were right. You are the only one I can trust.” He
stared into space; his eyes saw ghosts. “I can see
through them all now. If I could only see you too,
darling, without it hurting me . . .”

“What hurts you?”

“My love for you.”

“Why do you refuse to be happy?” asked Poppaea.
Her voice was hard. “Why do you fear happiness—
real happiness?”

Nero strained her to him, rested his confused head
on her shoulders. “Do whatever you wish with me,”
he said, exhausted. There was a pause. “I shall send
Octavia away today. To Pandataria.” Pandataria
was an island to which those condemned to death were
sent, a swampy deadly place where the exiles found a
speedy end.

“And Otho?” asked Poppaea. “He is still here.
Free me,” she implored, flinging herself on his breast.

Nero appointed Otho governor of Lusitania, for
which Poppaea’s husband departed in great triumph.

From that day on the palace of Antonia was encircled
by a reinforced guard. All Agrippina could do was
wait, her face turned toward a night of despair. Pre-
pared for any eventuality, she carried a dagger with
her; and, as was customary among important people,
before and after every meal she swallowed an anti-
dote from the little box which she carried in a secret
fold of her tunic, over the heart.NDT ee

    
  

BFE CDDP ai
a| (fal beallelieall| pall balle
pl |6.a| (6.88

 

Chapter Twenty-three

THE SOCIETY OF ROMAN ZITHER.-.
PLAYERS

 

ORIGINALLY THE SOCIETY OF RoMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS
occupied two rooms in the Via Appia. These rooms
on the first floor served years ago as a meeting-place for
the artists who came here to discuss the important mat-
ters relative to their profession. Here strings and in-
struments were sold more cheaply than elsewhere. In
the evenings the zither-players would congregate and
dine in the miserable little rooms. They would fill
their bottomless stomachs with tripe and sour beans,
drink cask-leavings and sing merrily.

But now, since the Emperor has become a member,
the Society rooms are the most splendid and exclusive
place in Rome. Though they comprise the sround
floor and the floor above, this space is insufficient to
accommodate the ever increasing membership and the
huge flock of visitors. The Society has been trans-
formed into a veritable social center; the place is full
of life and movement from morning to night. Cushions
decorate the couches, gilded chairs and statues have
replaced the former shabby furniture, and the tables
are covered with hot dishes and savoury dainties. The
zither-players have grown more careful about their
dress; they wear head-gear and togas, for they must
be fit to associate with the new class of people who
now seek out the society: military men, patricians and

229230 THE BLOODY POET

merchants. On the other hand the visitors who use
these rooms as a sort of club have assumed the bohe-
mian manners of zither-players, literati and gramma-
rians. They speak with the light, frivolous, slightly
wearied air that they catch from the poets. The place
is also frequented by manufacturers who come here
every morning and drink kiimmel in order to acquire a
pale and interesting countenance. In the course of
time the poets and stolid citizens have come to resemble
each other so closely that they now feel quite comfort-
able in each other’s company.

At the door sits Vanitius, the dwarf, on his usual
high chair. He is a regular guest of the society. Early
in the morning he makes his appearance and he does
not leave until late at night with the last members and
guests. No longer does he play the buffoon at the Em-
peror’s table; instead he watches others do it. He has
a tremendous fortune, enjoys a high reputation and with
great dignity and self-assurance carries his hump which
has been the means of elevating him to his exceptional
position. Anyone who would enter the Society must
make his initial bow to the dwarf. Before him is a
little table, loaded with food and drink. He rarely
touches it, for he has ceased to be either hungry or
thirsty. The lickspitiles dance attendance on him,
plaguing him for some post which will cost him but a
word or two; but he waves them away. His voice is
thin. For the most part he is silent as he does not like
to talk. In the afternoon, the dice-playing, the occu-
pation of a motley, ill-assorted company. The ivory
dice shake busily from the dice-boxes. The stakes whicha a EEE EI

ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 231

used to run only to an as at most, now go as high as
four hundred sestertii; but there is really no limit.
During the afternoon, the only contestants are a couple
of unshaven hack-writers. But as the evening wears on
the atmosphere begins to get more fashionable and the
real play begins. The habitués start to arrive, a few
poets who are now living in grand style, a few come-
dians of the better class, among them Antiochus, who is
a passionate and reckless gambler. He is held in high
esteem here, for his salary from the theaters of Mar-
cellus amounts to six hundred thousand sestertii a year.

The players name their bets, accompanying them with
occasional side remarks:

““A dog’s throw,” they call. “You’ve lost.”

““A Venus-throw,” exclaims another, “I’ve won.”
The speaker is Sophocles, the poet, a thin little man
who rakes in the money continually; he always wins,
for he throws the dice according to a secret method
which he discloses to no one. This Greek, whose lidless
eyes are red with lack of sleep, boasts that he is closely
related by blood to the famous tragic poet and the others
believe him or not, according to whether he has won
or lost. He himself lives entirely on this ancestral
faith, for he can neither sing nor write; at least no one
has ever read a line of his and his conversation betrays
no hint of any poetic faculty. He is covetous and
selfish, given to unrestrained lying, and when his win-
nings have been especially large he begins to trace his
family tree back to the gods.

Beside him sits Tranio, a member of the Bulbus
Theater company, an insignificant actor who imitatesDae THE BLOODY POET

animal voices behind the scenes. He is famous for his
bad luck and for that reason has conceived the clever
notion of entering into an alliance with Sophocles, the
favourite of fortune, to share their winnings. Sophocles
has not given him anything for years, but nevertheless
their friendship has remained intact.

Soon appears Bubulcus, a former slave, now a wool
merchant and many times a millionaire. He has gained
the favour of the Emperor, become surveyor to the
court, and has since amassed so much money by cheat-
ing and profiteering that his wealth now surpasses that
of even the richest patrician. He owns five houses in
Rome and a huge estate in Sabine, where his flocks of
cattle, wild boars and horses are so numerous that he
has completely lost track of his total possessions. He
has long since given up work and the hand which once
was accustomed to shoveling manure has now become
white and soft. His lineage is betrayed only by the
jagged nails and stubby fingers through which the
countless millions flow. At the Society he does his ut-
most to be unconscious of his riches; a benevolent smile
lights up his eyes and he tries to be amiable, unas-
suming and affable to this company of poets for whom
he has a great respect. His low savage forehead and
gigantic face make him look singularly like a hippo-
potamus. His shapeless body is clothed in the costliest
raiment and his fingers are rigid with gold and
precious stones, a continuous boast of his wealth. He
is anxious to be fashionable and interested in literature
and, although he can barely read and has not the slight-
est knowledge of Greek, he has bought up a magnificentsexrovsnpnsipiineneramacnainaisttiiy tN AAD A

ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS. Zao

library which fills several large rooms. All the most
exquisitely bound books are collected there, together
with manuscripts so rare that only a single copy exists
in the Forum, in the hands of Sosius Brothers, book-
sellers to Horatius. In his palace he has installed a
private theater in which he performs with his wife,
who takes dancing lessons from Paris and attends
Zodicus’ school of poetry. Fannius directs his son in
a course of lectures given under the auspices of the
Society of Zither-players, where the fledgling poets
study the classic authors and listen to the declamations
of the more famous contemporary poets.

Now he came in accompanied by the little actor
Gallio, his wife’s lover, and by Latinus, the renowned
wit. Bubulcus was always received with the utmost
respect and ceremony. The game was interrupted for
a moment; and the players all stood up. Even the
blasé Vanitus raised his head. Sophocles, who was
exceptionally deft in dramatic gestures, started up from
his seat immediately, grasped Bubulcus’ arm and led
him to the gaming-table. Tranio, of course, remarked
on his good health and youthful appearance. Florus
praised his rings. Phornio’s particular dodge was to
greet him with a flood of coarse jokes which always
drew a hearty laugh from the merchant. Everyone in-
vited him to play. But his present associates held him
fast in their clutches and led him softly to the special
table around which were seated his nightly court of
parasites and lickspittles.

Here sat Fabius, the modest scribe and father of a
numerous family. His business is to copy the official234 THE BLOODY POET

news of the Acta Diurna. But for years his particular
role has in the main been limited to watching Bubulcus
play dice, sighing when he loses, smiling when he wins.
Awkward at flattery, he contented himself with utter-
ing an occasional inanity upon which Bubulcus, ap-
plauded by the rest of the company, would give him a
shove in the back. But this did not deter Fabius in
the least. He waited patiently until he received his
compensation in the form of enough money to buy a
dinner. Ordinarily, Bubulcus was very cautious about
the manner in which he distributed his money. He had
an exact knowledge of how high each one stood in the
favour of the Emperor and regulated his expenditures
scientifically in accordance with this standard.

On the other hand the lean oil-dealer, Erispus, was
unnecessarily generous; he did not know how to dis-
criminate, for he had only recently begun to frequent
the society of artists with whose assistance he hoped to
become surveyor to the court. He was awkward and
timid and sufficiently unsophisticated to place Zodicus
on the same poetic plane with Seneca and to consider
Tranio as great an actor as Paris. He rejoiced when
someone engaged him in conversation, which was done
often enough, for parasites were continually requesting
small loans from him. These he accorded with the
greatest alacrity. The bewildered oil-dealer looked
like a lost child among these favourites of the Muses.

Times had changed greatly since the day when actors
were placed in the same class with slaves, sent into ban-
ishment at the slightest provocation and whipped with
rods. Once no respectable man would ever think ofROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 235

marrying his daughter to an actor. Now they enjoyed
all the privileges of the most honoured citizens. The
edicts which former Emperors had directed against the
effeminisation of manners were annulled; a new era
ensued; the official artists’ colony flourished from
day to day. The aediles and the directors of the spec-
tacles held office hours here every evening, and so man-
aged to come in contact with the most prominent men
of the day; and not a single one of the higher officials
missed the opportunity to exhibit himself at the place
where the Emperor came to dine after the theater.

Zodicus and Fannius appeared toward evening, lead-
ing a noisy band. They had just dismissed their acad-
emy. Pylades, the pantomimist and dancing and fenc-
ing instructor of the school, pranced in with a flutter of
arms and,legs. He had many pupils now, especially
among the senators. Not long ago at a festival Nero
had laughingly ordered the gladiators to engage in a
mock broadsword battle with the senators who now,
that they might not be humiliated, were eager to harden
their bodies and make their old sinews flexible and
agile.

The really distinguished authorities, however, were
Zodicus, Professor of Poetry, and Fannius, who in-
structed the pupils in singing and declamation. The
latter were still swarming about the masters, pelting
them with questions as they entered. Lentulus, the old-
est pupil in the school, was a timid and aging land
proprietor who had resolved to take up the writing of
poetry in his declining years and was now engaged in
studying the classics. He was quite confused about

ane nn ee236 THE BLOODY POET

the lecture he had just heard, and was begging Zodicus
to repeat a part of his discourse. Lentulus’ glance was
tired. He was exhausted by the multitude of unfamiliar
things he had heard today. His mind still ran on his
family, his children, his wife, his dairy farm; he found
it difficult to pay attention to the words of the master.
His willingness and industry were tremendous, but he
was too hopelessly dull to make any progress.

“If I could at least master the dactyl,” he sighed.

“The simplest thing in the world,” declared Zodicus,
and with his thumb and fingers he beat the rhythm of a
hexameter.

“That’s it,” said the stupid Lentulus, imitating the
gesture.

The gambling room was full of light and noise. Eris-
pus, the amiable oil-dealer, lost a half-million on a
single throw and rose without a denarius but with an
affable smile. Bubulcus still held his ground. Zodicus
and Fannius did not join in the play but sat down be-
side a pillar to chat.

“It’s too much for me,” said Zodicus. “Six more
patricians. And they keep on coming.”

“I raised the fees,” said Fannius, “but I was over-
run with them today again. Mainly old men trying to
learn to fence.”

“Do they make any progress?” asked Zodicus.

“Not particularly,” replied Fannius, a sly grin lift-
ing the corners of his malicious mouth.

Although the pair were simply bursting with money
and had all the recognition they could desire, they
were neither of them happy. Envy was their only bondROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 2B

of union. They felt a common jealousy of anyone who
attained any success and had a deep-rooted dislike of
anything open and honest. Yet despite this agreement
in their natures, they regarded each other with fervent
hatred. Each was agonized at the thought of the other’s
success. And so they kept continually together, for
each one feared that the other would take some advan-
tage of his absence. Besides, they knew that they had
won their way as a team. If they separated they would
injure each other’s reputations, so they played Castor
and Pollux to each other. During most of their lives
they had been the recipients of little love and less recog-
nition. In his youth Zodicus had idled about the Forum
irying to pour his sentimental little poems about gam-
boling lambs and cooing turtle-doves into the ears of
every bystander. But he had gained no attention and
was jeered at or shaken off. Despite the high position
to which the Emperor had elevated him, Zodicus had
never forgotten these days. He thirsted for revenge
against everyone who seemed happy or cheerful, and
repaid with an ill turn even those who had never hurt
him. Fannius had once been a slave and had trans-
ported stones on his back. This labor had broken his
left shoulder-blade and his shattered bone still pained
him so much that he was often unable to sleep. He
too remained sullen and unreconciled with the world,
and delighted in the opportunity to hear or say some-
thing bad about anyone. These two squat, square-set
Romans were full of inexpressible unhappiness and
an infinite vulgarity. Their eyes still glowed with the
old pain, that longing for love that lay smouldering and

ee aera238 THE BLOODY POET

flamed up only when someone praised them or showed
them genuine respect.

At the moment they were both in bad humour.

“Is he coming?” asked Fannius.

“‘How do I know?” replied Zodicus sullenly.

Although the Emperor now received them but rarely
he still remained the most exalted being that their
imagination could conceive. But this they were
ashamed to admit to each other.

“When did you see him last?” inquired Fannius.

“Just the other day. I’m so busy lately.”

“So am I. Besides he’s continually occupied with
his theatrical appearances.”

“Yes,” assented Zodicus, twisting his mouth to an
expression of disdain. ‘Paris is always hanging around
him now. He arranged to have him appear at the
Bulbus. At the Marcellus, too—I saw him there.”

“Was he any good?”

Zodicus laughed.

“Rotten. Simply ridiculous. No one takes him
seriously. Originally he was absolutely nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” agreed Fannius, his tone utterly
scornful. “It was we who made something out of
him.”

They sounded each other, watched each other cau-
tiously, anxious not to betray the fact that they had
lost Nero’s favour.

“Where did he appear today?” asked Fannius.

“Pompeii. But I didn’t go to see him.” Zodicus’
lips curled. They continued to talk about the Em-
peror, their words steeped in gall.Nee eee ee nn each

ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 239

Callicles entered with his usual entourage of women.
One of them was Lollia, Bubulcus’ mistress, who never
appeared in his company and who was kept by the
merchant, people said, only because it was fashion-
able. Callicles’ other companions were two Egyptian
courtesans, their small pale faces framed by blue-black
hair. They showed their teeth happily as Callicles
ceremoniously removed their veils. All turned to him
with a certain gay homage, which he acknowledged
with a sweeping gesture. Despite his Greek name,
Callicles was of Latin origin; but he had spent a good
part of his early years in Athens. Completely Greek
in speech and manner, he cherished immeasurable con-
tempt for the military Latin state, whose bloody cam-
paigns and dull insensitivity to art he considered bar-
barous. He was of delicate build. Occasionally he
lifted his little finger to arrange his meticulously parted
hair. His toga was a lovely amethyst colour, thread-
bare, but as elegantly folded as that of any patrician.
Many thought him an actor, a poet or a dancer; yet
he was no one but rather all of them. His whole de-
meanour gave the impression of a rich but ruined life,
and his countenance, deeply lined from nose to mouth,
had an expression of tragic, aristocratic aimlessness.
His eyes were glowing and sunken like those of an old
bird of prey.

But out of the wasted forty years of his life, he had
managed to create one marvellous thing, and with this
he was generous to the point of extravagance. He could
talk Greek with a rare vitality and charm that en-
chanted everybody. The subject matter was of slight240 THE BLOODY POET

importance. Women’s shoes, earrings, cosmetics, poetry,
recollected love-affairs enjoyed long ago with Egyptian
princesses whose forefathers were sleeping in the pyra-
mids, vulgarities of poets, the personal habits of noted
statesmen. Everything seemed to be beautiful and sig-
nificant when imbued with the magic of Callicles’
words. In this colony of artists he was the only one
that gave the impression of an artist, although he did
not profess to be one. Everybody hung on his lips when
he spoke. He had invented a peculiar speech of his
own, based on antique Greek words used as the classic
writers had employed them; and with these he mingled
the slang expressions that he heard at the Society. At
times his remarks were malicious, caustic to the point
of cruelty. He exercised his scorn upon everyone, in-
cluding himself, for he really craved sympathy. All
the noble feelings which had filled his soul, all the
sweeter emotions had soured; the wine had turned to
vinegar, but a vinegar that retained the strength and
quality of the wine to an even greater degree.

The women sitting about him listened eagerly to his
musical, velvety voice praising now Poppaea’s yellow
ankle-bands and golden shoes and now the women sitting
about him. It was all done with an exaggerated polite-
ness more than qualified by the irony of his smile. He
scattered the compliments as if they were flowers, lovely
but ephemeral.

“In Athens,” he sighed, “the women wear light col-
oured veils. When they sing they throw their heads back
a little, like this. The limbs of the Athenian womenee nnn en ce

ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 241

are delicate and gracious.” He sipped a little wine,
then looked into his glass, his face full of melancholy.
“Very sad,” he added, his head sunk on his breast.
“Extremely sad. Today I saw a Roman woman, dressed
in a woolen robe. She was horribly fat—she panted.
Gaul tent it?”

The play at the dice-table was almost over. Bubulcus
rose at last and the company divided the money among
themselves while Sophocles directed his final onslaught
of flattery against the merchant. Callicles made an in-
describably odd gesture. “Here come the artists,” he
announced. “Sophocles, the worthy great-grandchild
of the great poet. We have before us a new version of
the Gidipus. Cdipus in Rome.” Bubulcus drew near.
Callicles, who had nicknamed him Big-belly and was
fond of describing with inimitable variations his hairy
breast, his malformed feet, his bloated face, now as-
sumed a respectful pose as the money-sack approached.
He liked rich men.

“Adonis!” He slung the word at him.

“Pardon me?” Adonis was a new word to Bubulcus.

