The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 2, August, 1864

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It was no uncommon thing then, as now, for the husband to neglect his
wife. All Rome rang with the frequent story of marital wrong. But those
were days in which the matron did not generally accept her desertion
with meekness. Brought up in a fevered, unscrupulous society, she had
her own retaliatory resources; and if no efforts were sufficient to
bring back the wandering affection, she could recompense herself
elsewhere for its loss, secure that her wrongs would be held as a
justification, and that her associates, equally aggrieved and avenged,
would applaud her course. But with AEnone, brought up in a provincial
town, under the shelter of her own native purity and innocence, no such
idea could find countenance. Even the thought which sometimes dimly
presented itself, that by some harmless coquetry she might perhaps
excite her husband's jealousy, and thereby chance to win back his love,
was one which she always stifled in its beginning as weak and unworthy.

But the recompenses of friendship were still left to her, and it was
surely doing no wrong to accept them. Therefore the more she realized
that her source of real happiness was becoming estranged from her, so
much the more did she feel naturally drawn toward the society of
Cleotos. To her, of course, he was not a mere slave, but rather a person
of equal birth with herself, who had been beaten down by the same fate
which had elevated her. And in conversation with him, it was easy to
carry her mind back to her early home, and for a little while forget her
present misery. And he, in turn, having been repulsed where he had
placed his highest hopes of happiness, and imbittered with the
disappointment, was not at all loth to transfer, in all innocence, his
devotion to one who extended such kindly condescension toward him. It
therefore happened that the two were naturally drawn much together, and,
for a time, without attracting invidious notice. Those were days in
which the association between master and slave was often of an intimate
character. To the lower class of slaves, indeed, there could be no
familiar approach. It was sufficient for them that at times they could
look upon the faces of their owners from a distance. But above these,
were converging circles, each rising in rank and responsibility, until
there were those who stood at their owners' right hands, more in the
position of friends and confidants than of menials. Of these was
Cleotos, whose winning face and graceful mien, joined to his natural
abilities and his valued accomplishments, would have insured him a
higher position than that of most captives, even if he had not been
assisted by the partiality of his mistress.

It was his duty to announce her guests, to trim the lamps at which she
read, to read to her when she felt indisposed to do so for herself; to
indite her correspondence--and generally to superintend all those little
elegancies and demands of social life which require grace or mental
ability in their execution. These offices naturally kept him near her
during much of each day--and when AEnone and he were alone, and no task
was before him requiring immediate completion, it was but to be expected
that a mingling of curiosity and friendly interest should lead her to
question him upon his past life, his home, his associates, even his
thoughts. And often it as naturally happened that, while he spoke, the
music of his voice lulled her into forgetfulness of all but the past,
and she would find herself unconsciously relaxing from the somewhat
frigid dignity which she felt called upon to assume, until her features
must have glowed with some expression of her former familiar kindness.
For she would be suddenly startled back into her forced propriety by a
strange and troubled look of puzzled thought flitting across his face--a
look which she could read and analyze better than he could; for it told
her that, without any real suspicion of the truth, he was wondering at
the likeness of that beaming face which bent over him to something which
he had seen elsewhere in the past.

There was one morning that he sat before her by a little table where he
had been writing a letter at her dictation. The letter was folded and
sealed, and then ensued one of those vacant intervals when each, having
no pressing task at hand, remains for a few moments listlessly thinking
what shall be done next. At that instant Leta passed through the
room--bowing low as she moved before her mistress, and throwing out
toward Cleotos from the corner of her dark eye one of those aggravating
looks in which friendly interest in him and pleasure at his sight were
mingled with a certain cruel warning against any renewal of past
memories. Cleotos retorted with a similar careless greeting, expressive
of simple friendliness, unconscious of any warmer emotion. But he had
not yet perfectly learned his part; for, as Leta passed out of the room,
the quiver of his lip showed how difficult had been the task of
mastering his forced smile even for that moment.

'Poor boy!' said, AEnone, as she witnessed the effort. 'You have not yet
learned not to love her.'

'Not yet, indeed, my mistress,' he responded. 'But it seems as though I
knew the task better than last week, and would know it still better a
week hence. What can I say? It is not to be thought that I should lapse
in a moment into real indifference, even though I may find out that she
is unworthy of love. There cannot but be an interval during which the
heart will struggle against the judgment, and lead to foolish longings
after what has passed.'

'True, indeed,' said AEnone.

