 Book 2, Chapter 9 of the Last Days of Pompeii. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rachel Trishka. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bo Willerton. Book 2, Chapter 9. What becomes of Ioni in the House of Arbyses? The first signal of the wrath of the dread foe. When Ioni entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian, the same awe which had crept over her brother and pressed itself also upon her, seemed to her as to him something ominous and warning in the still and mournful faces of the dread Theban monsters, whose majestic and passionless features the marvel so well portrayed. Their look and with the reach of past ages was wise and the soul of eternity thought in their eyes. The tall Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted her and motioned to her to proceed. Halfway up the hall she was met by Arbyses himself in festive robes which glittered with jewels. Although it was broad day without, the mansion, according to the practice of the luxurious, was artificially darkened and the lamps cast their still and odor-giving light over the rich floors and ivory roofs. Beautiful Ioni, said Arbyses, as he bent to touch her hand. It is you that have eclipsed the day. It is your eyes that light up the halls. It is your breath which fills them with perfumes. You must not talk to me thus, said Ioni, smiling. You forget that your law has sufficiently instructed my mind to render these graceful fletcheries to my person unwelcome. It was you who taught me to disdain adulation. Will you untie your pupil? There was something so frank and charming in the manner of Ioni, as she spoke thus, that the Egyptian was more than ever enamoured and more than ever disposed to renew the offense he had committed. He, however, answered quickly and gaily and hastened to renew the conversation. He led her through the various chambers of a house which seemed to contain, to her eyes, inexperienced to other splendour than the mighty Ute elegance of campaigning in the cities, the treasures of the world. In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art, the light shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece, cabinets of gems, each cabinet itself a gem, filled up with the intricacies of the columns, the most precious woods lined the thresholds and composed the doors. Gold and jewels seemed lavished all around. Sometimes they were alone in these rooms, sometimes they passed through silent rows of slaves, who, kneeling as she passed, profited to her offerings of bracelets, chained of gems, with the Egyptian vainly entreated her to receive. I have often heard, said she, wonderingly, that you were rich, but I never dreamt of the amount of your wealth. What I could coin at all, replied the Egyptian, into one crown which I may place upon that snowy brow. Alas! the weight would crush me. I should be a second tarpaio, answered Ioni, laughingly. But thou dost not disdain riches, Ioni. They know not what life is capable of, who are not wealthy. Gold is the great magician of earth. It realises our dreams. It gives them the power of a guard. There is a grandeur, a sublimity in its position. It is the mightiest, yet the most obedient of our slaves. The artful embassy sought to dazzle the young Leopolitan by his treasures and zealots. You sought to awaken in her the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed. He hoped that she would confound the owner of what the Parisians and that the charms of his wealth would be reflected upon himself. Meanwhile, her only was secretly somewhat uneasy at the gallant trees which escaped from those lips, which, till lately, had seemed to disdain the common homage we paid to beauty, and with it delicate subtlety, which women alone possess, she sought to ward off shafts deliberately aimed, and to laugh or to talk away the meaning from his warming language. Nothing in the world is more pretty than that same species of defence. It is the child of the African necromancer who professed with a feather to turn aside the winds. The Egyptian was intoxicated and subdued by her grace, even more than by her beauty. It was with difficulty that he suppressed his emotions. Alas, the feather was only powerful against the summer breezes. It would be the sport of the storm. Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was surrounded by draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian kept his hands and, as if by enchantment, a banquet rose from the floor, a couch or throne, with a crimson canopy that signalled simultaneously at the feet of Ioni, and at the same instant from behind the curtain swirled the invisible and softest music. Arbusseys placed himself at the feet of Ioni, and children, young and beautiful as loves, ministered to the feast. The feast was over. The music sank into a lone subdued strain, and Arbusseys thus addressed as a beautiful guest, hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world, hast thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond, hast thou never wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and to behold on the shores of fate the shadowy images of things to be, for it is not the past alone that has its ghosts. Each event to come has also its spectrum, its shade. When the hour arrives, life enters it, the shadow becomes corporeal and walks the world. Thus, in the land beyond the grave, are ever too impelpable on spiritual hosts, the things to be, the things that have been, if by our wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see the one as the other, and learn, as I have learned, not alone in the mysteries of the dead, but also the destiny of the living. As thou hast learned it, can wisdom attain so far? Wilt thou prove my knowledge, Ioni, and behold the representation of thine own fate? It is a drama more striking than those of Achilles. It is one I have prepared for thee, thou wilt see the shadows performer apart, the near part un-trempled, she thought of Glorcus, and sighed as well as trembled, were their destinies to be united? Half incredulous, half believing, half awed, half alarmed by the words of his strange host, she remained for some moment silent, and then answered, it may revolt, it may terrify, the knowledge the future will perhaps only invent of the present. Not so, Ioni, I have myself looked upon thy future lot, and the ghosts of thy future bask in the gardens of Elysium, admits the ace-fidel and the rose, they prepare the hurtful garlands of thy sweet destiny, and the fates, so harsh to others, we have only for thee the web of happiness and love, wilt thou then come and behold they do, so that thou mayest enjoy it before him, again the heart of thy only movement, Glorcus? She asked a half-wardable scent, the