Callicles was not very adept at flattery, for, although
he considered himself shrewd, he was never really able
to conceal his scorn of the person whom he wished to
cajole. Consequently he never received any gifts, and
made his living by instructing courtesans in Greek.

They all laughed at the merchant, but Callicles de-
fended him in slightly incoherent phrases: “He is an
honest, worthy man,” he said, indicating Bubulcus.
“He strives toward his goal in his shoes of bronze—242 THE BLOODY POET

exactly like the winged Mercury. Don’t misunderstand
me,” he added quickly, for he knew they were thinking
of the patron god of thieves.

At this moment Zodicus too slunk over to join Cal-
licles. It was a daily necessity with him to hear some-
thing nasty about Fannius, and Callicles would satisfy
this desire with alacrity. Of course it was true that
in the presence of Fannius he would characterize Zodi-
cus in the same terse and biting phrases. But Fannius,
too quick for his friend, joined the party also, so they
compromised by asking Callicles’ opinion of Nero.

“He is the Emperor,” replied Callicles reverentially.

“But how about his poems?”

“He has soft warm hands.”

““Yes—but the poems?” persisted the poets, who were
well aware of his real opinion of Nero.

“Anacreon,” declared Callicles, “‘was a great poet,”
here he emptied his glass, “but he was not an Em-
peror.” He averted his glance, concealing the fine smile
which was visible only in the expression of his eyes.

He left his seat and went upstairs to visit the kitchen
and get some advance information about the evening
meal. He was a gourmet, too, and loved dainty food
and rare wines. Upstairs he stood chatting with a kit-
chen maid who was somewhat dirty, to be sure, but
beautiful nevertheless. The ever-ready Callicles took
out a little flask that he always carried with him and
sprinkled some of the perfume on the girl’s neck. She
gave a little scream as it ran down her back; then
Callicles, the lover of royal princesses, kissed the mouth
of the slave and called her a goddess.ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 243

He returned to the three courtesans and announced:
“We're having nightingale soup; the knife of our most
excellent cook has caused two thousand of them to bleed
to death.”

He escorted the women into the dining-room, which
was profusely decorated with roses. The treasury had
expended eight hundred thousand sestertii on the flowers
alone, for on this occasion the Emperor was gracing
the company with his presence. Nero had arrived
promptly after the performance and was reclining on a
couch. He seemed fatigued. The people were so in-
sistent in their demands that the Emperor should per-
form for them that almost every evening, in circus and
theater, he sang and declaimed. He wished to quiet in
the mob that rebellious spirit which had manifested it-
self in the recent disturbance. Before eating he threw
a pearl into his wine and gulped it down, with the re-
mark that he was drinking a million sestertii. He be-
lieved that the pearl would enrich the soul and fill his
eyes with the brilliance and glow of nacre. Around
the table sat the actors who had played on the same
bill with him. Later on in the evening, over the heavier
wines, Nero and his associates became intimate, like
colleagues. Gallio imitated the toothless old Pam-
manes, Alityros imitated Tranio, Clucius Phanum,
Phanum Porcius, and Porcius Alityros. They kept
these réles for the rest of the evening. Antiochus, who
had previously held himself aloof from this strange
farce, rose abruptly and began to take off the great
actor whom they had thus far feared to imitate—his
famous rival, Paris. He trembled with tragic terror,

a
A
j
4244, THE BLOODY POET

he whispered as Paris would do in his most effective
scenes, his hand described fearful gestures. The verisi-
militude was so perfect that Nero was convulsed with
laughter. Just as the merriment was at its height,
Paris appeared. The idea amused the crowd mightily:
a meeting between the real Paris and his replica. But
the great actor himself seemed anxious and distraught.
He went directly up to Nero and whispered in his ear:
““A conspiracy.” Nero picked up the cue. “Dread-
ful!” he whispered back and paled like a good actor.
Then he looked at Paris, broke into a laugh and clapped
him on the shoulder. “Splendidly acted! Sit down
and have a drink.”

Between the great actor and the Emperor the most
intimate friendship existed and such jokes were not new
to either. They had formed contests in which each en-

» deavoured to make the other mistake illusion for reality.
Not content with ideas produced on the spur of the
moment, they would make elaborate preparations for
the game, work it out to the last detail and sometimes
continue it for days. Once when they were carousing
together, a messenger, who had previously been in-
structed by Paris, suddenly appeared with the news
that Paris’ villa had been robbed. The actor began to
weep and tear his hair; then he rushed home and for
days absented from the court. Finally he appeared
and with tears in his eyes gave a detailed account of
how his home had been ransacked. He permitted the
Emperor to comfort him. ... When Nero finally
learned that this was merely another prank that Parisana Za icc Ane a arc

ROMAN ZITHER-PLAYERS 245

had played on him, he was beside himself with fury. 7
Because of the utter insubordination implied in the joke
he commanded Paris’ immediate banishment. The
actor was already on his way to exile when Nero called
him back and announced gleefully that he, Nero, was
the victor, for he too had only been pretending. Where-
upon the two actors laughed, embraced each other and
were mutually satisfied.

Now with his own hand Nero filled the other’s glass,
but Paris would not touch the wine.

“No,” he whispered softly, “it is no joke this time.”

“You do it marvellously,” declared the Emperor,
“better than ever before.”

Paris seemed quite exhausted. Nero rose, his eyes
still intent on the actor’s face.

“T am not acting,” repeated Paris desperately and
something about the lines of his mouth told Nero that
he spoke the truth.

They left the room, descended to the street and got
into a sedan. Then Nero made a final attempt to treat
the announcement as a joke. But the laughter died
away on his lips as Paris turned and said, “Rubellius
Plautus, the descendant of Augustus. They plan to set
him on the throne.”

Nero gasped.

Paris continued, nervously: “They seem to have won
over a part of the Senate and are stirring up rebellion
among the soldiers. They have even approached the
palace guards. But we hold all the threads in our hands
—even the leader of the conspiracy.”aa ee

246 THE BLOODY POET

“Who?”

Paris swallowed. He was unwilling to speak. Fi-
nally: “Agrippina.”

“She?” cried Nero. “My mother!” Convulsively he
bit the cushions of the sedan. “My mother, my mother!”
Like an animal he tore at the cushions with his teeth.Chapter Twenty-four

TEMPEST

 

 

HE KEPT REPEATING THE WORDS TO HIMSELF AFTER
he reached the palace.

“My mother! My mother!”

He was overcome by memories of childhood and by
recent ones that were both sweet and terrible. Seneca
appeared for the nightly conference. He seemed worn
out. He knew Agrippina well; for years he had been
her lover.

“Ts it really she?”

“Yes, it is.” Seneca nodded sadly.

“What shall I do?”

Seneca raised his voice: ““Whatever is necessitated by
the best interests of the State.”

When examined, Agrippina denied everything. She
knew what power was; three times she had been Em-
press; and so she was not at all frightened. Knowing
their weaknesses, she cherished the deepest scorn for
men. She defended herself tenaciously. Standing rigid
before her son, the muscles of her neck tightened and
her masculine shoulders grew taut. She listened to the
accusation and answered simply. “It is untrue.”
Proudly she surveyed the wrathful Nero. He was her
son, beautiful, mighty. And again she was filled with
the same thought that had come to her when Nero as-
cended the throne: He can have me killed, but he can
never rule me. When he began to deride her she called

247248 THE BLOODY POET

him by his name sharply as she used to do when she
scolded him as a child: and she knitted her heavy brows
angrily.

Troops of soldiers patroled the city. In the night
by the light of torches, they broke into every sus-
picious place, but the guilty ones were never found.
Every clue had disappeared; Agrippina had worked
skilfully and swiftly.

As there was nothing else to do, they tried to fix
the responsibility on the commander of the body-guard,
accusing Burrus of a knowledge of the conspiracy. He
was brought before the Emperor to be cross-examined.
The old soldier’s answers were awkward and self-con-
scious. His face flushed under the mass of grey hair.

His eyes burning, he left the palace, mounted his
favourite horse and rode quickly out of the city. A
heavy melancholy oppressed him. stride his horse,
he regarded the landscape whose gracious equanimity
gave him some comfort: the earth, bushes, trees, those
precious, open-hearted friends of the soldiers, things he
loved the more deeply he withdrew from the society
of men. The earth was a wall, the bushes and trees
were a protection against the incursion of men. Men

. . they were incomprehensible.

Burrus had begun his service under Caligula. He
had fought in many battles with little regard for his
life. He was never ambitious and clung to life with
no great tenacity. In peace time the soldier is bound to
stumble over a multitude of impediments; heroic cour-TEMPEST 249

age is an irrelevant virtue amid the petty complications
and conflicting interests of civic life; he is fated to lose
his way. It was in just such a confusion of mind that
Burrus now felt himself. The breath of suspicion had
reached him as it had the others. All he could do was
to pity those who were still young, for he felt that
many and great sorrows were in store for them; as for
himself, he was glad that he was so old and near the
grave. An honourable man had no place in these times,
he thought.

Without guidance, the horse took his usual route
leading to the field under the walls of Rome where the
troops ordinarily encamped. A soldier was sitting on
the ground, eating oat-cake. Centurions were reading
the orders for the next day, the muleteers were assem-
bling the battering-rams. Looking upon the familiar
scene Burrus was overcome with emotion; his nostrils
distended gratefully as he inhaled the coarse mascu-
line odour of the camp. He turned to the place where
a blue flag was fluttering; here were the cavalry troops
preparing for the night. He heard the horses neigh-
ing and pawing the ground. Grooms were currying and
feeding the magnificent animals. Burrus sat down and
watched the old soldiers as they passed by, morose war-
riors of a past generation whom he knew by name; he
watched the young legionaires, coming in from manoeu-
vres, armed with broadsword or dagger. He watched
the javelin-throwers and spearmen, young men whom
he did not know, men as young as he had once been,
men who symbolized the eternal vitality of a constantly

———- si Sas ens

redirects

SSPn

ee

250 THE BLOODY POET

renewed army, the life of the Latin race. The helmets
shaded gay and healthy young faces; under the cuirasses
he detected the swell of powerful chests.

With a slow farewell glance Burrus embraced this
immortal army of an immortal city and was seized with
fierce delight as he thought of the greatness of the
Roman Empire which extended from Gaul to Dacia,
from Hispania to Achia. Yet some premonition whis-
pered to his anguished heart that this too would pass
away; and his eyes, which had never known the tears
of sentimentality, grew dark and brooding.

Fires flamed up here and there. The tubas resounded
through the camp, the soldiers filed into the mess-room,
ate and then lay down to rest. Soon the entire camp was
asleep except Burrus, who stood guard, his mind full
of past remembrances. Years ago he had often visited
this very spot together with the Emperor in whom he had
vainly sought to arouse an interest in military affairs.
Nero had been utterly unreceptive; he was attracted
only by the stage and cared nothing about old Burrus.
They had taken different paths and now the destinies of
both were fulfilled.

The wind shook the trees. A storm was rising. The
thunder rolled from north to west with a strange, treach-
erous rumbling sound. To Burrus this was a bad omen.
He was devout and credulous, as became the scion of a
military family; his great-grandfather had died on the
field of battle. In the midst of an unbelieving gen-
eration Burrus kept intact the creed of his ancestors.
The sign from heaven affected him deeply. He sighed
and his mood became even more gloomy. He enteredTEMPEST 251

his tent and wrote a letter of resignation to the Em-
peror; in words of great simplicity and curtness, he re-
quested his immediate release.

The storm continued to threaten, and the thunder to
rage; but no rain fell. The air remained hot and op-
pressive, and flashes of heat lightning, barely visible,
shot across the rim of the horizon.

In their bedroom Nero sat talking with Poppaea.
The fright they had recently experienced and the re-
sultant feeling of doubt and insecurity oppressed them
heavily. Both breathed with difficulty in the sultry
night. The dust whirled blindly through the garden
walks, and the atmosphere of the palace was ominous.

“Perhaps we had better go to sleep,” suggested Pop-
paea.

They lay down side by side, naked and without cov-
ering. There was a long interval of silence. At last
Nero spoke.

“Are you sleeping?”

Mig.”

“Why not?”

Poppaea merely sighed. They tossed about rest-
lessly. The pillows were like flames beneath their
heads. They could neither sleep nor forget themselves
in kisses and embraces. With wide open eyes they
stared into the darkness, two corpses on a bier. There
was a sense of something monstrous and terrible en-
circling them.

“Is she guarded?” asked Poppaea.

“Three soldiers posted at each door.”252 THE BLOODY POET

Poppaea sat up: “Can anyone hear us?”

““No, of course not.”

“T want to talk. I feel better when I hear my voice.”

Nero sat on the edge of the bed and Poppaea re-
mained in it. Her white body shimmered palely
through the darkness of the room like the moon through
clouds.

“Tt will never end,” she said. “I shall never be able
to sleep again.” Nero was silent. “Useless, quite use-
less. Our ruin is at hand.”

“If I could only get some advice from somebody,”
broke out Nero. “I don’t care who gives it or what it
is. If only someone said definitely to me: do this. I
would do it. But this suspense is unendurable.”

“Still you seem to endure it.”

“T could give up the throne,” said Nero reflectively.
“That might help. I could go to Rhodes—sing there.”

Poppaea caught him up sharply: “And what about
me?”

“You could come with me.”

**Yes, and what shall I give up? You? That’s what
she wants. My life! She is thirsting for it.” A long
silence. ‘Look!’ said Poppaea. She pointed in the
direction of the palace of Antonia, where a feeble light
still glimmered. “She cannot sleep either.”

Nero looked out. A ray of light wavered through
the thick dust. “I wonder what her thoughts are,” he
muttered.

“T can tell you. She is thinking of you and me.

We're next in line. Yes, you too.”
Renee?TEMPEST 253

“You may rest assured that she will finish you. She
has experience in such matters. She has had three hus-
bands; the first was your father—Domitius Aeno-
barbus.”

“My father,” whispered Nero.

“Her second husband was a rich patrician. They
say she poisoned him to get his fortune. And all
Claudius did, of course, was to ask for a drink.”

Nero pounced upon the words: “Yes, yes—I saw
nin

“And in spite of all that ”? Poppaea’s voice was
so loud that Nero had to hush her. “What are you
waiting for?”

Nero threw himself on the bed.

“She began it all,” he cried, “my mother! Through
her I am in this world. Through her I am here—on
this night—in this place.”

Poppaea fell beside the Emperor, her hair di-
shevelled. She tore at it, crying silently, without tears.
Nero looked at her immobile body, called her name, no
answer.

“What’s the matter?” he implored. “Why don’t you
speak? Don’t you hear me?”

His eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, could
make out the faint white gleam of her nudity. She lay
there lifeless, inert. A series of slight convulsions
shook her body, then it froze again, turned to stone.
Her eyes were fixed and glassy.

“What are you staring at? Why are your eyes like
that? She has gone mad!” he screamed. He tried to
comfort her, warmed her lips with his kisses. But she

 

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254 THE BLOODY POET

hardly seemed to breathe. A long time passed. “Oh,
how miserable we are,” moaned Nero.

With a heavy sigh, Poppaea came to herself. But
her left cheek still seemed nerveless, paralyzed. Nero
looked at the face in which he recognized a grief akin
to his own. He stared at it as if he were groping in the
past for an old memory.

“Once,” he whispered, ‘‘I had the same trouble. I
lay on the bed just as you did, I remember. And I
couldn’t fall asleep, just like tonight. The whole night
through I waited for morning.”

Poppaea was listening.

amd. e

“Morning came. I might have lain in exactly that
position. Butthen.. .”

“What?”

“‘Another day came. A banquet. Britannicus.”

Again they were silent.

Poppaea’s voice was trenchant: “And then you felt
better?”

Nero paused: “I don’t know.”

Poppaea prodded him: “Peace came, didn’t it?”

“Something like it. Stillness and silence. Ex-
haustion.”

They turned to each other. Their lips met, their
eyes stared at one another. Somehow the unuttered
words were communicated. Now their faces seemed
quite similar. On both were depicted the same torment
and the same avidity.

“But...” began Nero.TEMPEST 25D

Poppaea closed his lips with a kiss. Without a word
both felt that their thoughts were one.

“Agreed?” begged Poppaea so softly that her voice
was no louder than the sound of her breathing.

“Yes,”’ said the Emperor.

Outside the storm was still threatening. The wind
rushed through the olive-trees and turned over the leaves
so that the trees whitened for a moment and moved like
gigantic women clad in white tunics. Clouds of dust
flew about. But still no rain fell.es

 

  
    

Chapter Twenty-five
THE BEST OF MOTHERS

 

THEY CONSIDERED VARIOUS EXPEDIENTS. NERO OB-
jected to poison, for it left tell-tale spots. Poppaea
advised him to begin by affecting a reconciliation be-
tween himself and Agrippina. The Emperor acted on
the suggestion, and directed all his energies towards
placating his mother and reawakening her old confi-
dence in him. He returned the Germanic body-guard
to her. When they met, he kissed her hand. He was
quite the consummate actor.

Nero and Poppaea took Anicetus, the commander of
the fleet, into their confidence. He made an attempt to
drown her by enticing her on board a vessel filled with
lead, which was to burst on the open sea. But the hull
broke when they were near shore and Agrippina man-
aged to swim back to safety.

All three were in despair. On Poppaea’s suggestion
the ceiling of Agrippina’s bedroom was weakened and
fell down. But she was not in the room when it hap-
pened, and the position of the conspirators was only
rendered more suspicious.

Anicetus made up his mind to a final attempt. A
little before midnight, accompanied by two sailors, he
broke into the country villa where the Empress-Mother
lay ill. Battering down the doors, they forced a noisy
entrance into her chamber. Anicetus, masked and with
drawn sword, was preceded by Oloartius and Hercules,

256THE BEST OF MOTHERS 257

two gigantic sailors armed with oars. It was dark; the
oil lamp flickered feebly. A little slave-girl who was
sleeping beside the bed ran out of the room, screaming
in terror.

“Go,” said Agrippina scornfully to the fleeing maid.
She was now alone and quite aware of what was to
happen. She spoke no word, made not the slightest
entreaty; she merely defended her head with her right
hand. Nevertheless the assassins were afraid. She had
the reputation of being a witch endowed with super-
natural powers. The men did not move.

“What do you want?”