'And still, in my heart, I sometimes almost think that I have never
loved her,' he continued in a reflective, dreamy tone; 'that I have been
under a spell--have been made the slave of certain outward fascinations,
which have fettered my judgment. Can it be that one will think he loves
and yet does not?'

'It is indeed hard to answer, I suppose.'

'It must be hard; for wherein, after all, is the difference between
being and thinking to be? But yet it seems as though there were times,
even long past and before this captivity, when, being in our own land,
and with nothing to disturb us or make us doubtful of the future, I
looked upon her with a strange kind of fear--wondering whether, though I
loved her with so strong a passion, it might not rather be the passion
of an unlasting, unsatisfying slavery of thought, than of a calm,
lifelong trustfulness. And now it seems to me that if I ever had this
feeling--for I cannot certainly tell whether I ever had or only now
imagine it--it seems to me as though it were an inner instinct warning
me against evil; for day by day I see more clearly that there has been
some veil over my soul, hiding it from a clear perception of what was
suitable for it.'

'And you begin to dislike her?' inquired AEnone.

'Not so,' he said. 'Nor do I know whether I ought to do so, if I could.
I believe now that she does not, and perhaps never has loved me, but I
must forgive her for all that. She may have tried to do so, and for a
time have thought that she did, and the true blame may all the while
have rested with me alone. With her strong, unbending temperament,
fearless of correction, and jealous of all control, how, indeed, could
she long cling to one of such a tranquil and yielding nature as myself?
That she loved me not, proves not that she could love no one; and though
she now seems so coldly heartless and so rashly heedless of her fame,
yet who knows what she might have been if fettered by the love of a
spirit more imperious than her own? Who can tell how the great good that
is within her might then have conquered the evil, and her soul have
spurned its present headstrong course, and gloriously aroused itself to
its sole great duty of love and innocent trustfulness?'

'These, indeed, are very far from being words of dislike,' said AEnone;
'and they only prove that you still love her, or you would not so
readily excuse her.'

'Neither have I denied that I love her yet,' he said. 'But it is not
with as blind an affection as before. Her touch, her words, her
smile--if given with real love--would still please me as of old; and yet
I should feel that there was something gone from me forever. Even if we
were restored to our own isle, with no enemy near or rival to interrupt
us, I could not but henceforth feel that destiny had not meant her for
me, so much would her stronger nature be ill assorted with my own. And
sometimes--'

'Well?'

'Sometimes--now that this thraldom of my spirit is passing off--there
comes back to me the memory of another face, a gentle, loving
face--which, if it were possible ever to see it again, I have too long
forgotten, but which, if I may not see it more, I should, for my own
sake, have forgotten long ago. But all this, honored mistress, can be of
no interest to you, and therefore it were foolish to mention it.'

'Nay, speak to me of it,' murmured AEnone; and, struggle as she would,
the telltale blood began to flow up into her face. 'Is there any woman
who does not care to listen to a love story?' she added, as though in
excuse for her curiosity.

'It is but a common love tale,' he said, 'and the more so that nothing
came of it. A few stolen interviews--a few promises exchanged--and then
a parting forever. That is all.'

'But where and when was this?'

'Six years ago, at Ostia. For, though a Greek, I have been in this land
before now. I was a sailor then, and in that port I met her. Met her and
loved her, and promised to return again. And for a while I meant to do
so; but on our passage back our ship was wrecked. I could not at once
find place upon another, and so took employment on the shore--none the
less, however, intending some day to come back and claim her. What shall
I say? It is the old story. The sea is wide, and I could interchange no
tidings with her. Ill success followed me, and I could not return to
Ostia. Then, little by little, as the months drifted past, and I
believed her lost to me, her image began to fade from my memory. And
then I saw Leta; and under the spell of that new charm, it seemed to me
as though the other one had lost all grasp upon my mind. Not altogether,
though, for even at the height of my later love, I have always borne
about me the last keepsake that she had given me.'

'Let me see it, what it is like,' said AEnone, faintly; and in obedience
to her command, and perhaps wondering a little that she should take such
interest in so simple a story, Cleotos drew from beneath his tunic a
thread with a coin dangling at the end.

The tears struggled into AEnone's eyes as she gazed upon the token. It
was a poor little silver coin of the time of the first Caesars--one of
the few curiosities of her father's family--and which she had given to
her lover as the most precious thing belonging to her. She remembered
that when, in that last stroll by the shore, she had hung it about his
neck with her own hands, and had made him promise always to keep it, she
had received from him a similar token--a bright silver piece of
Vespasian, and had placed it near her heart, while murmuring similar
vows. He had kept his word, and she had not kept hers. For the moment,
she felt even guilty of bad faith, forgetting that when she afterward
gave her more mature affection to Sergius, it was only her duty to lay
aside all that even whispered of past promises.

'I could not bear to part with it,' he said; 'for it still spoke to me
of her friendship, if not of her love. And a superstitions thought came
into my mind that I might some day see her again, and that, though we
should not meet as lovers, yet she might, perhaps, be pleased to learn
that I had not entirely forgotten her. Would she not, noble lady, do you
think?'

'She does--that is, it surely should so move her,' said AEnone.

'So have I still worn it,' he continued. 'And somehow each day brings
back the recollection of her more faithfully to me. Whether it is
because this other absorbing love is passing from my heart, and leaving
to me greater freedom of thought--or whether it is that Ostia is now so
near to me that I daily hear of it and see its costumes in the streets,
and thus my recollection of the place is kindled anew--or whether it
is--'

'Is what?' said AEnone, encouragingly.

'I know not how to dare say it,' he stammered. 'It is a presumption,
indeed, but I mean it not for such. I would say that there is something
in your face, most noble mistress--a look--a flash of thought--a glance
of the eye--a something I know not what, which reminds me of her whom I
knew so many years ago. So that sometimes, were it not for the
difference of dress and all else around you, so much at variance with
what had been her state, I could almost forget the lapse of years, and
imagine that--Pardon, most noble lady! I meant not to offend!'

For she had arisen; and now, drawn to her full height, was looking down
upon him with all the coldness of patrician dignity that she could
summon to her aid. He, too, arose, and stood trembling opposite her. For
a moment they remained gazing upon each other; he aghast at the apparent
consequences of his remark, reproaching himself for having so
inconsiderately raised her anger by daring to compare, even in feature,
a lowly country girl with her, and despairingly asking himself what he
should do to restore himself to her favor--she more and more wrapping
herself in a disguise of outward pride and haughty bearing, lest by some
chance his unsuspecting eyes might detect the truth, and yet inwardly
bleeding at the heart to think that she could not reveal herself to him
and promise him her friendship, in full confidence that his love for her
would not return and bring new distress upon them. Then suddenly, while
each stood wondering what course to take, a light step was heard in the
outer hall, and the poet Emilius entered.

CHAPTER XI.

At the interruption, AEnone hastily reseated herself; while Cleotos, in
obedience to a quick and significant motion of her finger, remained in
the room, and, resuming his position at the table, prepared to continue
his writing. The poet Emilius could not, of course, fail to notice this
somewhat confused alteration of posture, but no suspicion of having
intruded upon an embarrassing scene crossed his mind. He merely saw a
proudly erect mistress and a cowering slave; and it was no unusual thing
to interrupt a Roman lady in the act of giving even corporeal correction
to her attendant, nor did the stranger's entrance always cause the
punishment to cease.

'Has the caitiff been insolent?' he exclaimed, in gallant tone, as he
approached and seated himself before her. 'Has he dared to look too
rebelliously upon so charming a mistress? If so, permit that I may
chastise him for you. It is not fit that such fair hands should be
obliged to wield the rod.'

'Nay, it is nothing,' she said. 'Nothing, indeed, needing much reproof;
and it is all past now. And wherefore have we lately seen so little of
you?'

'Commands of court--the claims of Parnassus--all these, fair lady, have
withheld me from heretofore giving to beauty its proper meed of
admiration and worship. To speak more plainly, I have undertaken, by
order of our emperor, the not ungrateful task of weaving a few poetical
sentiments to be recited at the opening of our new amphitheatre. And in
order that the results of my labor might not lessen my already acquired
fame, I judged it most prudent to seclude myself for the past few days
from the gayeties of the world, and give myself up to study and
meditation. Though, after all, I could not deny, if closely questioned,
that my seclusion was but little productive of results; for, upon being
tempted out one evening, sorely against my judgment, to a feast at the
house of the comedian Bassus, the true poetic inspiration overtook me
at the end of my third goblet, and, calling for parchment, I there
accomplished, in one short hour, the greater portion of my task.'

'Then, I presume that your ode, unlike your other works, will be of a
cheerful and lively character, more especially as it is written for such
a festive occasion.'