Then Oloartius sprang forward and with all his
strength struck her on the head with the oar. She grew
dizzy but still possessed enough energy to rise from bed
and look Anicetus full in the face. His sword trembled.

“Stab here!” she cried, her voice loud and command-
ing. She bared her bosom. “Here, where I suckled
Nero.”

With a single thrust Anicetus killed her.

Nero was so certain that Anicetus’ attack would be
unsuccessful that he even dared to appear this evening
in the role of Orestes, the matricide. And although his
preparation had been extremely hasty, he acted with
such fervor and passion that he was rewarded with a
storm of sincere applause. After the performance he
and Poppaea awaited the news in a neighbouring sum-
mer villa. They had sat here frequently into the late
hours of the night, waiting in circumstances similar to

this. But now they had lost all confidence. They had

ee eee5

—

 

 

258 THE BLOODY POET

deceived themselves too many times; too often they had
tasted the bitterness of defeat.

The Emperor threw his mask on the table. He never
changed his dress now; he never took off his theatrical
costume, the cothurni and the Greek mantle.

“Tt is useless to wait,” he said in despair.

“Remember the way Anicetus left us,’ Poppaea re-
minded him. ‘He was literally burning with determi-
nation. You know how he hates her.”

“But he should have been here by this time.”

“No, not yet. Her villa is quite a distance.”

““He’s been caught—killed, perhaps.”

But the probability that Anicetus had met with suc-
cess loomed larger and larger. Formerly, when the
attempt had failed, he had come back quickly with the
bad news. Now their excitement grew hourly. Nero
gave orders on no account to admit any women for he
feared that Agrippina might come herself. Then he
was struck with the fear that she might slip in disguised
as a man, perhaps wearing the mask of Anicetus.

“In that case I shall kill her myself,” he declared,
fidgeting with his sword. He assumed a position of
defence, made a few imaginary passes and looked
around for a place in which to hide in case his mother
should attack with armed soldiers.

Poppaea listened. Not a sound was to be heard.

“Who is that?”’ Nero asked.

“Nobody,” she answered.

“It seems to me I heard footsteps,” said the Emperor.
“They were her footsteps.”

“It’s only the guard.”E'S Sorse:

THE BEST OF MOTHERS 259

The guard passed to and fro softly. The night was
calm and still; the sea hardly moved. The heavens
were afire with large stars.

At last Anicetus arrived on horseback and alone.
In front of the villa he was stopped and questioned;
only after he had proved his identity was he allowed to
enter. Terrified at the idea of being recognized
by whoever it was that was coming, Nero snatched
at the mask lying on the table and fastened it on his
face.

“Ts it done?”’ asked Poppaea.

Anicetus nodded reassuringly. Then he asked for
wine and emptied a whole jug at one draught.

“Ts she dead?” persisted Poppaea.

Again Anicetus nodded.

“Impossible,” cried Nero through his mask. “She is
not dead. You don’t know her. She’s only shamming.
With her long lids she can imitate sleep to perfection.
She closes her eyes, grows pale, stops breathing. How
often I’ve seen her do it! Then she breaks out into a
horrible laugh. Even under the water she didn’t drown;
she crept about for hours at the bottom of the sea and
then emerged unharmed. Not even the ocean could
kill her. Show me your sword!”

There was not a spot on it.

“She’s alive!” cried Nero. “She’s on her way here.
Or perhaps she’s flown.”

“Soldiers are guarding the villa,” Anicetus assured
him, “and the surrounding neighbourhood, too. A whole
horde of them.”

“But who is guarding her?”eae

PE ee

 

  

260 THE BLOODY POET

“Oloartius and Hercules.”

“Just the two of them? She’ll soon be rid of them.”

“She died—at once,” repeated Anicetus. “I pierced
her through.”

“T don’t believe it. I must see for myself.”

Anicetus and Poppaea asked incredulously: “You?”

“Yes. Atonce. I want to see her,” said Nero, shud-
dering. There was a fixed smile of terror on his face.

Poppaea decided to enjoy a contented and peaceful
slumber while Nero and Anicetus rose and proceeded
to the villa. Once inside, Nero stood still, staring at his
mother. Her body had been placed on the bed; at her
head torches burned and hissed in a silence which had
a hypnotic effect on Nero.

“Mother,” he whispered, “my poor mother!” He
sank down before the bed. The corpse seemed power-
ful, gigantic, mountainous. Even in death she domi-
nated everything.

“How beautiful she is,” said Nero. “I had no idea
she was so beautiful.” He lifted the hand, now growing
icy. “Her hand is so delicate and velvety. And her
arm too is so firm, almost youthful. But her shoulders
are like a man’s. Broken, too—where the oar struck
it. Shameful.” He looked into her eyes. “But her
eyes are wicked. Anicetus, why are you silent?”

“What can I say?”

“Ah, you cannot grasp the meaning of all this. Com-
pared with this, the entire tragedy of the Atridae is

nothing at all. Only I who stand here can see what it
means.”THE BEST OF MOTHERS 261

He rose from beside the bed, straightened up and re-
' garded the corpse with cold eyes.

“Let us sing,” he said, and began to recite a song
from his Agamemnon, the lament of Orestes after he
has slain his mother. “My mother and my father,
Clytemnestra-Agrippina and Agamemnon . . . Domi-
tius . . . , what can thy son, the orphaned Orestes, the
mad poet, the frenzied player, what shall he offer to
thy souls in sacrifice? The sound of singing, tears and
sorrow unending—these shall he offer. To the son the
mother gives life; to the mother the son gives death.
Thus is the debt cancelled; for, as the poet says, the
mother bestows the gift of death at the same time that
she bestows that of life. Let us cry it aloud that the
deaf ears of the dead may hear it, that the blind eyes,
darkened with the darkness of night, may see it. De-
scend into the confines of Hades, O thou who thirsted
for my life and who crowned me with a wreath as thou
plotted against me. For I live no longer. I am but
a shade, nourishing itself on blood, dazed in the moon-
light. I fear thee not for though thou art monstrous,
yet more monstrous am I. I bless thee, sweet serpent.
And now must I take my way hence. To thee, O moan-
ing rocks, weeping rivers, blazing fires, to thee does
my path lead me.” He was about to leave but suddenly
recoiled.

“And you—are you here too?” he asked in terror.
‘All as it was in the drama. Toothless furies standing
at the door with their hags’ mouths. The Erinnyes with
grey, blood-stained hair—there they are, crouching onee

 

262 THE BLOODY POET

the threshold! But they are not screaming—they are
laughing! I forbid it. Stop laughing! Let me out!
She-wolves!” He croaked the words hoarsely: “Trag-
edy! Tragedy!”

The trumpets sounded as he drove away from the
villa.

“Stop that trumpeting!” he cried wrathfully.

It was still dark when he reached his villa. All alone
he entered the house. He stopped short in the center
of a room. Outside he heard the peal of the trumpets.

“Why are they trumpeting?” he asked himself, whim-
pering. Then he called out in a voice of entreaty:
“Stop! Stop the trumpeting.”

He wanted to reach Poppaea, who was sleeping in
one of the inner rooms, but the unfamiliar villa con-
fused him; he tottered into one of the rooms, fell to the
floor and lay there, unable to rise. He tore the mask
from his visage and kept fingering his naked face in
the darkness. It was getting toward dawn when Pop-
paea stumbled over him, crouching on the floor, his
head sunk on his knees, staring into space. Beside him
lay the mask. His hands seemed to be stroking the floor
with regular movements.

Poppaea was frightened.

“What are you doing there?”

The Emperor tried to speak but his tongue would
not utter a syllable. His hand continued to move,
groping about on the floor as if it were trying to form
letters of the alphabet .. .Chapter Twenty-six

THE STATESMAN

 

 

NERO HAD NEVER BOTHERED HIMSELF ABOUT HIS
dreams; but now he began to remember visions which,
though they were really quite insignificant, haunted
him persistently during his waking hours. His mother
never appeared directly in these dreams. They were
filled rather with a series of little incidents fraught
with meaning for him alone. Once, for example, he
saw the statue that stands before the theater of
Pompeii move from its base and begin to walk
slowly, very slowly; its bronze forehead sweated.
Another time he felt himself wandering endlessly
through a dark corridor, unable to find his way
out.

He ascribed these apparitions to the fact that he
was lying too near the place where his mother had been
murdered. On this account he left the summer villa
and returned to the city with Poppaea. In Rome he
made no attempt at seeking out his old friends or diver-
sions; himself—control gone, he sat motionless in one
spot with the apathy of an imbecile.

With Seneca he was perfectly frank. He looked him
straight in the face, saying softly: “Yes, I had my
mother murdered.”

He articulated the words with an exaggerated em-
phasis, revelling in the horror of the confession. Even
in his youth Nero had always enjoyed disparaging him-

263i
(
1
to
t
)

 

 

264 THE BLOODY POET

self, but the pleasure he derived from it had never
been so keen as at present:

As for Seneca, he could not help recoiling before the
matricide. Armed though he was with his stoical wis-
dom he was unable to regard Nero with indifference.
After all, he had educated him; Nero was like a spirit-
ual child of his; and finally, it was he who had first
indicated to him the path of the poet.

“But I dream so much,” went on Nero nervously.
“I’m always having dreams. If I could only get rid of
them. If I could only see nothing when I close my
eyes. These eyes I can close—but the inner eyes, the
ones that see the dreams—never!”

Involuntarily Seneca closed his own eyes to blot out
the face of the Emperor. He was unwilling to acknowl-
edge the repulsion he felt toward him; he refused to
analyze it. Formerly, even if he were greatly agitated,
the artist within him would have dominated, he would
have met Nero’s glance firmly and noted down as good
poetic material the dreadful words he had just heard.
Attempting to recover his old attitude, he controlled
himself and came to a decision. His countenance as-
sumed a mask of casualness.

“Tet us examine the facts in the case,” he began.

Nero paid no attention but continued to groan: “I am
a matricide.”

In Rome matricide was considered the blackest of
crimes. Pompey had issued a decree of the utmost
severity which even today remained valid and enforce-
able. The matricide was sewn up in a leather sack,
together with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape, and

ITHE STATESMAN 265

then thrown into the sea. Once Nero had witnessed a
punishment of this sort. Dressed in a brown toga, the
condemned had been led to the sea’s edge. A bell was
hung about his neck and wooden clogs bound under his
feet so that mother earth might not be desecrated.
Finally the lictors scourged his naked body with elm-
switches before placing him in the sack. Nero could
not put the scene out of his mind.

Seneca, who really wished to end Nero’s suffering,
went on: “Let us abandon all this hysteria and examine
the affair calmly.”

“Y had my mother killed.”

“She was the enemy of the State,” declared Seneca
firmly. “And besides you did not have her killed at
all. She brought on her own death—she committed
suicide by another’s hand, so to speak. What is evil
is bound to destroy itself. There is no need for you to
weep over it.”

“T don’t understand you.”

“Tt is absolutely undeniable, is it not, that she incited
the Senate against you, that she stirred up all the re-
bellious elements in the city, that she surrounded her-
self with them and finally that she desired to arrogate
to herself the imperial power which belongs to you?
These are all facts everyone of which has been clearly
proved.”

“‘But—but it’s murder all the same.”

Seneca raised his eyebrows. “Murder? Call it po-
litical necessity and dismiss the matter. There is no
need to be frightened by the sound of a meré word.
Naked phrases always seem terrible, like empty skulls;266 THE BLOODY POET

and, like skulls, they are meaningless—they have no
life, they lack the warm human blood which lends them
significance. Let us therefore put words aside and
consider only what would have happened had this inci-
dent not occurred. She would have continued her agi-
tation, the army would have disintegrated, civil war
would have broken out and citizens and soldiers have
indulged in a riot of mutual butchery. Would that have
been any better? Are you willing to admit sincerely
that you would have felt yourself more merciful, more
guiltless if instead of one life many thousands had been
destroyed and the Capitol and the Palatine been covered
with a mountain of corpses?”

Nero reflected. Then he raised his head fearfully.
“They say that just after the murder a woman gave
birth to a snake and drops of blood fell from the
BhGaki

“Ridiculous superstitions!” was the impatient re-
sponse of the poet who was also something of a scien-
tist. “A woman cannot give birth to a snake and the
sky can never rain blood. Why don’t you trust the
reality before you? It may be more terrible, but it is
at least more trustworthy than phantasies of that sort.”

He bent over and whispered impressively into Nero’s
ear: “Is it not rather strange that no one since the be-
ginning of the world has dared to make an unqualified
statement to the effect that one should never kill? A
few philosophers, no doubt, were correct in their en-
deavours to restrain the passions of men. But even they
did not urge us to surrender everything to him who robs
you or to let ourselves be killed by him. No, youa

THE STATESMAN 267

should defend yourself, you are entitled to kill the
assassin; everywhere this is considered a just and legal
necessity. Of course there is always some special
justification which makes of murder a sacred or tra-
ditional duty: the safeguarding of the public interest,
the necessity of supporting the Empire or the need for
avenging a crime. But all these justifications are of no
real importance; the primary fact remains that there
exists a general recognition of the necessity for shedding
blood. All of us, valetudinarians, sages, members of
any philosophic school, we can all see that it would be
pleasanter to live without bloodshed; but it is an earthly
impossibility because there are conflicts arising among
men which can be resolved only by the sword.”

“But there are men who abstain, those who are natu-
rally meek and tender-hearted, are there not?”

““Yes and they are the real murderers, for they are
cowards and hypocrites. Afraid to admit that they are
human, they shrink before the lamentable final con-
clusion to be drawn from that fact. They forbear to
step on a beetle and shed an ocean of tears over the
death of a nestling. But they are perfectly willing,
nevertheless, to accept the benefits of law and order
which are a direct result of the fact that men kill and
continue to kill. They make themselves quite comfort-
able and leave to others the disagreeable work, they
turn their back to it as if it had nothing to do with them.
Nevertheless they are not willing to expel the execu-
tioner who is the one check on assassins and murderers.
As far as I am concerned, I consider every man, even
the blackest criminal, innocent. After I comprehend——

ae

ba

cee

Hi
a
ie

 

  

268 THE BLOODY POET

the peculiar circumstances and conditions of his life
I see that all his actions are inevitable, for otherwise he
would not commit them. Looking at the matter from a
philosophical point of view, I am of the opinion that
there is no such thing as a guilty person, that we are not
entitled to judge, that I as an individual am entirely
incapable of understanding what is guilt and what is
innocence. On the other hand, an even higher philo-
sophical doctrine teaches us that there are predestined
guilty ones, there always must be some that we must
judge and condemn. It is unfortunate that those people
must suffer who are declared guilty on the basis of an
entirely fortuitous set of conventions which varies from
age to age. They are simply the moral scapegoats who
make it possible for the rest of mankind to live in
peace.”

“How terrible!”” Nero shrank back in consternation
before this relentless logic.

“Terrible? Not at all,” said Seneca emphatically.
“Merely human. Or let us simply call whatever is
human, terrible. History has no use for such words.
What do we see? We see that the soft ones who shrink
from action, who are unable to control the forces op-
posing them, have always caused more harm than those
who held fast to their ambitions and, whenever neces-
sary, bleed men as the physicians do. It is always the
dreamers who are guilty, those who insist on peace and
goodwill; for they are building on sand, they are
placing their faith in something which may be beautiful
as an idea but which does not exist in reality. Only its
opposite has a real form. A stone becomes no lighterTHE STATESMAN 269

if I call it a feather and a man becomes no better if |
call him God.”

“That’s true,” asserted Nero.

“At present, unfortunately,” said Seneca, with a sigh,
“we all kill one another. The stronger devours the
weaker, as do the fish. The nimble gladiator pierces
the less nimble, the great poet silences the poor one.
Mercy does not exist. And that will be the case possibly
for thousands of years to come. I can hardly believe
with some philosophers that this condition will improve
in future ages. Primitive man had to creep about on
all fours, whereas I can fly by rapidly in my chariot
because I happen to be acquainted with the principle of
the wheel and axle. But that is not progress for both
of us after all are doing the same thing—moving for-
ward. Real progress would mean the ability to con-
quer ourselves by means of intelligence. When two
brothers divide an inheritance and do not begin to hate
each other merely because one receives a hundred ses-
tertii more than the other—that would be progress. But
I refuse to believe that men will ever reach that state.”

He paused.

“‘And what is truth?” asked Nero suddenly.

“Truth? Alas, there is no truth. That is to say,
there are as many truths as there are human beings.
To each person his own truth. No one of these truths
can ever become supreme because they are all at odds
with each other. Yet from these various truths a cold,
ingenious, marble-like falsehood may be constructed
which men shall be induced to call truth. To construct
that falsehood is the duty of the ruler—your duty. Youeee

Pcie 2

 

   

  

270 THE BLOODY POET

must understand that we philosophers have no definite
knowledge of what is good and what is evil. We write
a lot of nonsense about it and instruct our readers so
as to make them softer and milder; but actually we our-
selves are filled with doubt. Choose for your guidance
the man who acts without too much reflection, the states-
man who courageously takes upon himself a vigorous
course of action, even if it lead to murder; and remem-
ber that he would only have been killed himself if he
had not struck first. If evil is necessary, commit evil
and you will become mankind’s greatest benefactor.

Nothing constrains you. There is no law but your own.

There is no morality. You are morality. Let you be

the judge of how millions shall live. Do not shrink

before insignificant scruples, and be especially careful

not to confuse art with politics. In politics disinterested

detachment is not a virtue but a dishonourable thing.

Anyone who plays politics in a selfless manner is a

stupid clown without any right to open his mouth. Be

obedient only to your own interests and your own will.
Then you will be on the right path and everything you
wish to do will be the right thing to do.”

Seneca was in a transport of enthusiasm.

“Emperor!” he exclaimed. ‘Emperor, cease our
melancholy brooding. I do not recognize you in this
guise. Every statesman since the beginning of the world
has known by instinct what I have just said. Look at
the images of the Emperors and the statues of the states-
men in the Forum. Their sunken faces criss-crossed
with deep wrinkles, their sleepless foreheads immortal-
ized in bronze and marble, all bear witness to the factTHE STATESMAN Ort

that these men were nurtured on this belief, that they
were familiar with the unmeasured vulgarity of men,
with their corruption and all their feebleness and ir-
resolution. Yet out of all this they created something
immortal and divine. The poets know the heights of
heaven, but the others know the earth and all the dirt
and vileness on the earth.”

The orator was in his element, happy in the exercise
of his old profession. Once he had been the first to
set Nero on his poetic career; now he was turning him
back to a life of action, trying to make him espouse all
the values from which he himself had estranged him.
Cautiously, step by step, he led the Emperor along the
new path, certain now that he had chosen rightly for
him, assured of the effect of his words. Nero was
listening attentively, but Seneca felt that a last on-
slaught was necessary.

“‘And that is why I am amazed at your scruples,
which would do credit to a slave, but not to you. Who is
a murderer? I answer, every human being that lives
is a murderer! Yesterday I was out walking. By acci-
dent I was not busy with my thoughts as I generally am.
I had finished my day’s work and my head was agree-
ably empty of ideas. In this pleasant mood I hap-
pened to notice a chariot bearing down rapidly on a
helpless old woman who neither saw nor heard her
danger. I gave a warning cry and she jumped to one
side. I had saved her life. But if I had not yet finished
writing my Moral Epistle on friendliness and cheerful-
ness, my mind would surely have been occupied by the
subject, I would have paid no attention to what was——— - - ——

——————_

Pees.

BIZ THE BLOODY POET

going on and the old woman would inevitably have been
run over. In that case would I have been a murderer?
Who can say? And we are all caught in exactly the
same net. The life and death of all of us, the destinies
of nations, depend on our most insignificant gestures.
Today a fly chances to rest on my nose, tomorrow a
war may break out in consequence. If we pay too much
attention to life we are apt to lose it. And this is true
in infinitely greater measure as far as the ruler is con-
cerned. Trample your conscience in the dust. No real
ruler has ever known the meaning of conscience. Do
not be oppressed with the only thing troubling you at
present—fear of yourself. Julius Caesar was respon-
sible for the deaths of more innocent men than the total
murders committed by all the assassins now in prison;
but this did not prevent him from sitting calmly in his
tent and dictating his memoirs of the Gallic War, or
enjoying a sweet sleep after the bloodiest battles. As
they clearly deserved nothing else, he despised men
and consciously opposed himself to them; he chose life
as an antagonist. The majestic statue you are familiar
with, with its bald head and laurel wreath, knew also
how to cringe and flatter, how to compliment, how to
keep silent. He set himself against the Senate, par-
ticipated in the conspiracy of Catiline, and at the last
moment shamefully left his companions in the lurch.
Cicero, his advocate, was barely able to save him. Had
they seized him at that moment he would have been
nothing but an unknown name in the list of those exe-
cuted. And how hypocritical he was in all his later
actions! While in exile he learned what power wasa

THE STATESMAN ZT

and how he could attain to it. He called himself an
aristocrat, the great-grandson of Venus, but he was
clever enough to ally himself with the plebeians. With
no shred of belief in any god, he had himself chosen
high priest of all the gods. He conquered Britain and
with the money he was able to extort, he bought the

souls of Romans. A petty offence is always an outrage, .

a great one never is. And so the list of his deeds heap
up; whether they were really good or bad, I know not;
I know only that they were effective. He swept aside
all merely human opposition, subjected his enemies to
his own service, and out of this refractory material

built up his character, which today we do not criticize |

but only admire. Although the whole world was bent
upon subduing him, he would not let himself be con-
quered. He had strength for the conflict, for he knew
what he could do, he knew that as far as this world was
concerned he was its morality and its law. I am saying
things that I have refrained from writing down, but
they contain all the experience of a long life. I give
them to you freely. Use them; learn to judge properly
and let this wisdom be your guide. Be you also Cesar!”

Seneca grasped Nero’s hand: the latter rose to his
feet. The orator felt that he had made up Nero’s mind
for him. The Emperor had now recovered his good
spirits; his head was clear, Seneca’s encouraging speech
had reanimated him. Satisfied, the philosopher em-
braced his disciple, although he perceived clearly that
Nero was destined to be neither a ruler nor an artist.
In art he was too cruel and inhuman, like a ruler; and
~ in politics he was too sensitive, like a poet. A bad poetee

Se RE TRO

 

 

274 THE BLOODY POET

and a bad ruler, thought Seneca. But for the time being
even this was a triumph. They parted and the Emperor
walked briskly out of the hall. As he reached his own
apartment, far from his master, he heard once more
the sound of the trumpets .. .Chapter Twenty-seven

THE CHARIOTEER

 

 

“Now I CAN MARRY YOU,” HE SAID To Poppaga,
dully.

They were sitting in the throne-room. Poppaea
looked at him with the same dull expression in her
eyes. Nero was thinking how irresistible his desire had
been when he had first seen her and how uninspiring
the entire matter now appeared. As for Poppaea her
mind was filled with the thought that her struggle had
ended at last. But the fulfillment of their dreams
brought no particular pleasure to either of them. They
had painted their triumph in more glowing colours.

And so Poppaea ascended the throne. She became a
delicate, graceful Empress, more like an actress. Her
flower-like smile radiated from a throne which dwarfed
her completely, the same throne which had formerly
been occupied by Agrippina with her stern and gloomy
countenance and her masculine manners. Poppaea, on
the contrary, was essentially feminine. Yet her softness
did not in the least conflict with her majesty. She bore
herself with a distinction as natural as that of her prede-
cessors. A simple nod of her head could express a
great deal. She always awoke the feeling that she was
a woman as well as an Empress, and this made the
charm which she diffused from her position of eminence
doubly attractive.

She no longer took such painstaking care with her

275276 THE BLOODY POET

toilette. Now it was not at all necessary that she always
look fresh and vivacious, for when one is an Empress,
languor and an air of boredom have an equally gracious
effect. Besides, success was the best cosmetic and the
best of all methods for retaining the beauty of her body.
She slept a great deal, lived a quiet life and was amiable
to everyone. Consequently she became extremely popu-
lar, for people saw in her only the simple and universal
charm of a lovely woman. She was already weary of
strife. Her final success did not fill her with any ex-
cessive gratitude, for it was not at all proportional to
the desires and struggles which had preceded it. After
a short time she stopped feeling any surprise at her
position; she felt that she had always been Empress.

In Nero’s eyes Poppaea was still extremely charm-
ing; she softened and glorified the severity and gloom
of the court. Yet they had hardly anything to say to
each other. They wasted no words in reviewing the
past and they were no longer interested in the future.
For the most part the conversation was carried on by the
Emperor while Poppaea leaned back in her chair, com-
pletely bored.

“That last poem of mine,” Nero would begin.

“Oh yes, your poem... .”

“My triumph in. . .”

Hany your triumph . . .”

UMiplans .. <7”

monn plans ... .

He would have liked to tell her his troubles, but never
tried to do so after the first attempt. This was when he
recounted one of his bad dreams to her and asked her

22THE CHARTIOTEER OTe

softly, seeking comfort, what it might mean. But
Poppaea replied brusquely that it was foolish to meddle
with things of that sort.

The old gay-hearted companions of his youth disap-
peared and were scattered about the various parts of the
world. Otho still governed in Lusitania. Zodicus and
Fannius were busy with their school. Seneca’s enemies
brought suit against him for usury, and he was occupied
with his defence. Passively the Emperor watched his
master sinking into the mud of the law process. But
Seneca would have been unable to visit him in any
case; he had grown so old and weak that he was forced
to lie for hours in his garden, seeing nobody.

The world was a tedious place, whether one looked
within or without. Nero attempted unsuccessfully to
amuse himself with this or that hobby and to realize
the plans he had conceived as a youth. His gardeners
exerted themselves in an effort to cross violets and roses
in the hope of producing a flower that would have the
shape of one and the perfume of the other. Then Nero
tried to cross doves and eagles. As the red and white
of the palace marble began to bore him, he had his
halls decorated with a combination of blue and yellow
paint. But his feeling of boredom did not vanish.

The theater too had lost its old-time glamour. The
acting lacked enthusiasm and as a result the audiences
were sparse. The people were now more attracted to
the open air; they frequented the circus to watch bloody
gladiatorial combats and chariot races which could
stimulate their excitement to the point of frenzy. As
the actors went out of fashion, their places were filledoe THE BLOODY POET

by the charioteers, rough fellows all of them, pampered
favourites of the mob, plebeians to the core.

Nero became a charioteer. Although his body had
grown flabby and quite incapable of pursuing military
exercises, a severe course of training proved not alto-
gether fruitless. His first attempt was with but two
horses; then at the Pythian games he appeared with
four; and finally, at the Isthmian games, with six. Now
his daily entourage consisted of a crowd of noisy
charioteers who spent their easily earned money like
water. Chariot-racing had a good effect on the Em-
peror’s physical condition. His face became tanned
and freckled and he began to resemble his companions.
To all appearances, he was a stout, thickset driver who
talked only about horses and prizes, and never felt
really comfortable unless he were leaning forward in
his chariot, with the wind whipping past him and his
whole body tense with frenzied excitement.

This form of intoxication, this barbaric stimulus that
he felt only while racing, was an urgent need because
quiet and inactivity made him restless and he could not
endure being alone ina room. He reached the pinnacle
of happiness when he felt his chariot flying along the
course and his horses racing so madly that their hoofs
hardly touched the ground. Four hundred thousand
people lost in admiration, crowded between the Pala-
tine and the Aventine, thronging the benches and the
space in front of the Circus, perched on trees and roof-
tops. At moments like these he felt a deep content
invade him. As he rushed past he could distinguish
only three colours: the blue of the sky, the green of theTHE CHARIOTEER 279

grass, the brown of the earth. Then a tremendous mass
would come into view: the faces of the audience, which
eradually melted into a single sphinx-like countenance,
the mob. There would be tiny gaps in this countenance,
thousands of bellowing mouths, shrieking encourage-
ment: he must win, win!

This was the greatest race of the season; he stood in
the chariot whose top rim reached his hips, the reins
lashed about him, in his girdle a short, sharp knife with
which he could cut loose his bound body in case of
danger. He waited for the gate to rise and the white
cloth, signal for the start, to be thrown across the track.
He glanced darkly at the three charioteers who were to
be his opponents. With difficulty he restrained his
horses who, their ears plastered stiffly back, their eyes
moving restlessly, waited for the crack of the whip.

The signal was given; for a moment the tension
broke; then he was tearing along madly, as oblivious
as the dust thrown up by his chariot-wheels. He was
hidden in clouds of sand, an immense roar pressed
against his ear-drums. The crowd bellowed and sprang
up on the benches as they spied the Emperor. He
coursed along in the lead, dressed in a short green tunic,
his fleshy arm raised high, gripping the reins tightly,
and his dark brows set in furious determination. The
other three charioteers, dressed in white, red, and bright
blue tunics, were close on his heels. The owners of
these chariots grew agitated, but the fickle mob, uncon-
cerned with the losers, transferred itself wholesale to
Nero’s side; every throat shouted his name.

As his chariot flew down the course he enjoyed a280 THE BLOODY POET

confused sensation of triumph. He whizzed by a low
enclosing rampart, made an abrupt turn and felt a
sharp, sweet, tingling sensation along his spine as he
passed the pillar marking the place where many a driver
had broken his neck. Now the course was open before
him. Through his mind flashed the thought of his
father, the laureled charioteer who had won many
prizes in his youth.

The course had to be traversed seven times and the
circuits were indicated by seven metal dolphins, high
above the track. Each time the main gate was reached
one of them disappeared. The chariots were close upon
each other. Nero tightened’ his body, strained forward.
His horses panted, champed their bits, their eyes flashed
with pain, their flanks shone with sweat. The drivers
forgot that they were competing with the Emperor; they
shrieked and cursed, tormented by an angry impatience.
All four whips were working feverishly. The audience
crowded forward; many struck at each other in their
wild excitement.

The last course. The chariots shot by statues and
trees: now came the most perilous-turn. It was danger-
ous for the others to pass Nero, for the mob, disap-
pointed in its expectation of Nero’s victory, would not
hesitate at beating the charioteers to death. The axles
rattled furiously, threw off sparks. The spectators
seemed to be driving the chariots onward with the force
of their desire. Nero’s eyes were set blindly. His
horses reared; with a mad tug at the reins, he forced
them into line and, making the final turn so sharply that
he could hardly believe his own senses, he arrived firstTHE CHARIOTEER 281

at the goal.

He kept on shrieking and did not calm down until he
had been released from the reins. His ten full-blooded
African horses were trembling. He himself could
hardly stand erect. He looked up at his secretary and
pointed to the goal.

“That—that white chalk-line is the goal, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Epaphroditus.

“Yes,” repeated the Emperor, his hands pressed to
his head. “I made that last turn like a madman.” He
spoke hesitatingly, as if he did not quite know where
he was. “I literally flew, like Icarus. It was divine.”

His tunic was drenched and odorous with sweat. As
he changed his clothing his heavy body was revealed:
shapeless, covered with brown spots.

Accompanied by Epaphroditus he got into his sedan-
chair, silent, his face set, his eyes bloodshot. Arriving
at the palace, he walked into the park alone and stepped
before the statue of Jupiter.

“T conquered,” he whispered. “Mine is the victor’s
wreath. If you could only have seen me, O proud one.
But no, you refuse to look at me. Or perhaps you are
wrathful because I am greater than you.” He straight-
ened up and faced the highest god, radiating arrogance.
He wished that he could evoke a storm in order to show
Jupiter that his power was as great as that of the gods.
Softly he uttered a command; he was answered by the
sound of thunder. He closed his eyes, opened them
again, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the
heavens.

“Did you see that?” he said to the statue.Chapter Twenty-eight

DORYPHORUS

 

 

DorRYPHORUS NOW HAD HARDLY ANY WORK TO DO.
He received no more poems from the Emperor. Instead
of copying hexameters, he made up bills of festival
expenses which the treasury, unable to meet, often re-
turned to him. The games and chariot-races used up
all the funds and the little that came in from the prov-
inces was swallowed up by the city in a few weeks. A
great deal of money was needed, but where was it to be
obtained? The temples of Greece and Asia Minor were
empty, despoiled by the legionaries; the taxes were so
high that complaints were heard from the rich and poor
alike. The very people who frequented the circuses
often had nothing to eat during the Spring months, for
the arrival of the grain ships was very uncertain. In
front of the temples and at the bridge heads, the streets
were crowded with beggars; and the unemployed pa-
raded through the city in hordes.

One day the red flag, signal of war, was raised on
the Capitol. Britain had been the first to revolt, under
the leadership of a powerful yellow-haired woman,
Boadicea. Burrus was no longer alive; he had died one
day quite unexpectedly. Suetonius Paulus, the new
commander, was killed by the rebels, who also com-
pletely wiped out the ninth legion. Since then no order
could be established.

But none of these things troubled the scribe sitting

282DORYPHORUS 283

among his archives. He raised his tired eyes from his
manuscripts and glanced up at Poppaea’s rooms in the
palace. The seed that had been so casually planted
continued to sprout. Every day was eventful, full of
daring fancies which were never to be realized, little
imaginary adventures both gay and tragic, trifling quar-
rels and reconciliations, all of which he himself in-
vented to eke out the barrenness of his existence. His
dream life owed nothing to reality; he was too proud
to borrow from his slender stock of reminiscence. Only
once, in the park, had he walked with Poppaea and he
did not want to meet her again. He was afraid of the
emotions she would arouse. But every evening he
traversed the memory-laden path beside the lake; and
this practice seemed to indicate such complete disso-
luteness to the innocent boy, such defiant degeneracy,
that he was amazed that people did not point him out.
This was the reason for his timid and reticent conduct.
He felt sure that everybody knew exactly what sinful
thoughts were passing in his heart. Actually no one
knew anything of the sort; even Poppaea ‘hardly re-
membered him. Once she passed by in her sedan-chair
without noticing him, and another time she seemed to
have glanced at him questioningly, as if she were asking
herself who this boy might be. Doryphorus had
blushed, with a secret consciousness of guilt, and
hastened on, pretending not to have seen her.

Poppaea fell a victim to boredom. Past mistress in
the art of passion and surfeited with embraces, she no
longer cared anything for love-making. Perhaps the
young Doryphorus, however, might still have interested284 THE BLOODY POET

her, had she been at all cognizant of what he concealed
within his breast. Perhaps she might have plunged once
more into the sharp, corrosive passion of youth; she
might have held out her hand to him, closed her eyes,
asked him to kiss her shoulder, her neck . . . But
youth is silent.

For a long time Doryphorus kept up his pretence,
putting on a proud demeanour, acting as if he were un-
conscious of those around him. But as weeks and
months slipped by without his meeting Poppaea, he
began to lose his grip on himself. Fantasy ceased to be
of any help. Finally the boy, whose shameful love
filled him with such terror that the very thought of a
meeting made him tremble, decided to visit the imperial
palace unbidden. The guard, who knew him well, ad-
mitted him without question. He met no one. Slowly,
drooping with melancholy, he wandered through the
halls, not knowing where he wanted to go. He had even
forgotten to tie the laces of his sandals.

In the study where he had once spoken with Nero and
Poppaea he halted; the sight of the furniture recalled
his first encounter with her. As if looking for some-
thing, he lounged from one room into another and
finally reached Poppaea’s bed-chamber. Automati-
cally, he entered; hesitated for a moment, then sank
down before the bed, weeping bitterly like one before
the tomb of his beloved. Everything he had been con-
trolling for these many months burst forth now. Aim-
lessly, hopelessly, Doryphorus waited, although the
shadows were already gathering and it was growing

dark.DORYPHORUS 285

And so the Emperor found him, his head sunk on
the bed. Nero’s fury was like a single flash of light-
ning. In a moment, the youth was in the grip of two
slaves.

“Here,” said Nero to the attendants.

They put something before him. Doryphorus knew
what it was. He put it in his mouth, devouring it with
fierce avidity. Then he sank down beside the bed.

Nero brought in Poppaea.

“Do you know who this is?” he asked her, smiling.

“‘No,—some young man.”

“You don’t know him?”

Na?

“Think hard.”

“Ah,” said Poppaea, in whom a faint recollection was
stirring. “It’s the scribe who used to copy your verses.
I remember talking to him once, in the garden.”

She gazed at the corpse. The young forehead was
encircled by locks of disheveled hair. Suddenly all
that the scribe had never expressed in words became
clear to her. She turned to Nero.

“Why?” she asked.

“‘Because he came in here.”

“Poor boy,” said Poppaea with sincere pity. A wave
of sadness overcame her. “What have you done?”