'Scarcely, perhaps, what the world would call altogether lively, though
here and there a thread of playful thought may gleam upon the more sober
texture of the basis. I have rather judged it proper that, for the due
celebration of an event of such wondrous magnificence, I should give
utterance to deeper and more lasting sentiments, so as to fit the minds
of the spectators for a higher comprehension of its true significance.
But, if you wish, I will read aloud a few of my thoughts; and be assured
that so far no eye has seen the scroll, not even the august eye of the
emperor Titus himself.'

AEnone inclined her head in assent, and he drew from the breast of his
tunic a small roll of parchment, carefully wrapped in a covering of
embroidered silk.

'I commence, of course, by an address to the emperor, whom I call the
most illustrious of all the Caesars, and liken unto Jove. I then
congratulate the spectators not only upon living in his time, but also
upon being there to bask in the effulgence of his majesty; his
countenance being the sight most to be desired, and the games and
combats being merely accessory thereto. After which, I speak to the
gladiators and captives; and prove to them how grateful they should be
to the gods for allowing them the privilege of dying in such an august
presence.'

'Is it such a privilege, do you think?' inquired AEnone.

'Perhaps not a privilege, but certainly no great hardship. The trained
gladiators surely cannot complain, for they have voluntarily assumed the
risks; and as for the captives, the most of them will some day die a
violent death of some kind or another, and, therefore, why not now,
attended by the decent observances of the games and the applause of all
the Roman people? But to proceed. From thence I speak of death--its
pleasures and its recompenses; showing that, if there be a future life,
the gods have done wisely to withhold its exact nature from us, and
that, whatever uncertainties may exist in other respects, nothing can be
more true than that those who now die in the arena will, in another
world, find their highest felicity in the privilege of looking up from a
distance at the loved emperor in whose honor they perished, and
beholding him enjoying, through adoption, the society of the inhabitants
of Olympus. I then--but it is useless to detail all the argument. I will
read the poem itself; or rather, if you so permit, I will let this
scribe of yours read it for me. Perhaps, upon hearing it from another's
mouth, I may be led to make still further corrections.'

Handing the manuscript with all care to Cleotos, the poet leaned back
with eyes closed in delicious revery, now and then arousing himself to
correct some defective emphasis or unsatisfactory intonation, the
tolerance of which, he imagined, would mar the proper effect of the
production, or, with persistent desire for praise, momentarily calling
closer attention to such passages as appeared to him deserving of
especial commendation--and generally omitting no opportunity of exacting
that entire admiration to which he believed his genius entitled him.
Apart from a somewhat extravagant display of high-strained metaphor, the
poem had merit, being bold in scope, sonorous and well rounded in tone,
and here and there gracefully decked with original and pleasing
thoughts. Throughout the whole, however, the singular propensity of the
author for indulgence in morbid and gloomy reflection found its usual
development, while every line was laden with lofty maxims of moral
philosophy, mingled with urgent incentives to the adoption of a virtuous
career;--all, in themselves, both unexceptionable and praiseworthy, but,
nevertheless, having a strange sound in the ears of those who recognized
them as the utterances of one whose conversation was always flippant and
puerile, and whose daily life, in the enormity and uninterrupted
persistency of its profligacy, rendered him the acknowledged leader of
all that was most disreputable and contaminating in Roman society.

At length, the reading having been fully completed, and the listener's
powers of flattery exhausted, the author carefully rewrapped his poem in
its silken cover and carried it away, to read it, in turn, to other
noble ladies, with the same transparent pretence of giving exclusive
hearing of it to each. For a few moments AEnone remained in thoughtful
silence, with her head bowed upon her hand; recalling the scattered
fragments of the sonorous verses, and wondering why it was that, when
each line had seemed so perfect in itself, and every thought so pure and
noble in its purport and conception, the whole should have left upon her
mind such an undefinable impress of dissatisfaction.

Cleotos, with unobtrusive scrutiny, seemed to read her thoughts, for, at
the first intimation of her perplexity, he said:

'It is because the author of those verses has not sincerely felt the
full meaning of what he has there written. For, with whatsoever display
of ingenious and artistic skill fair sounding maxims of morality may be
expressed, yet, if they come not from the heart, their utterance must
seem hollow and unreal. I do not know this author--how or where he
lives. It may be that in his daily life he is outwardly all that could
be desired. But I know this--that he has written about virtue and death,
not because he loves the one and fears not the other, but simply
because, by a display of well-toned periods, he may more surely hope to
gain the applause of the arena and the smiles of the court.'