“T punished him.”

“You should never have done it,” said Poppaea, and
turned away from him in horror. This was the first,
time she had experienced this feeling. Up to now she
had merely despised him.

“Did you love him?” asked Nero.

ee

NOTES I OT TITLE EO Pas aa

eee Se ee286 THE BLOODY POET

“No, I never loved him,” she replied emphatically.

hui ae”

“T am very sorry for him.” Her tone was so melan-
choly that even Nero was affected. He tried to embrace
her, but she repulsed him.

As time went on Doryphorus remained much in her
thoughts. Nero began to feel that it had been an over-
hasty deed which would only bring further agony to
him. He wished that the whole affair had never
occurred.

“Still, it was the highest insolence,” he said, to still
the pangs of conscience.

He began to devote himself to the races again, but
met with decreasing success and a good deal of mis-
fortune. Once he got off to a bad start, fell from his
chariot, hurt his forehead and was booed by the mob.
But now he would recognize no rivals. He simply
gestured for the other chariots to stop and declared
himself winner.

Another time he returned home in a mood of black
despondency. He had come in last, and even the judges
had not been able to render him any assistance. In his
rage and despair he had given orders to destroy the
statues of the victors which were ranged about the
Circus. Poppaea greeted him with reproaches for
spending all his time at the races. Nero’s only reply
was to strike the table savagely with his whip.

“Give it up,” said Poppaea.

“What?”

“The whole thing. You can see you're not fitted forDORYPHORUS 287

it.” Her expression was one of patient weariness.
““You’re always beaten.”

Nero could not believe his ears. ‘Who is beaten?”

“You,” she said with a curl of her lip. “It’s really
ridiculous. Everyone’s laughing.”

Nero still thought Poppaea was joking, and expected
her to withdraw her words the next minute.

“Laughing at you,” she continued, “yes, you,” and
she pointed her finger at the Emperor, sitting there in
his driver’s costume, with his high iron-tipped boots,
whip in hand. Then, laughing scornfully, she slipped
out.

Poppaea continued to look very melancholy, and
after a few days, the Emperor accused her:

“You were weeping.”

No.7"

“You are melancholy.” He looked at her fixedly.
“Doryphorus?”

“No,” replied Poppaea, “you needn’t worry. He’s
dead.”

Now Poppaea had a new source of power. Behind
her stood another ally, Doryphorus, the dead lover, just
as Britannicus, the dead poet, had once helped her.

But between these two ghosts Nero was tortured; he
worked himself into such a state that he refused to re-
ceive anyone. Suddenly he began to have hallucina-
tions that spies had for some mysterious reason been
sent to watch his every movement. Whenever he walked
out he imagined that he was being followed by these288 THE BLOODY POET

spies. He would stand still, shuddering, waiting for
them to rush upon him and drag him away with their
iron hands toward some dreadful fate. But the men
would always walk on quite peacefully.

He suffered most acutely from the fact that Poppaea
would not talk with him. He must win her love back
at any cost. He gave orders to have Octavia killed.

At the age of eleven, Octavia had been given in mar-
riage to Nero. She lost mother, father, and brother,
lived four long years in exile, weeping and trembling
with terror, and when she was eighteen her sorrows
ended.

Her head was brought to Rome; Poppaea wanted to
see it. It was sad and pale. The black hair clung
softly to the forehead, as in life. The eyes suddenly
opened. Poppaea returned the dead glance with a long
look of hatred. For a moment the eyes remained open,

then, as if tired by the struggle, closed. Her second
BOUL. is «Chapter Twenty-nine
REVOLUTION

  
 

 

ON THE TIBER A SHIP WAS PREPARING TO PUT TO SEA,
laden with clothes, raw materials, household utensils
and other furnishings destined for London, for the
suffering people of Britain who had become impover-
ished during the war. Hardly had it got under way
when another boat neared the harbour bearing wine
from Greece in jugs and leather bottles. Stevedores
lumbered by carrying the cargo on their heads and
shoulders; and the merchants who were expecting con-
signments of goods gave hurried commands to their
labourers. Another galley laden with flax and African
spices from Alexandria was unloaded by the light of
torches. Orientals appeared on the deck to look at the
strange city of wonder and attempted to converse with
the Romans by the aid of interpreters. The latter were
generally a shiftless crowd from the provinces who were
despised even by the beggars.

Then a ship bearing a crew of sailors from the fleet
drew up the Tiber, which shimmered like a great S in
the darkness. Making a terrific uproar, cursing, quar-
relling, the seamen sprang out in knots of three and
four to invade the sleeping city. Around their bronzed
necks they wore strings of glass beads and coins as
charms against stormy weather. Their arms were tat-
tooed with a bewildering array of pictures—anchors,
ships, mermaids. Only the rabble entered the naval
289290 THE BLOODY POET

service. Those whose property amounted to more than
1,800 sestertii preferred to join the foot-soldiers or the
cavalry, where the work was easier.

Two thickset sailors concealed in the storehouse on
the bank had been waiting for the ship to dock. One of
them was slightly taller than the other.

“Hullo, there,” cried the taller one to a sailor who
was clambering ashore. “What’s the good word?”

“Not a thing,” was the answer, and he went off, sup-
porting a pale sickly-looking boy. The pair now turned
to another sailor.

“Where are you going, comrade?”

“Down to the City, I guess.”

“What’s your hurry?” interjected one of his inter-
locutors, catching his arm. “Tell us what you had for
dinner today, eh?”

The other grimaced. “Usual thing. Bony saltfish
and black bread.”

The two sailors laughed.

“But I suppose you had wine?” they asked.

“Not on your life: sea-water.”

“How about meat?”

““Haven’t seen a trace of it for weeks. Nothing but
men’s flesh.”

The three of them laughed in chorus.

“Got any money?” they asked the newcomer. He
shook his head. “Don’t get your pay? You’re a crowd
of fools to serve the Emperor without pay.”

By this time the trio were surrounded by a gang of
sailors. The smaller fellow addressed them: “Look
here, comrades, I know you feel like something to eatREVOLUTION

and drink. Here’s something for each one of you.”
He distributed gold pieces. “Now go out and have a
good time. Don’t worry, there’s someone who’s look-
ing out for all of you. His name is Piso, Calpurnius
Piso. Don’t forget it.”

The taller one had gone off and was addressing a
group of by-standers: “Just think of it. These poor
sailors; they’re starving to death while Nero wastes
millions in his palace.”

Now the sailors began to break up and disappear
into the little taverns that lined the quai. The two
orators withdrew immediately to the shadows of the
warehouses. Dressed in sailors’ costume, with cap and
belt, they looked at each other by the light of a lamp,
and grinned: Zodicus and Fannius. Since the imperial
favour had ceased to provide them with an income, they
had been making a fat living spreading this kind of
propaganda for Calpurnius Piso. They had allied
themselves with the rebellious elements who were en-
gaged in trying to make the people realize that they
were really dissatisfied. But it was uphill work. The
people were poor enough, but nevertheless they were
not dissatisfied, for they were still masters of the games
at the Circus. They were not in the least interested in
the arguments of the senators and patricians, and the
recollection of the republic had grown so dim that they
hardly knew what the word meant. The old soldier
who still found something to eat in his knapsack would
shake his head at the proposals of the rebels. The idea
of a revolution simply could not penetrate into the un-
derstanding of a man who was accustomed only to a292 THE BLOODY POET

military lifé, who had enlisted as a legionary at the
age of eighteen and whose only ambition was to serve
the Emperor as his father had done before him for
twenty-five years.

Zodicus was rather pleased with the day’s achieve-
ment. He and Fannius hurried through the narrow,
winding streets toward the house of the senator Flavius
Scaevinus, where the conspirators held nightly meetings.
They could just as easily have assembled during the
day, but they preferred the more mysterious and ro-
mantic atmosphere of the night-time. They were anx-
ious to imitate the classic conspiracy against Julius
Cesar, and their imaginations worked so vividly that
they almost lost sight of their own aims and gestured
and talked like actors in a melodrama.

Zodicus, with an air of great secrecy, whispered to
the slave at the door who had seen him a hundred
times: “‘A friend.”

Then they proceeded to the inner room, where the
conspirators met. It was the custom of Zodicus to stop
in the middle of the room, raise his right hand in an
impressive attitude and announce: “Revolution!”

“Cassius!” the others would hail him, unable to keep
the mockery out of their voices.

Zodicus was Cassius, and Fannius Brutus; in his
bosom the latter carried a dagger which he now drew
forth and flourished.

“Conspiracy,” he whispered hoarsely.

“The sailors are starving,” contributed Zodicus.
**Action!”’

“Action!” repeated Fannius.REVOLUTION 293

But nobody paid much attention to them. The con-
spirators were conferring in a rather depressed mood.
Piso, the leader, a distinguished and fabulously wealthy
patrician who had already invested enormous sums in
the undertaking, sat at the head of the table, his face
gloomy. He did not really want a republic. He would
be content to see anyone else ascend the throne; but he
hated Nero, and was anxious to see him deposed at all
costs. At present, however, the prospects were not very
hopeful.

But he could neither advance nor retreat, neither ex-
tricate himself nor remain in his present position;
where all this would lead he did not know. His asso-
ciates were harassed with the same thoughts. They
were for the most part nobles and patricians whose
chief complaint was the diminishing power of the
Senate. They were happy to hear expressed what they
had to keep silent in that august body. The difficulty
was that once their dissatisfaction had been released all
their energy seemed to evaporate.

Flavius Scaevinus, the host, was an extremely cau-
tious man; although he agreed with the rest that Nero’s
rule must be overthrown, he was very fearful and in-
sisted on protracted deliberation. He had his last will
and testament drawn up in all solemnity, and made a
great show of fixing the exact time for the outbreak of
the revolt, which he continually postponed. The party
of moderates who gathered about him was composed
mainly of wealthy influential citizens, who were agi-
tating for a revolution only because they hoped to be-
come even wealthier and more influential. The radical294, THE BLOODY POET

left wing of the conspiracy, who clamoured for imme-
diate action leading toward the creation of a republic,
began to quarrel with the tactics of Piso’s party. They
accused Piso of having, for no good reason, frustrated
the plans for the opening attack. As agreed upon, he
had enticed the Emperor to Baiae; Nero had come with-
out any escort but at the last moment Piso failed to
carry through the projected murder. He had suddenly
remembered that Nero was his guest and that he, as a
Roman patrician, could in no case violate the laws of
hospitality.

“The time is not yet ripe,” was Piso’s rather waver-
ing defence. “What can we depend upon for support?”

“Our own strength!” cried someone from the foot of
the table. Those sitting there were largely military
officers: Sulpicius Asper, a centurion of the guard,
Subrius Flavus, the tribune, and Foenius Rufus. The
one who had uttered the exclamation now rose from his
seat. It was Lucan. When the news of the conspiracy
reached him, he had escaped from his exile and re-
turned to Rome, pale and excited. His handsome face
was now furrowed with deep lines. The poetic faith
which had once animated him had disappeared. There
was left only hatred and the desire for revenge. It was
this which filled him with strength, and created a goal
for his broken and incoherent life. This wrath now
flamed through his poetry. His masterpiece, started
years ago, was finished. The “Pharsalia”, which began
with a glorification of the Emperors, changed in the lat-
ter books to a glorification of Pompey and ended with
a furious indictment of Czsar, who was represented asREVOLUTION 295

a gory murderer standing upon a mountain of corpses.
The court poet had become an enthusiastic republican.

“The mercenaries won’t revolt,” continued Piso
wearily. “They live in the encampment with their
wives and are quite satisfied. They seem to get enough
to eat.”

“How about the people?” rang out a powerful voice.
It was a red-faced woman named Epicharis, a freed
slave who wore her hair cut short and had the enormous
hands and feet of a trooper. For a long time she had
been working in the dockyards, trying to incite the
sailors to rebellion with lurid accounts of Nero.

“The people,” replied Piso gloomily, “won’t listen
to us at all. They flock to the chariot races and applaud
—but not us, unfortunately. And the number of
unemployed is still not as great as it should be. I have
exact information on that point. The dyers, weavers,
bakers, seamen, raftsmen, carpenters, butchers, grocers
and oil-dealers won’t budge an inch. They have work
and somehow manage to make a living.”

“But surely this horrible matricide must not be al-
lowed to live,” cried Lucan.

“The people refuse to believe that he was the mur-
derer,” was Piso’s reply.

“The incendiary who . . .” began Lucan.

“Everybody knows that myth was invented by us,”
said Piso flatly.

“But what are we waiting for?” asked Lucan, his face
distorted with hatred.

“For a more favourable opportunity,” replied the cau-
tious Piso.=

ee

Se. Se

 

 

 

296 THE BLOODY POET

The left-wingers rose impatiently. Lucan’s voice
rang out shrilly. “I know what we are waiting for—
for everyone of us to be killed.”’? Unable to control
himself, he shouted aloud:

“Long live the Roman Republic.” He was trembling
with excitement. His eyes flashed wildly.

The moderates arose to reply.

“What do you want?” they cried.

“Then long live the Emperor,” said Lucan scornfully,
amid the loud laughter of the radicals.

Everyone sensed that the two parties hated each other
more intensely than they did the Emperor.

“It is impossible to take such a course of action,”
declared Piso, and began to make a speech against the
idea of a republic.

This was followed by a second oration and was
capped by a third. Whenever these revolutionists as-
sembled the Roman oratory would inevitably appear
in all the glory of its terse epigrammatic sentences and
magnificent structure. The radicals favoured immediate
action. They proposed that during the Cerealia cele-
bration at the Circus, the consul Lateranus should pre-
sent a petition to the Emperor as had Mentellus to
Julius Czsar. Then the three others were to fall on
their knees, as Brutus, Cassius and Casca had done, and
stab him to death.

“It is too soon for that,” declared Piso.

“It’s too late,” screamed Epicharis. “It should be
done tomorrow—today!”

“If there is no Roman who dares do it, I shall strikeREVOLUTION 297

down the miserable rhymester myself!” exclaimed
Lucan passionately.

“It’s time for us to come out in the open!” bellowed
Epicharis.

Natalis, of the moderate party, one of Seneca’s for-
mer slaves who owed his fortune and his freedom to his
old master, pricked up his ears at the words and laughed
contemptuously; “Where is Seneca? Why doesn’t he
come out in the open?”

““He’s ill,” was the answer.

“A convenient illness.”

“He sits at home,” added Natalis, “and philoso-
phises. And I can guarantee that he’ll attach himself to
whichever party comes out victor.”

Lucan grew furious.

“Be quiet!” he cried. “Seneca is a poet. He has
nothing in common with anyone, not with us—and cer-
tainly not with you.”

His face was white. He was startled by his own
words, and ashamed that his passion had led him to this
base and miserable company. What business had a
poet with politics of any sort? He sat down, beaten
and despondent, feeling that he had lost his status as an
artist. He felt his life to be so vain and worthless that
he would willingly have given it to either party.

Both factions were now busy discussing Seneca.
From mouth to mouth flew the revered name of the old
poet who would enter into no relations with the rebels.

Zodicus and Fannius lay quietly on their couches,
watching the proceedings with lively intent, though they298 THE BLOODY POET

did not see exactly where they were leading. For this
reason they ventured nothing. But as lassitude began to
settle over the gathering, they decided that it was time
to exercise their abilities in the sphere with which they
were best acquainted. The two new editions of Cassius
and Brutus slipped over to Piso and commenced ex-
plaining how much pains they had taken today and how
much propagandizing still remained to be done to assure
the success of the revolution. Piso scratched his bald
head wisely; he knew exactly what they were hinting
at. He produced the money.

The assembly gradually began to break up. Nothing
of any importance had been decided upon, and nobody
had any clear notion of why he had come—except
Zodicus and Fannius.

Lucan looked at the pair in amazement.

“Who are they?” he asked Subrius, the tribune.

“Poets.”

Lucan lifted his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Revolutionists; republicans.”

Lucan shrugged his shoulders wearily.

“When I see them,” he said, “I have the feeling that
I am no poet. If they hate Nero, I should love
him.”

The meeting finally came to an unsuccessful close.
Many had grown uneasy and stolen out, others fell
asleep. Epicharis spluttered with rage and disgust.
But Lucan merely laughed. At the last moment, as
they were all preparing to leave, Flavius’ favourite dog
stalked into the room, a gigantic tawny-haired animal.REVOLUTION 299

Lucan gazed at its red coat and then, struck with the
resemblance, called out: “Nero.”

With shouts of glee the others caught up the new name
unanimously. But this was the only point on which
they agreed.

That very night Epicharis was arrested on her way
to her miserable little lodging in the outskirts of the
City. She offered no resistance, said not a word. Even
in prison she refused to utter a syllable. The soldiers
hit her in the face, the blood streamed from her nose
and mouth, but not the slightest admission were they
able to extort from her. The fiery eloquent tongue
which had been so tireless in exhorting the sailors
seemed at last to have wearied of speech. She pre-
served her silence to the last moment—when she hanged
herself in the cell.

Piso, too, committed suicide, and the revolution came
to light. The slave who had admitted the conspirators
reported to Nero’s secretary, and Flavius Scavinus, his
master, was arrested. His testament was found among
his papers. After him Natalis fell into the net and soon
the entire company was seized; excepting Zodicus and
Fannius, who managed to abscond in time.

Seneca. His name was on everyone’s lips. All the
conspirators importuned him, for they knew that the
famous poet was the best friend of the Emperor, and
they hoped that he would be able to lighten their punish-
ments. The nobles and patricians denounced each
other with savage pleasure, releasing all the hate and
jealousy they had been unable to express during the
meetings. A few of the radicals and the soldiers were300 THE BLOODY POET

the only ones to show any courage or dignity. When
arraigned, Sulpicius Asper spat all his scorn and con-
tempt into the Emperor’s face and died. Many were
murdered at the very place of arrest with no pretence
of a trial.

Nero was overjoyed. The conspiracy, the mere
thought of which would have made him shudder a few
months before, today filled him with new life. It was
blissful to think that now, with a good conscience, he
could pass sentences swiftly and surely. He issued exe-
cution orders ceaselessly. His mind was clear; at last
he knew what to do.

Although the prisons were already full, fresh con-
tingents were continually being brought. In addition
to the professional spies the slaves and freedmen
worked busily, taking the opportunity to recompense
their masters for a box on the ears received perhaps
ten years before. The city was petrified with terror.
The houses were as quiet in the middle of the day as in
the dead of night; no one dared to speak even in the
privacy of locked doors. Seeing a solitary form slip
down the street, people would speculate as to whether
it was a spy or a future sacrifice, or possibly both. To
cast aspersions on the Emperor meant death; to praise
or flatter him was equally dangerous, as this was a cer-
tain indication that one had something to conceal.
Mouldering old busts of Brutus or Cassius which had
been lying in garrets caused the death of hundreds.
Some were killed merely because it was alleged that
they had made a slight inclination of the head before
these statues in the streets.

ai aSREVOLUTION 301

“T would like the entire nobility rooted out,” declared
Nero, “and to have only the people remain.”

Nero’s joyous vitality contrasted poignantly with the
misery of the citizéns who sat at home oppressed by the
same despair that had once gripped the Emperor.

“Are there any left unpunished?” he asked Epaphro-
ditus.

“No, they have all atoned for their guilt.”

“T want no stone unturned,” said Nero. “The people
must get used to severity. After all, death is not so
terrible. What is so surprising about it? The face
gets white and the heart stops. That’s all. Nothing
very awful about that, surely.” The secretary stole a
glance at Nero’s face, shining with the conscious pride
of an artist. “Nevertheless, death is extremely interest-
ing,” continued the Emperor. “Perhaps the only really
interesting thing in life. Ridiculous, too, very often.
Some of them take their departure with such a pompous
and formal dignity that I cannot refrain from laughing.
And some of them are very strange. As they stiffen I
seem to feel something leaving their bodies, something
which is eternal. Every corpse is the statue of the living
person. Don’t you believe that there must be a sculptor
who creates by killing? . . . Now for the first time
I am actually experiencing life, for I know what I may
do, things no other Emperor has ever done. Nothing
is forbidden me.”

He took his ecstasy in small doses and made careful
preparations to ensure the maximum of enjoyment. He
brought an indictment against the senator Thrasea
Poetus, whom he hated because Thrasea had never come302 THE BLOODY POET

to the theater to see him act and never praised him in
the Senate. After a long and conscientious trial Nero
had him executed on the ground that his enemy had a
gloomy and schoolmasterish visage. At other times the
impulse to kill would flash across him like lightning.
He loved Lepida, his great-aunt who had brought him
up as a child, yet when she fell ill and requested a
special medicine he sent her a deadly poison. His
other great-aunt Domitia met death because she owned
several villas in Ravenna and Baiae which Nero decided
he wanted for himself. The governor of Egypt once
used the Emperor’s bath and paid for it with his life.

Nero was continually reviewing the corpses laid out
in a row before him. He tried vainly to decipher the
secret of the staring eyes. Once, while he was engaged
in conversation with some nobles, he happened to notice
how strangely grey Scylla’s head was. It excited him;
he left the company and a little later on had the head—
minus the man—brought to him in the Palace. He was
astonished.

“How grey he is even now,” he said.

He smiled when they brought him the head of
Rubellius Plautus.

“He had a big nose,” he said, “and now it’s still
funnier.”

An overmastering curiosity impelled him to continue
this entertainment. One evening, accompanied by a
few soldiers, he walked out into the street, just as he
had done years ago, and stopped the first passerby.

“Whosoever you are,” he said, “you must die”; andREVOLUTION 303

he thrust a dagger into the man’s heart. The stranger
fell to the ground.

“T am innocent,” he protested, dying.

“T know it,” said the Emperor. “That makes it all the
more interesting.”” He watched the other’s last moments
with the closest attention.apter Thirty

SENECA

 

 

SENECA’S INNOCENCE WAS PROVED AND HE WAS RE-
leased from prison. The praetors themselves realized
that he had taken no part in the conspiracy. Neverthe-
less there were plenty ready to bear witness against
him. A few even accused the old poet of having cast
longing eyes toward the throne. Seneca bore these ac-
cusations with stoic fortitude. He had always been
perfectly aware of the power of evil and ruthlessness,
and never expected anything better from mankind.
Now that he found himself a sacrifice to these passions,
he made no effort to defend himself, knowing that it
was useless for him to deny the calumny.

- Upon his release he went immediately to the Em-
peror. A serene fatalism and resignation had already
taken possession of his spirit, but he considered it his
duty to prolong his life as long as he could. He made
no mad avowals of his fidelity or protestations of inno-
cence. He knew from experience that one was not
particularly well-armed because one happened to be
right. In order to purchase the little time still remain-
ing, he offered Nero his entire fortune, his house, his
art-collection. He said that he was tired and old and
quite prepared to live the rest of his days in poverty.
But the Emperor refused the proposal. Then Seneca
offered him his life, begging Nero to kill him. Subtle
to the end, the old poet referred to death as a much-
304SENECA 305

desired liberation, thus hoping to disarm the Emperor’s
childish rapacity which he felt was already seeking his
death. Nero refused this, too.

“‘T would rather die myself,” he said.

Seneca returned home, broken and despondent after
his long imprisonment. Paulina, waiting for him in
the garden, broke into tears as he entered. His beard
had grown long in prison, and his hair, which
he had not combed or washed for a long time, clung
to his forehead in dishevelled strands. His clothes
were dirty and ragged. Paulina ran up to him and
kissed his furrowed brow, which looked like some old
withered fruit. Then they sat down at the same ivory
table where Poppaea had once discussed her plans for
Nero’s début.

“Shall I have a bath prepared for you?” asked
Paulina, solicitously.

Seneca shook his head. Dirty, harassed, he stared
into space. For a long time he had been living thus in
ihe severest asceticism, renouncing even the refreshing
pleasure of the bath. He had slept on hard boards,
eaten no meat for fear of being poisoned, kept himself
alive on roots and brooded day and night.

“No, I am better this way,” he said, looking affec-
tionately at his wife. She returned his glance, her
eyes full of adoration for this old man who, a demi-god
to others, was even more than that to her. Her every
gesture revealed her love and understanding.

“Yes,” repeated the poet. “It is better thus, to let
life slip from you quietly, little by little.”

Under the dying leaves of a tree sat Seneca, a yellow-306 THE BLOODY POET

faced old man. The sunshine warmed the slow-moving
blood in his veins. He sighed.

“The autumn wears a mild and patient smile. It
has no more desires. Men should be like that.”
Paulina took his hand, trying to impart to him some of
the warmth of her young body. “We must not cling to
life too intensely, for then life will hurt us more. That
I learned from the Jewish philosophers in my youth.
If we know that we are going to be deprived of some-
thing it is wiser to surrender it prudently in advance.
That is why during my youth I disciplined myself, ate
little, slept little. I have never been so happy since;
and have always regretted that I abandoned my asceti-
cism so soon. For I tell you that the real luxuries are
fasting and sleeplessness. In our hours of wakefulness
what dreams and visions do we not store up? How
tireless is hunger in sharpening the palate, in feeding
the fancy with the dainty dishes from which we arise
satisfied, never satiated. Only now when I eat them
very sparingly do I really enjoy oysters. That is the
only way to be a gourmet. Nor are you wise, my dear
Paulina, in offering me soft cushions or in looking upon
my aching body with a pitying eye merely because it has
lain upon hard boards. Soon I shall be sleeping on an
even more uncomfortable bed . . . So you see, Paulina,
I am merely preparing myself for the future. My
conscience has a good deal to reproach me for; I am
doing my best to appease it.” The words puzzled
Paulina; she said nothing. Seneca knitted his forehead
whose skin was dry, almost black. He continued:SENECA 307

““Yes, a good deal.” Lost in thought, he began talking
as if to himself: “How did it all come about, I wonder?
I loved, loved wildly . . . that was how it began. It
always begins there—all corruption, all falsehood be-
gins there.”

Paulina seemed about to demur but Seneca inter-
cepted her gently.

“Yes, my dear, it is true. It is always love, a great
love which ruins us, lures us from our goal.”

Now he was speaking without strain in a pleasant,
almost casual voice:

“Once I was a young man with thick, black hair, a
slim face and an eloquent voice. My father brought
me to Rome, desiring, in his arrogance, to have me
abandon asceticism, the one true wisdom, and study
philosophy instead. I foolishly assented. In the
course of time I became famous, envied and wealthy.
How wonderful Rome seemed then! I loved fame and
I was beloved of many. When I appeared on the Cam-
pus Martius I was always the center of an admiring
group. There I was: a noble Spanish-Latin youth, the
favourite of fortune, engaged in teaching the doctrines
of Pythagoras. There were women, of course, who
flocked to my lectures. One of them was Julia Livilla,
the beautiful sister of the Emperor Caligula. Once,
after the lecture, she asked me to explain a point in
moral philosophy which she did not quite grasp. We
got into one sedan-chair, I remember, and I explained
it to her. The adventure ended by costing me eight
years of my life for I was banished to the island of308 THE BLOODY POET

Corsica. Perhaps you are wondering whether she was
worth it. I should say yes, for now the memory of our
love is very beautiful.”

His sweet and gentle-hearted wife listened without
the slightest emotion of jealousy. She loved to think
of her husband’s rich mysterious past, the wonderful
charm he had exerted on women, the triumphs which in
a sense had become her own. Seneca was carried away
by a flood of memories.

“But it was in Corsica that I was first cast into the
maelstrom of life from which I was never to emerge.
I wanted desperately to be back in Rome; I wrote let-
ters to the reigning powers, I even flattered miserable
freedmen whom in my heart I despised, begging them
to intercede for me. To my great misfortune my plaints
were heard. If they had only let me perish there alone
with my own pride . . .” He closed his eyes. “Now
I can see them all: women, poets, actors—and my old
self among them. But some of the shadows loom larger,
clearer than others. First and foremost is Agrippina.
Then I see Nero’s boyish head. But all these forms
seem vague and remote, not clear like your own. Yes,
there are pleasures and consolations that sweeten the
latter end of life, also . . .”

Paulina dried her eyes and moved her chair closer
to his.

“In prison they mocked me,” confessed Seneca.
‘“‘They reminded me of my writings written in praise of
poverty. They asked me why I preferred to be wealthy
and looked at me as if | were a hypocritical old wretch.
I did not answer them. What explanation could I haveSENECA 309

given to these simple fools? But to you, dearest, I can
explain these things. What I would have preferred
above all would have been to live apart from men,
proud and unsullied as I came into the world. But my
ideal was not to be realized. No sooner had I reached
Rome than they began to surround me and ask me ques-
tions, eager to know my opinion on this or that political
problem. But to these matters I was indifferent as
Nature herself is indifferent. I was a poet and a phi-
losopher and as such held opinions only about those
things which are eternal. But in regard to these things
they were not curious. What opinions could I hold in
regard to their miserable, tedious struggle for exist-
ence? What judgment should a flower express on a
recent senatorial decree? Should an olive tree favour
the red party at the circus, or the white? But when they
mercilessly forced me to reflect on their stupid affairs
I discovered that while they had but one opinion I had
at least two, depending on what viewpoint I took. In
the soul of the poet dwells a multitude of opposites, both
good and evil, gold and dross. Unfortunately, how-
ever, I had to take a definite position. This presented
no difficulty, for there are two sides to every truth. I
could see both sides simultaneously and express with
equal clearness the arguments of both factions. With
what result? They said I was dishonest. Yet when I
was asked I always expressed my opinion with the ut-
most sincerity. To be sure, what I said was only a part
of what I knew, for I possessed the whole truth; and
that, of course, they would never stomach. So my
crime was not that I changed my opinions constantly310 THE BLOODY POET

ae per Sn ae

ran aac,

and contradicted myself frequently, but that I was fool
enough to make any declaration of principles whatso-
ever. The wise man should neither talk nor act.”

He turned to his wife.

“T loved life; I loved its falsehood as well as its
truth. It was because of this love of life that every-
thing happened as it did. I was eager to justify this
unique life of mine by action. I was born a rarer
spirit, more sensitive, more intelligent than those
around me. I was superior to those limited intellects
who are called men of character, to those unimagina-
tive clods who are called strong and masculine, to those
senseless fools who are called heroes. Yet I ruined
myself because I made common cause with men. I
committed a mistake. I realize it. And the greatest of
my errors was that I bowed the knee to Nero, who was
only an emperor whereas I was a poet. It was for this
reason that they called me flatterer and hypocrite. But
I must take the responsibility on myself and my own
character. The lover of life is like me, like life itself,
rich and intricate. The lover of death is like Nero, dark
and sterile. The lover of righteousness is like Burrus.
He speaks the truth and perishes for his pains. Mine
was the more glorious destiny. As long as I could, I
lived; and now—I must die.”

Paulina uttered a little cry.

“Be quiet,” said Seneca, reproving her as he would
a small child who had been making too much noise.
“Yes, I must die. An hour ago I saw the Emperor.
He was most amiable and reassuring, but I saw plainly
that my days were numbered and that I had better pre-SENECA Bit

pare myself. I take no pleasure in the knowledge.
Do not delude yourself that dying is a courageous act.
Dying is always, even at the very last instant, an ex-
tremely stupid proceeding. However, it is my fate,
imposed upon me by Providence, and I can do noth-
ing to avert it. For years I have managed to prevent
it but now I am too weak to do anything more.”

His wife implored him to flee from Rome. Seneca
shook his head.

“No. It would be shameful to make any further
evasions. Once in my youth I was condemned to
death by Caligula. A courtesan whom we both loved
saved my life. Many times afterward I found myself
in mortal danger but I always managed to escape. I
never failed to attain my goal, for I learned early in
life that men were puppets and could be swayed by any
clever tongue.”

Paulina looked up, a ray of hope in her eyes.

“But Nero is different, my dear. When I saw him
today I knew at once that there was no hope. He can
be restrained no longer. For many years I played
with him too. As long as he remained within my con-
trol I molded and formed him. But now a strange
thing has happened. Today I stand in conflict not only
with his spirit but with my own in him, with that demon
of omnipotence which I inspired in him and which is
now turned against me. For in him I instilled the in-
calculable mood of a poet and against this I am power-
less. I who all my life have triumphed through the
force of ideas am now defeated by that same force.”

His tone grew sad.

eeee

Sa ae oa

Sect

goes =e

 

 

‘

Se THE BLOODY POET

“And it was I they chose to be Nero’s teacher. That
is the terrible thing. I brought him up on good ortho-
dox doctrines, I babbled about goodness and justice and
mercy; but all the while without noticing it myself, I
was revealing to him my own essential character until
finally he recognized the poet, a being who in his fury
and lack of restraint is akin to Nature herself. It is
my opinion that the poet is the real spirit of evil. To
him everything in the world is merely creative material.
He lacks the restraint without which no morality and
no society can exist. And how can a poet educate a
poet when he himself is unfit for life as it is lived,
when it is this very incapacity that makes him a poet?
It was Agrippina and I who educated him. He killed
his mother and now he will kill his foster-father.”

He nodded his head slowly.

“Yes, my own son, my spiritual child has turned
against me, armed with the very weapon I first placed
in his hand. An old and deep-rooted anger festers in
him. Who can tell what wild reports about me may
have reached his ears? Besides, he has never forgiven
me, never, for what I could not hide. He read my
thoughts in my face, he felt my contempt for him as an
artist and he has never forgiven me for it. Yes, the end
has come and now that it is so near it all seems very
strange. How many pages I have written about it! No
matter how far back I stretch my memory all my
thoughts seem to have been concerned with death; and
today the guest I have so often evoked stands at last
upon my threshold. In my youth they were only fanci-
ful pictures of him that I conjured up; but now that heSENECA 313

is almost a part of me I know what he is. An old man
has an instinctive understanding of the transitory
quality of all things ...I1 do not grumble. I am
quite resigned to the fact that the world belongs to the
fools and that it will never endure wise men.”

“You are too good,” said Paulina, “you are pure and
holy and innocent,” and she kissed his hand with in-
effable tenderness.

The trees were shaking in the October wind. The
dry branches rustled. Leaves piled up about the bases
of the statues.

“Tucan is dead,” said Seneca in a colourless voice.
“‘Nero had him executed, too. I hear that he died what
men call a cowardly death. He wanted to live longer,
to keep on writing. So much did he fear death that he
screamed and went almost mad at its approach. In
prison he lost all control of himself. He was so
crazed by his desire for freedom that he accused his
own mother of being implicated in the conspiracy. In
this way he sought to gain mercy from Nero. One
matricide would help another, he thought. But he
deceived himself. Only yesterday his veins were cut
open. At the last moment he grew feverish and began
to recite his poetry. Do you remember the lines of
the ‘Pharsalia’ which describe Lycidas’ death when he
is stabbed beside the sea? They escape me at the
moment. Bring me the book, Paulina.”

She brought the “Pharsalia”. With deep emotion
Seneca turned the pages, seeing in every word a guaran-
tee of immortality for his nephew and brother-poet. He

found the desired lines in the third book and handed314 THE BLOODY POET

the volume to Paulina, who began to read. Seneca
listened, his tired head leaning against a tree-trunk.
Quietly through the autumn air rose his wife’s fresh
voice describing the death of Lycidas, the mighty burst-
ing of the blood through his young veins, blood that
spurted into the water as his body struggled for a mo-
ment, then grew stiff and still...

Seneca and Paulina were greatly moved by the lines.

“Beautiful verses,” declared the old poet, “every line
terse and well-rounded. A concise description, not a
mere torrent of words. A death that one can actually
sense . . . Yes, and that was the way he died, too, de-
claiming the passage madly. The last lines were his
own last words. Those around him scorned him as a
mere actor; they had nothing but contempt for the way
he clung to life. But I swear that he was a genuine poet
who loved the sun and dreaded darkness. Thinking of
those last moments I can imagine no finer death.”

“There were many others executed with him?” asked
Paulina gently.

Seneca nodded: “Yes, many.”

“Zodicus and Fannius, too?”

“No, nothing happened to them. They were revolu-
tionists merely because that happened to be more lucra-
tive. Their companions have hidden them away safely.
They will never be discovered. Mediocrity and vul-
garity are immortal.”

“Do you know who it was that accused you?” asked
Paulina. “Natalis.”

“Natalis?”’ asked Seneca, surprised.

“Yes. Natalis to whom you were so generous, whomSENECA 315

you treated so kindly and to whom you gave freedom
and the opportunity to make a fortune.” The words
stuck in her throat. She tried vainly to comprehend
the human degradation implied in Natalis’ action. “The
ingrate!” she burst out in bitter scorn. “The inhuman
slave! I can’t understand it.”