'But why should not these sentiments, though called into being by
personal ambition alone, give equal pleasure as if springing directly
from the heart? Are they not, after all, as true?'

'Nay, honored mistress, neither are they true. This is again where they
fail to please; for in your soul there is an instinct, though you may
not know of it, which forbids that such cold and unsatisfactory
reasoning should bring you comfort. He speaks of death: is it cheering
to be told that, though the gods have appointed death to every person,
they have given it, not as a veiled mercy, but rather as a dreadful
fate--that there is no certainty about our future condition, but that,
if we are destined to live again, it may be with the same evils
encompassing us which bind us now--and that the slave may then still be
a slave, destined forever to look up to and worship the high and mighty
ones who trampled on him here?'

'That is, in truth, no comfort,' said AEnone. And she bowed her head upon
her hands, and sadly thought how worthless to her would be the gift of
eternal life, if her present sorrows were to follow her. 'But what can
we do? If it were possible to discover and believe in some other fate,
telling us that death, instead of being a dreaded pang, is a boon and
relief to the sick and weary and oppressed--'

'There is a book,' said Cleotos--and for a moment he hesitated, as
though fearful of proceeding--'there is a book which I have read, and
which tells us all this. It says that death is not merely a fate, but is
a source of blessing; since it leads to a world where the sufferings of
this life shall be recompensed with abundant joy, not to the rich
merely, but more especially to the poor and lowly.'

'Where is that book?' cried AEnone, with sudden energy, as the wondrous
depth and power of the sentiment flashed upon her. 'Where can I see and
read it? He who can talk like that, must surely have said still more?'

'I have not that book,' answered Cleotos. 'I have only this little copy
of a small portion of it;' and he hesitatingly drew from beneath his
tunic a single small leaf of discolored parchment, closely filled with
Greek characters. 'But being at Corinth, a year ago, I was permitted to
see the book itself, and to hear portions of it read. It was written to
a Christian church there, by one Paul, a leader of that sect.'

At the word 'Christian' the first impulse of AEnone was to shrink back,
not knowing but that even the presence of one who had ever come into
contact with any of that despised sect might be injurious to her. For at
once she began to recall many of the tales which she had heard to its
discredit--its members hiding as outcasts in the caves and dens of the
earth--their repeated insults to the gods--their proud and unaccountable
worship of a malefactor--their sacrifice of infants--and other
exaggerations and calumnies, begotten in malice or ignorance, and thence
widely spread, making it not hard to believe that the only fate fit for
those to whom they related was a life of persecution and a cruel death
in the arena.

But only for a moment did this instinctive horror control her. The
single doctrine which she had just heard advanced already began to bear
its fruits. It seemed, indeed, not unlikely that one who could write
such truths, and those, his disciples, who could so gratefully treasure
them up, might not, after all, be wantonly wicked, but, at the worst,
might be merely victims of mistaken zeal. And then, in turn, she thought
of much that had been related to her in their favor. During her life at
Rome, indeed, she had heard no mention of the Christian sect, unless
accompanied with sneers or contempt. But she remembered how that in
Ostia, while she was yet a very young girl, she had heard it sometimes
whispered that the Christians were kind and loving to all the world, and
free from many sins in which other men openly exulted, and that, through
their great love for their founder, they organized charities which had
never before been even thought of--and how that once, when she had been
very sick, a strange woman had nursed her into health and refused all
payment for it, alleging that her religion bade her give herself up to
such tasks--and how that she had once seen pass by, one who was pointed
out to her as a holy man among the sect--whose name indeed she could not
remember, but whose mild and serene expression yet lived in her
recollection. It was hardly possible that one whose face was so radiant
with universal love and benevolence as to impress itself thus lastingly
upon the heart of a young child could have been very wicked. Nor did it
seem likely that Cleotos, whose greatest weakness was that his life had
been almost too innocent and trusting, could speak well of a sect which
worthily ought to be persecuted. And then again she thought upon that
little book to the sect at Corinth, and she bade Cleotos to read a verse
or two. He did so. At another time she might have listened as she had
listened to the moral maxims of the poet Emilius--judging well of it,
perhaps, for the beauty of its words, but, beyond that, regarding it
simply as some new and more original expression of long-accepted
philosophy. But now, in her trouble, she felt that there was something
in it beyond all known philosophy--a new development of faith, appealing
to the heart, and speaking comfort to all who were in misery. It surely
could not be that such words were the emanations of an evil influence.

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