“I understand it, dearest,” replied Seneca. “In-
gratitude is always easy to comprehend. I have come
across it much more frequently than I have its opposite
and I cannot say that it is unnatural or unhuman.
Rather it is a very human thing. Those to whom we do
evil are much less eager to revenge themselves than
those whom we benefit. It has been my experience that
men who are under obligations to us sooner or later
begin to hate us. It is a matter of common knowledge
that the protégé will always turn against his benefac-
tor. The wise man, expecting this, does not suffer when
it happens. He knows that those whom we help do not
love us, but that conversely we love those whom we help.
We love in them the reflection of our own self-sacrifice
or rather the reminder of our own power and con-
descension. Why should I be angry with Natalis? It
is rather his right to be angry with me. I love him
still, for I get such enjoyment out of remembering what
I have done for him that I lose sight of his baseness and
stand lost in admiration before my own generosity.”

Both smiled slightly. Their mood had become much
more serene. They watched the slow movement of the
autumn day as the dry leaves fell at their feet; now
and then they heard the deep thud of an overripe fruit.

Along the garden path heavy footsteps were heard.316 THE BLOODY POET

“They have come,” said Seneca.

Paulina arose. Four men appeared. Two of them
were lictors come to execute the death sentence. They
were accompanied by a centurion bearing with him the
official decree. A physician brought up the rear.
Recognizing the grey old poet to whom they were bring-
ing death, they stopped in some slight confusion.

Seneca was overcome with a terror more agonizing
than any he had ever experienced. His face grew
drawn and white. His head whirled with a confused
memory of all he had thought and felt and written about
death. He tried to stand up to give an impression of
calm, but his legs refused to support him and he sank
back in his chair.

In her first spasm of fear Paulina raised her arm as
if to strike the soldiers. She abandoned the pointless
gesture, stepped to her husband’s side and took his hand
which was covered with cold sweat. Seneca’s mouth
moved almost soundlessly.

“My will,” he whispered.

Two faithful disciples who lived with him and had
run up at the sight of the soldiers handed him a wax
tablet and a stylus.

“T am sorry,” said the centurion, his voice not un-
sympathetic, “but I have strict orders.”

“I may not even make my will?” asked the poet.

The centurion barely moved his head but the lines of
his mouth expressed resolute refusal. Seneca tried to
gain time, he hardly knew why.

“I would like to write but a word or two.”

“It is impossible,” said the centurion.SENECA Be

One of the lictors entered the villa, heated a huge
cauldron of water and filled the bath almost to the
rim. The other accompanied him bearing a lighted
torch.

The centurion helped Seneca to rise.

“Tet us go,” said the poet. “You may come with
me.” He beckoned to Paulina and the two disciples who
were carrying the wax tablet and the stylus. They
passed through the villa, through the old rooms where
all things whispered only of the past, every doorpost,
every latch, every key worn smooth with continual use.
Seneca turned his head to bid farewell as he was led on
to the bath. Reaching the chamber the two disciples
crouched down on the floor, eager to catch the last words
of the master. Quickly his clothes were removed. For
the moment he could not speak. He stood confused: the
room was thick with steam and torch smoke. He averted
his eyes to the languid water. Now the centurion
ordered him to seat himself on a chair and place his
right foot in the bath.

“So be it,” replied Seneca. He could think of not a
single apophthegm, not even one of the sage utterances
with which his Moral Epistles were filled. His mind in-
sisted on repeating only one question: and after death?

The two lictors straightened his knee and the physi-
cian approached, a worn out slave who hardly looked
as if he were enjoying his present task.

“Doctor,” said Seneca, despising himself for the
question, “Can we not wait a minute, a tiny minute?”

But the centurion, afraid that the water might cool,
insisted on haste. One of the lictors held the torch up

a318 THE BLOODY POET

to Seneca’s knee to help the physician find the vein.

“Then begin,” said the poet. He extended the leg
which was outside the bath and watched the physician
attentively as the latter sought for the main artery
beneath the kneecap and prepared for the incision. He
found the vein in a moment and made an energetic
thrust. There was a slight sound as the vein opened.
The pain was too much for Seneca; he burst into tears.
His wife and the disciples were already sobbing. The
others waited expectantly but his blood, which in the
last few years had coagulated like an old wine, refused
to flow. The physician was annoyed. He proceeded
to repeat the operation with the artery of the left leg.
This time a few drops of black blood trickled out. He
ordered Seneca to place his wrists in the water; then he
cut both veins.

Seneca began to speak, his voice quite calm and
natural.

“Write,” he ordered. “I want to describe what I am
feeling. I see this room, the torches and all of you
standing before me. I see Paulina crying, my dear be-
loved wife; I see my disciples, the physician and the
soldiers. So far it is all very simple. I am waiting to
see what follows.”

He listened a moment to the sound of the blood as it
trickled into the bath water and stained it a rose-red.
Then he continued:

“I feel weak, as if I were a little sleepy. And there
is a queer sensation of lightness. Nothing more.”

A pause.

“It has changed now. I feel heavy and—not well.SENECA 319

Write it down: not well. But I see everything clearly.
I hear my own voice and I am perfectly aware of what
I am saying.”

With the last words his face grew chalk-white.

“I feel—very ill.” He bent over the water. “Every-
thing is black—like a dark curtain. Write: it is bad,
very bad. Do not die. We must live, we must live—
long—long—” He gasped for breath. “It is not
mysterious—it is merely—horrible. If there is a
mystery I do not know what it is. Perhaps I am even
close to it but I shall not be able to tell you about it.”

He fell back fainting into Paulina’s arms.

One of the disciples bent over and said softly: “And
now, master?”

Seneca did not reply. His head rested on Paulina’s
breast. The disciple repeated his question, touching
Seneca’s head as if to awaken him from sleep.

Speaking clearly but with a tremendous effort,
Seneca began again: “It is not what I had expected. It
is different. Very different.”

The two disciples bent forward eagerly to hear the
explanation, but none came. Seneca swallowed; he
moved his body convulsively. The water rippled blood-
MG isa

Quietly the centurion led Paulina out of the room.
The lictors grasped Seneca by both hands and. gently
pushed him from the chair. The body disappeared be-
neath the water just as he heaved his last sigh. The
breath of air expelled from his lungs formed a bubble
which danced about for a moment on the surface, and
then broke.NAA AIGO AAA GA Gaa aaa MAGA Ae
va || val || Be De TO NK YE ee a & ¥
4 ae DAM al alee Ma MAA Meme Mm Mal Malm aliRelima inane ihe

Chapter Thirty-one
ALONE

   

 

SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT THE HEAD AUGUR
bathed, ate a vulture’s heart, put on a snow-white toga
and, lamp in hand, proceeded with his assistants to the
place on the city wall where they were wont to observe
the heavenly omens. The night was windy and ominous.
Again and again their lamps were blown out. With
their augur’s staffs they divided the celestial vault into
four quarters and for a long time strained their eyes
for signs. None came. Dawn broke out; not a single
bird had flown across the sky, not a single eagle or
buzzard from whose flight they could have drawn their
prophecies. The clouds drifted slowly past and their
shadows swept over the earth. The soothsayers were
waiting for the dove, the Emperor’s chosen bird, for
Nero had expressed a desire to read from her flight the
secrets of the future.

Though he had never before employed the services
of the augurs Nero felt driven to the expedient by the
desperate condition of the Empire. There had been
trouble in Judea; the Jews had risen in wrath and killed
the Roman governor. Ascalon, Acrae, Tyrus and Hippo
were in flames; Gadara was in the grip of civil war;
and the news from the other provinces was no more re-
assuring. Gaul had been the scene of a rebellion in
the spring and the Gallic chieftain, Vindex, had sent
word to the Emperor to prepare himself for his end.

320ALONE 321

No reports had come in from Hispania. Galba re-
fused to avow his principles and it was whispered that
he had concluded a secret pact with Vindex. The
Forum was full of terrifying stories despite the fact
that those who were caught spreading them were
severely punished. People had lost all confidence in
the legions.

Nero and Poppaea fell into a bitter quarrel after a
chariot race. They came to blows and with his iron
shod boots he kicked her full in the stomach. She had
been expecting the birth of an imperial heir and was
dead by the time they laid her on the couch. As the
Jewish priests refused to let her be cremated, she was
embalmed and laid in a coffin. The Emperor himself
delivered the funeral oration and his lament for
Poppaea was sincere. In his unhappiness she had been
a bitter consolation and he missed her more than any of
the others. No one had tortured him more, yet no one
had given him greater stimulation. After her death he
began a feverish search for someone to replace the
woman who had initiated him into life and suffering.
He frequented the Circus Maximus, hoping to find in
ithe face of some harlot a passing resemblance to her
he sought; but there was always some feature which re-
pelled him.

He was broken with grief. Day and night he con-
tinued his quest, convinced that somewhere he would
discover her. Finally he thought he had found her in
the person of a boy named Sporus. At first glance there
was little about him to remind one of Poppaea. But322 THE BLOODY POET

as Nero regarded him more attentively, a swarm of
forgotten memories awoke, and in this strange disguise
he seemed to recognize the form of his beloved. The
| boy, whom he called Poppaea, was somewhat broader
ey than his namesake, but otherwise recalled her entire
personality with startling exactness. The forehead, the
hair, the freckles about the nostrils, the perverse, stub-
born mouth with its kiss like the taste of dried berries—
all was Poppaea.

Nero could not rest until he had led Sporus to the
temple and been solemnly married by the high priest.
The Senate turned out in full force to grace the cere-
mony. Sporus came in, dressed as a woman, accom-
panied by his bridesmaids. His hair was braided; on
his feet he wore tiny yellow slippers hardly bigger than
butterflies; a red cloth, like those worn by the vestal
virgins, was draped about his neck; on his head was
a wreath of majoram. As was the custom, the priest
handed the bride a sprig of verbena, symbol of fer-
tility, and the senators congratulated the pair and ex-
pressed their wishes for a happy union.

But the boy turned out to be stupid and taciturn. He
got drunk regularly after dinner and slept almost all
day long. Nero continued his fruitless search for a new
Poppaea.

It was at this point that he had turned to the sooth-
sayers for aid.

 

The augurs waited patiently for hours, but the birds
refused to appear. Evidently the gods were unwilling to
announce their decision. Not even the distant cry ofALONE 323

a bird could be heard. Ravens, crows, owls, all de-
cided to remain silent. Suddenly, when they were
wearily abandoning all hope, they heard a sound carried
from the east by a strong wind. But it was a sound of
human voices, a weak, vague cry, as if someone were
drowning or being strangled. In the darkness the cries
grew louder, swelled to a shriek, and ceased. The chief
augur grew pale. He felt sure that this was a bad
omen, and his fears were confirmed by the haruspices
who were examining the liver, gall and kidneys of slain
animals. Even the sacred geese, it was reported, paid
no attention to the grains of wheat that were strewn
before them. The next day, the augurs communicated
the results of their labours to the Emperor and recom-
mended the greatest caution. They suggested that when
praying he face the north where dwelt the gods.

These unfavourable prophecies no longer made any
particular impression on Nero. He lived all by him-
self, amid a company of ghostly memories. He wan-
dered through the palace like a living corpse, abandon-
ing himself to a dull lassitude, steeped always in a
vague and formless sorrow. Like Sporus, he drank a
great deal; every night he sank on his couch overcome
with wine. But he could not sleep. The past would
not let him.

When the tedium became too great he would beckon
to the mercenary guarding the door and talk to him.

“Come in!” he cried late one night. “Ancus!”

A lean, haggard soldier entered, trailing a long lance.

“That you?” said the Emperor. He was completely
drunk and peered at the soldier with his small eyes,324, THE BLOODY POET

overgrown with fat like those of a porcupine. Lately
his eyesight had become very weak.

Instead of replying the guard drew back his lips in a
grin, revealing his gums pale from malnutrition. Then
he rested his lance between his feet and waited for the
usual questioning.

“Are you married?”

The soldier nodded.

“Children?”

Another nod.

“How many?”

He considered, then held up his right hand, conceal-
ing the thumb: four.

“Boys, you mean?”

A nod of assent.

“No girls?”

This time he held up three fingers.

“Seven children? That’s a good many.”

The soldier nodded.

“What are they all doing now? Sleeping soundly,
aren’t they? They’ve eaten their soup and bread and
have all gone to bed. They’re waiting for you to come
home. Your service is up tomorrow isn’t it?”

The words were almost indistinguishable. He had
lost several teeth so that his speech was ugly and in-
distinct.

“I can’t sleep. Had a little to drink; very strong
wine. Do you know who I am? No, you don’t know.
Nobody knows. Ever been to the theater?”

Ancus shook his head.

“Look,” said Nero. “Look at all these wreaths onALONE 325

the wall. They used to hang on the Egyptian obelisk.
And I—I won them all. Count them: eighteen hundred
wreaths. Laurel wreaths, olive wreaths, fig wreaths.
Jupiter, what triumphs I had!”

The old soldier was trying hard to keep his eyes open.

“That is what art is. You should have seen me. I
can’t describe it to you, it’s too much. Besides, it
could never penetrate your thick skull. I wrote poems,
you understand, poems that I made up myself, out of
my own head. I don’t suppose you have any notion of
what a poet is. Virgil, Horace,” he shouted to arouse
the soldier from his stupor. He pointed to himself.
“That’s what I was—one of them. I used to sing and
play the zither. All I had to do was appear on the
stage and the applause broke loose. ‘Nero, the divine
actor!’ That’s what they all shouted. Then a little
bow, a nice graceful movement of the body, and I
began to sing.”

The soldier looked on stupidly as Nero made drunken
gestures to illustrate his words.

“What parts I played, my friend! I grow dizzy
thinking of them. They gave me this large wreath after
my representation of Cidipus. Cidipus was the son of
a king. He killed his own father one day in a ravine,
and then married his mother. That’s who I was—not
really, you understand—just acting. I put on a costume
and a mask—I didn’t want to be recognized, you see—
then I began to declaim the tragic réle. The audience
shuddered. But when in the last scene I tore out my
own eyes and tottered out blindly—why, they sobbed
aloud. Look—in spite of it, I still have my eyes left.”326 THE BLOODY POET

Ancus regarded the Emperor’s eyes with legitimate
astonishment.

“But you don’t understand, blockhead. It’s not an
easy thing to act, to represent what doesn’t exist, to in-
vent something exactly like reality. Often I died, yes
died! I fell down flat on the stage, so hard that it hurt.
But I could get right up, absolutely whole again! I
acted so vividly I drove everybody crazy. Once I had
to play the mad Hercules in a Greek tragedy. I was sit-
ting in the dressing-room. Do you know what that is?
It’s the place where the actors put on their masks, where
they get all dressed up like puppets. My hands were
manacled. Not with ordinary iron fetters, the kind you
know. Those were for the rest of them—Antiochus,
Pammanes, all of the regular actors. I had gold fet-
ters—heavy, gleaming ones! Well, they were binding
my hands. Suddenly a soldier who had been observ-
ing us from behind the wall, sprang over to me. Just
an ordinary soldier, like you. There we were, two
paces apart, just like you and me. He must have been
a new recruit. He raised his sword to strike off my
fetters! Poor stupid fellow! He thought it was real!
He wanted to save his Emperor. That was the way I
acted; good, eh?”
| Ancus laughed gutturally. The Emperor was stimu-
lated by this encouragement. He went on:

“I could tell you more strange things, a great deal
more. Once I walked out on the stage, naked, and
strangled a lion cub. And can you believe it? I’ve
been a woman too. I wore a little piece of lace around

 

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li |
Ar

 

aE eaALONE Bot

my neck, my hair in curls, and I lisped just like a
woman. The piece was called: ‘Canace in Labour.’ I
came out with pillows under my tunic and groaned so
terribly that the audience implored me to give birth!
That was my best rdle—even Paris admitted it. I felt
I was putting my whole soul into it, the gestures and
intonation were splendid, the emotion so strong that I
deceived even myself and for a moment thought I was
a woman. Well, let’s see, what else was I? Niobe,
that’s right; and Orestes, too. I almost forgot that. Sit
down, Ancus.”

The soldier, who had been shifting wearily from one
foot to the other, sat down and rested his head on the
shaft of the lance.

“What glory I gained!” continued the Emperor in
excitement. “But men don’t deserve to have a god
shown to them. Acting is an ungrateful profession: too
many envious rivals, with very little recognition at the
end. It doesn’t pay, believe me. Rome is a stupid city.
The Latin race hasn’t any feeling for art. They can
produce only two kinds of men: soldiers and lawyers.
And those were the people to whom I gave my very soul.
I was received differently in other cities. Naples
strewed saffron before my chariot and kissed my hands
and feet. I remember that an earthquake almost de-
stroyed the theater but, thanks to my divine art, no one
suffered any injury. But I really ought to live in Hellas,
in Athens, the queen of cities. Alas, how often I weep
because I was not born a Greek. Don’t you think I
ought to be a Greek, Ancus?”328 THE BLOODY POET

But the soldier had dozed off.
“Stupid dolt! You can see he’s a Latin too. He has
a wolfish Roman face. Go ahead—snore, you fool!
ah What you need is the whip, not art!”
vy His head sank on his shoulders. He fell asleep.Chapter Thirty-two

in THE CARDEN OF PHAON

 

 

IN FRONT OF THE PALACE LOOMED THE GIGANTIC
changeless statue of Nero. It was twenty times life-
size. Its eyes were as big as fists, and its fingers like
arms. When Tirades, the Armenian king, came to
Rome with three thousand Parthian troops to pay
homage to the Emperor, he sank down in the dust before
the statue and prayed to it as to a god.

Now in the early dawn Nero stood before his statue.
He looked up and his heart contracted. Around the
neck of the colossus hung a leather sack, swaying to
and fro in the wind. No one had ever dared to touch
the statue before; it was accorded the same reverence
that he himself received. And now someone had hung
up this open and obvious symbol of the matricide’s
punishment.

He shuddered. It was all clear now.

“The end,” he thought.

The streets were in a fever of excitement. Germania,
faithful up to the last moment, had finally rebelled.
Rufus, the governor, had allied himself with Galba;
Marcus Sodius was marching on Rome from Numidia;
and Otho was on his way to avenge the murder of
Poppaea. Many had already seen the Hispanic le-
gions pressing forward between the Sabine hills.

Nero issued a series of desperate military orders.

329330 THE BLOODY POET

He wanted to attack Hispania by sea, but he lacked a

sufficient fleet. His land army was equally small. The

guards amounted in all to only twenty thousand men
: and the legions were encamped in the East. He or-
sf dered a general conscription and even drafted slaves
into the army. He placed Rubrius Gallus at the head
of the troops and despatched him against the rebels.

On his way to the imperial grounds late that night
Epaphroditus encountered not a single soldier. The
doors of the palace were wide open. He secured an
oil-lamp and hastened to the Emperor’s bed-chamber.
Wax tablets lay scattered about Nero’ bed, scribbled
over with military orders and half-finished poems. The
Emperor did not inquire the reason for his secretary’s
sudden appearance; the occurrences of the last few
i months had accustomed him to almost anything. He
looked up, his eyes brimming with tears.

“‘T was just writing my funeral oration.” He waited
for the effect. “A heart-rending little thing. I’m go-
ing to declaim it to the people tomorrow. I shall ap-
pear before them, break into tears, and they will under-
stand everything. Listen: tell me whether it’s energetic
enough. I like it, myself. ‘Now do I take my leave of
you, O Romans .. .””

He would have continued reading, but the secretary
grasped his hand firmly:

“‘Not now.”

“Why not?”

“Tt is too late,” he said, desperately. “The mob isIN THE GARDEN OF PHAON 331

beginning its attack. They’re in front of the palace—
killing one another.”

“Impossible!” cried Nero, fearfully.

“It is true. Galba is proclaimed Emperor.”

““And the people?”

“They’ve gone over to the stronger side, as always.”

Nero seized a tablet and pushed it into his secretary S
hand.

‘Here! Release the decree! Have the entire Senate
killed, the people, everybody!”

“But who will execute it?” asked Epaphroditus
gloomily.

“The soldiers.”

“There are no soldiers.”

“Soldiers!” raged the Emperor. “They’re stationed
everywhere!”

“Not so loudly,” said Epaphroditus, soothing him.
“They can hear us. We are unprotected.”

It was some time before Nero calmed down.

“Then I shall kill myself,” he declared. “T shall
cast myself into the Tiber. Where is my dagger? O
for a gladiator to pierce me to the heart!” He ripped
open his tunic. The words rang out sharply in the night,
but he knew that he was only acting. He pulled out a
multitude of little boxes and bottles, threw them on
the floor, and at last found what he sought, a vial of
poison.

In imagination he already felt death invading his
body; his hands and feet grew cold. Trembling, he
sank down on a chair.Don THE BLOODY POET

Through the darkness flashed the single thought:
“I must live, at any cost, I must live!”

He was no longer concerned with the loss of his
throne. Now he could be a pure artist. He would go
to Alexandria, the great, cultured, Greek-Oriental city.
There he would live by means of his art. He grew
enthusiastic over the idea.

“Don’t you see something magnificent, almost sub-
lime about it? To be completely abandoned, to know
that we have lost everything, to have a sensation of
nothingness, to enjoy darkness? It’s like the close of a
tragedy.”

“Yes,” assented Epaphroditus. “But let us hurry.
There is no time to lose.”

“What shall we do?”

“Flee. You must disguise yourself; you can’t go
this way. They would recognize you.”

Nero began to search in his wardrobe. It was full
of Greek togas, purple mantles, vari-coloured tunics, one
for each of his different rdles. He groped among them
with stiff fingers. One after another fell to the ground;
he trampled on them impatiently. Finally he selected
a coachman’s costume, the one he had worn on his first
youthful escapade, and the short stage sword that Paris
had given him at the time. Then he dressed rapidly,
attached the sword firmly, turned about to try the effect
of the clothes and imitated the jargon of a coachman.
He seized a few masks and a lyre. It was the lyre of
Britannicus which he had transferred to the palace after
the death of Seneca. He handled the beautiful heart-
shaped instrument carefully, placing it beneath hisIN THE GARDEN OF PHAON 333

mantle with the utmost solicitude. He intended to use
it in Alexandria.

Just as they were ready to make their escape, they
heard a sudden sound, like the shuflle of approaching
footsteps. Sporus tumbled in, dressed in scanty night
clothes. The uproar made by the rebels had awakened
him. His first impulse had been to run away but he
found the main staircase already blocked by soldiers.
He implored Nero and Epaphroditus to take him with
them.

Rapidly, without a light, they descended a narrow
winding flight of steps leading to the slaves’ apartments.
Here they found a few sleeping mercenaries, woke them
up, and had them break a hole through a side wall.
The trio crawled out on their stomachs. Whimpering,
rubbing his eyes, and holding his toga together with an
affected modesty, Sporus followed Epaphroditus who
led the way. Nero brought up the rear. Reaching
the top of the Palatine they looked over the city. They
saw nothing extraordinary. Perhaps there were more
people than usual on the hill.

They proceeded on their way. The night moved
ominously about them, full of the shadowy forms of
jostling soldiers. Fires were flaming on top of the
Pincius and Vatican hills. Passing along the banks of
the Tiber they stumbled over a heap of corpses. They
heard the distant murmur of an invisible horde of
people. Nero pressed forward, quickening his pace.
He was silent, reserving his strength, for he was afraid
that his secretary would have to support him.

The moonless night protected them from recognition.334 THE BLOODY POET

Unmolested, they reached the outskirts of the city and
strode quickly forward along the roads bordered with
olive trees. Here they met not a single person.

Not far from the city on the Via Salaria, a section of
elegant villas and estates, lived Phaon, a freedman.
He had once served the Emperor in the treasury office,
and during the course of a few years had amassed a
considerable fortune. He could have kept on increas-
ing the sum, but he was satisfied with what he had made.
He said farewell to metropolitan life and the court with
no regret, for he loved the management of his subur-
ban estate. Now he was so little interested in public
events that he did not even read the Acta Diurna.

In the early hours of the morning, Phaon arose and
walked out into his garden. His healthy face glowed
like a contented child’s after a peaceful night’s slum-
ber. He busied himself with clearing the fruit trees
of caterpillars and watering his narcissi, carnations
and hyacinths whose bulbs he had imported from
Africa. His eye took keen pleasure in the gay flower
beds. He was a happy man.

After strolling up and down for a few minutes, he
sat down to his breakfast of buttermilk, cakes, and
fresh honey. Suddenly he heard someone knocking at
the door. He looked out and saw a stocky, rather stout
coachman, his face drawn and distorted.

*‘Phaon,”’ said the coachman.

Phaon did not recognize him. The stranger looked
hunted and desperate. He cowered against the door
pitifully, like a whimpering hound. His chin wasIN THE GARDEN OF PHAON 335

covered with red stubble. Behind him were two other
men, equally unknown to Phaon.

“Open the door,” implored the coachman, and rat-
tled at the door-handle impatiently.

The voice recalled something to Phaon. He began
to realize that it was the Emperor Nero demanding en-
trance. He bowed and admitted him in bewilderment.

“Quickly,” said Epaphroditus. “And lead us further
inside, if you please. They are searching for us on
the roads,” he explained to Phaon.

The latter, still mystified, led his guest to the inner
garden, near the fishpond where they sat down at a
table.

Nero seemed to be in a state of lethargy. His eyes
wandered dully.

“How beautiful it is here,” he said.

The trees moved lightly in the morning breeze.
From the underbrush and crystal air came a million
tiny sounds. Beetles, enamelled in blue and green,
scurried over the ground. Not far away a thick swarm
of bees was buzzing about the hive in a wild orgy of
honey-gathering. Butterflies fluttered through the air
and disappeared abruptly, like the optical delusions of
the desert.

Phaon was anxious to offer the Emperor some hospi-
tality. But Nero would eat nothing; he feared that
everything was poisoned. He asked for a little water
but did not touch even this. Instead, he stretched out
flat on the earth, bent over a puddle left by Phaon’s
watering can and drank in long, thirsty gulps.336 THE BLOODY POET

“T’m sleepy,” he said thickly, and without another
word rolled over and fell fast asleep on the ground, his
mouth smeared with mud, his thick leather hat still on
his head which lolled heavily among sweet-smelling
grass and trailing creepers. The sun penetrated through
the bushes, dried the mud on his lips, and burned his
neck and nose. Yet he slept on, and did not wake up till
late afternoon.

In the meantime, Phaon learned what had brought
Nero to his door. The Senate had pronounced him an
enemy of the Empire and condemned him to death for
matricide. Epaphroditus explained that they had come
here for but a short rest and had to continue their flight
immediately, for the soldiers were already at their
heels.

Toward sunset, a few horsemen spurred past the villa,
followed by more and more frequent detachments.
Phaon was afraid of becoming implicated in the situa-
tion, and he begged Epaphroditus to rouse Nero. The
Emperor awoke, shivering as if with ague. His eyes
were heavy with sleep.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

Kpaphroditus turned to him; the Emperor continued,
raving:

“TI don’t understand; I don’t understand anything.”
He smiled weakly. “Who is that speaking? Someone
is speaking inside me. I hear his voice.”

Phaon looked at him in pity. Nero turned to the
freedman, grasped his hand and pressed it feverishly.

“He is speaking,” he said. “Always; he is always
speaking. He speaks out of my own heart, through myIN THE GARDEN OF PHAON aL,

own voice. I cannot bear it. Quiet! Be quiet! Must
you be with me always, always?”

He turned to the others, beseechingly.

“Tell me, what does all this mean? I don’t under-
stand. You,” here he looked up at Phaon, “press my
hand—tighter, tighter! I can feel you are human. It
makes me happy. I can feel your hand tremble, your
eyes move just as mine do. I don’t know who you are,
but it doesn’t matter. Stay with me. Don’t let me go.
I shall die if you let me go.”

“He is mad,” said Epaphroditus.

“You are a man,” continued Nero, still speaking to
Phaon, “but are you a good man? If you are miser-
able, you are a bad man, a very bad man. What am I?
My head used to pain me, I used to wander about, not
knowing where I was going. Was I bad? Or good?
Tell me!” His eyes filled with tears. He rested his
head on Phaon’s breast. “Even the gods—they are not
good. I have suffered—oh, so much!”

Epaphroditus loosened Nero’s grip on Phaon’s hand,
helped him to his feet, and explained gently that they
must continue on their way at once, otherwise they
would be lost. His knees giving way beneath him, Nero
stumbled after the secretary into the brilliant morning
sunshine. Suddenly he stopped and recoiled.

“You!” he cried, with a jeering, hysterical laugh.

“Who is it?” asked Epaphroditus.

The Emperor did not reply. His hair stiffened, his
besmudged mouth moved mechanically. Sporus nodded
to Epaphroditus:

“It’s Poppaea.”338 THE BLOODY POET

“No,” returned the secretary, “‘it’s his mother he
sees.”

They asked him again, but he did not answer.

“Seneca ?”’

Nero shook his head.

“No, not him.” <A long pause. Then he wailed:
“Always, always, always, always you! I gave up
everything for you, you with your white face, your
plastered face with the blue spots!” A convulsion of
nausea shook him.

“It’s Britannicus,” whispered Epaphroditus.

“How I loved you, my brother. Yet it was you that
caused everything. Even this. For—you were great—
a great artist . . .”

Trumpets sounded in front of the villa. The men
pushed Nero into a little shed close by.

“The soldiers.” Epaphroditus’ tone was resolute.

“Destiny!” declaimed Nero.

“Don’t shout like that, we'll all be killed.”

Nero sat down on a saw-horse in the wood shed which
was filled with the sharp odour of chips and shavings.

“IT want to die,” he moaned.

The others said nothing, waited anxiously. The
Emperor began to search for the poison. The vial was
empty.

“They’ve taken everything away from me, even
death.”

He fell on his knees:

“Kill me!”

All three drew back. The idea of killing the Em-IN THE GARDEN OF PHAON 339

peror who had killed so many others seemed fantastic.
No one moved.

“Sporus,” implored Nero. “Dearest, kill me, kill
me!”

The boy was terrified. He hid himself behind the
" woodpile.

“Sing a dirge, at least—in Greek.”

“We must hurry,” insisted Phaon.

The Emperor drew forth the stage sword that Paris
had given him, and pressed it against his throat. His
face was white.

“T must die! Earth, heaven, I take my leave of
you!”

He fell on the sword with all his weight, but the blunt
point refused to penetrate his throat. Epaphroditus
had pity. He pressed down Nero’s head. The Em-
peror squealed like a stuck pig. The blood spurted
from his throat as he gasped out the words:

ox ereat artieh )°. .””

They drew out the sword. He was dead.Chapter Thirty-three

LAMENT FOR THE DEAD

 

 

SPORUS CREPT OUT OF THE SHED TO SEE WHETHER
the soldiers were near. There was no one on the road;
the pursuers had evidently lost the track. The boy
went into the house and drank burning Greek wine.
Epaphroditus and Phaon remained with the corpse.

“We'll have it taken away tonight, secretly,” said
Phaon.

Epaphroditus bent over the body. ‘Look at his face.
How violent it is, even in death. His jaws are clamped
together with the force of some terrible desire. How:
burnt out his features look. Strange . . . and yet I
have the feeling that his face is beautiful.”

Epaphroditus paused. Then, reflectively:

“He looks almost like a poet.”

“He said something about a great artist. Whom did
he mean?” asked Phaon.

“Britannicus, I think. Or perhaps himself.”

“He was wicked,” said Phaon, “dreadful.”

“All poets are dreadful,” replied Epaphroditus.
“But from them arises beauty. The flower has its root
in the moist and wormy earth.”

“He was very miserable,” said Phaon.

“He was a Roman. What a Greek would have ac-
complished easily and naturally and delicately, he
could accomplish only with the bloody sweat of his
brow, with the awkwardness and cruelty of a barbarian,

340LAMENT FOR THE DEAD 341

and at the cost of his own life. He tried to live what
he should only have dreamed. The genuine poets are
different. They dream those things that they cannot
live. But he wanted to become a poet; he longed for
it so intensely, he went through such agonies to attain
his goal that he was often sublime—but more often
ridiculous. I watched him day after day and pitied
him as I saw him sacrifice everything to a goal he could
never reach. He actually renounced life; every breath
he drew was consecrated to some form of art. But he
lacked something. Just a little more and he would have
been a real poet. But this little is a great deal. He
could not find it in himself. The raw material of poetry
which he had, and which could never break through to
expression, tore him to pieces. It was that which killed
him.”

“How old was he?”

“About thirty.”

“How young,” sighed Phaon, deeply moved.

“Yes, he would have been thirty-one,” repeated
Epaphroditus, rather surprised himself at Nero’s age.
“For thirteen years he ruled over the Roman Empire.”
He murmured softly, almost to himself: “He was de-
scended from the divine Aeneas and he left no child.”

“He had much to live for.”

“Yes, he should have just begun. What a rash, avid,
tormented soul was his.”

“His conscience was heavy with sins,” said Phaon.

‘We are all guilty of sin,” replied Epaphroditus
solemnly. “But death washes it all away. The dead
are innocent.”342 THE BLOODY POET

They walked out of the shed to a little summer-house
where a table spread with food was awaiting them.
There was fresh cheese, butter and curds. Sporus was
lying beside the table, dead drunk. They sat down and
tried to eat. Silence settled over them. The stars
came out and over the edge of the horizon streamed
the comet announcing the death of the Emperor.

“It must be very far away,” said Phaon.

“Very far,” replied Epaphroditus who had studied
the Pythagorean astronomy in his youth. “Somewhere
in the middle of the universe revolving around the
great central fire.”

As they sat there among the vines, talking in the blue
July night, a woman’s form appeared, walking slowly
up the garden path. She stopped before the summer-
house and unveiled her face; the face of an old woman,
sad, covered with dust. Phaon did not know who she
could be. Epaphroditus recognized her:

“Ecloge,” he said. ‘‘Nero’s old nurse.”

It was the Greek nurse who had once suckled Nero.
Since his childhood she had been living in the palace,
held in high esteem. Epaphroditus had warned her of
their flight.

“The nurse is here,” she said gently, a hint of re-
proach in her voice. She always spoke of herself in the
third person, as little children do: “the nurse is here,”
“the nurse is eating,” “the nurse is going to sleep.”

They asked her to sit down, but she refused.

“Where is he?” she asked softly.

Epaphroditus and Phaon arese and with a little oil-LAMENT FOR THE DEAD 343

lamp lighted the path to the woodshed. The three
walked without uttering a word.

“Here,” said Epaphroditus, pointing to Nero, cov-
ered with a sheet.

“Dead?”

Both nodded.

Ecloge drew back the sheet and held the lamp over
the corpse. She showed neither surprise nor fear. She
was his nurse; she had suckled him and she would bury
him, she who was equally familiar with the cradle and
the grave. Drawing aside his tunic, she asked for fire-
wood and water that she might pay the last honours to
the dead. With a feminine deftness that belied her
seventy years, she crouched down and washed his cold
face and neck. Then she lifted his head and rested it
on her bosom. She began to lament in the sweet Greek
accents of the ancient tragedies. Her voice rose and
fell, softly wailing.

“You have no mother to weep over you, no child to
drop tears upon your grave. You have neither friend
nor brother. Only the nurse remains, poor orphan, only
the nurse.”

She was crying. She rocked Nero’s head and stroked
it gently, as if she were comforting a hurt child.

“Nero, little Nero, the nurse is speaking to you.
How sad, how pale his face is. He is sleeping. He
who never used to sleep. He was always awake, crying
all night in his little cradle. He used to wake up every-
body until I came and sang something to him.”

She began to sing a Greek nursery song about a horse¥ |
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——————

 

344, THE BLOODY POET

and its rider galloping off into a far land . - . Then
she turned to the two men:

“But he loved to play with toys. He used to have
little chariots which he painted green and blue. He was
always on the side of the green chariot. And he liked to
$0 to the theater. That’s why he was always running
away from his great-aunt, the good Lepida.”

She gazed at the lifeless face. “And what became
of him?” she said sadly.

Epaphroditus and Phaon left her alone with the dead
Emperor. Ecloge fumbled at her bosom and drew out
a rusty obolus. She placed the coin in the mouth of the
dead, under the tongue, so that Charon the F erryman
of Hades would row him over to the dark shore where

there is peace at last for all souls that have suffered
beneath the sun.

THE ENDae