Egyptian rose, and taking her by the hand, led her across the banquet-room, the curtains withdrewers by magic hands, and the music broke forth in a louder and gladder strain, they passed a row of columns, on either side of which fountains cast aloft their fragrant waters, they descended by broad and easy steps into a garden. The eve had commenced, the moon was already high in the heavens, and those sweet flowers asleep by day, and full, and full, were the never-belodorous, the airs of night, the thickly scattered admits, the alleys cut through the starlet foliage, or gathered in baskets, lay-like offerings at the feet of the frequent statues that leaned along their path. Where the wood-style laid me, I was seized, said I only, wonderingly, but yonder, said he, changing to a small building which stood at the end of the vista. It is a temple consecrated to the fates, our rights require such holy ground. They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which hung a sable curtain. Arbyses lifted it, I only entered, and found herself in total darkness. Being not alarmed to the Egyptian, the light will rise instantly. While he so spoke, her soft, and warm, and gradual light diffused itself around. As it spread over each object, I only perceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size, hung everywhere with black. The couch draperies of the same hue was beside her. In the centre of the room was a small altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze. At one side, upon a lofty column of granite, was a colossal head of the blackest marble, which she perceived, by the crown of wheat ears that encircled the brow, represented the great Egyptian goddess. Arbyses stood before the altar, he had laid his garland on the shrine, and seen a walking pride with pouring into the tripod the content of the bros and vars. Suddenly from that tripod leapt into life a blue, dark, irregular flame. The Egyptian drew back to the side of Ioni, and muttered some words in the language unfamiliar to her ear. He curtain at the back of the altar, waved tremulously to and fro. It parted slowly, and in the aperture which was thus made, I only beheld an indistinct and pale landscape, which gradually grew brighter and clearer, as she gazed. At length she discovered plainly trees, and rivers, and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of the richest earth. At length, before the landscape, the dim shadow glided, and rested opposite to Ioni. Slowly the same charm seemed to operate upon it, as over the rest of the scene. It took form and shape, and lo, in its feature and its form, I only beheld herself. Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was succeeded by the representation of a gorgeous palace. A throne was raised in the centre of its hall. The dim forms of slaves and guards were ranged around it, and a pale hand held over the throne the likeness of a diadem. A new actor now appeared. He was closed from head to foot in a dark robe. His face was concealed. He now took the feet of the shadow he Ioni. He clasped her hand. He pointed to the throne, as if to invite her to ascend it. The near part of his heart beat violently. Shall the shadow disclose itself? Whispers a voice beside her, the voice of Arbusys. Ah, yes, answered Ioni softly. Arbusys raised his hand. The spectre seemed to drop the man till that conceal its form. And Ioni shrieked. It was Arbusys himself that thus knelt before her. This is, indeed, thy fate. Whispers again the Egyptian voice in her ear. And thou art destined to be the bride of Arbusys. Ioni started. The black curtain closed over the fairness Magoria. And Arbusys himself, the real, living Arbusys, was at her feet. Oh, Ioni, said he, passionately gazing upon her. Listen to one who has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore thee. The fates do not lie. Thou art destined to be mine. I have sought the world around and found none like thee. From my youth upward I have sighed for such as thou art. I have dreamed till I saw thee. I wait, and I behold thee. Do not away from me, Ioni. Think not of me as thou hast thought. I am not that being cold and censored and morose, which I have seen to thee. Never woman had lover so devoted, so passionate as I will be to Ioni. Do not struggle in my class. See, I release thy hand. Take it from me, if thou wilt. Well, be it so. But do not reject me, Ioni. Do not rashly reject. Judge of thy power over him who thou canst thus transform. I, who never knelt to mortal being, kneel to thee. I, who have commanded fate, see from thee my own. Ioni, tremble not. Thou art my queen, my goddess. Be my bride. All the wishes thou canst form shall be fulfilled. The ends of the earth shall minister to thee. Pomp, power, luxury shall be thy slaves. Arbusy shall have no ambition, said the pride of obeying thee. Ioni, turn upon me those eyes. Shed upon me thy smile. Dark as my soul when thy face is hid from it. Shine over me, my son, my heaven, my daylight. Ioni, Ioni, do not reject my love, alone, and in the power of the singular and fearful man. Ioni was not yet terrified. The respect of his language, the softness of his voice reassured her, and, in her own purity, she felt protection. But she was confused, astonished. There was some moment before she could recover the power of reply. Rise, Arbusy's, said she at length, as she resigned to him once more her hand, which she has quickly withdrew again, which she felt upon at the burning pressure of his lips. Rise, and if thou art serious, if thy language be in earnest, if, said he tenderly, well, then, listen to me. You have been my guardian, my friend, my monitor, for this new character was not prepared. Think not, she added quickly, as you saw his dark eyes glisten with the fierceness of his passion. Think not that I scorn, time untouched, time not honoured by this homage. But, say, can't thou hear me calmly? I, though thy words were lightning, and could blast me, I love another, said Ioni, blushingly, but in a firm voice. By the gods, by the hell, sheltered Arbusy's, rising to his fullest height, dare not tell me that, dare not mock me, it is impossible. Whom has thou seen? Whom known? O Ioni, it is thy woman's invention, thy woman's art that speaks. Thou wouldst gain time, I have surprised, I have terrified thee. Do with me as thou wilt, say that thou lovest not me, but say not that thou lovest another. Alas, began Ioni, and then, a paw before his sudden and unlookedful violence, she burst into tears. Arbusy's came nearer to her, his breath glowed fiercely on her cheek, he wound his arms round her, she sprang from his embrace, and the struggle at tablet fell from her bosom on the ground. Arbusy's perceived and seized it, it was the letter that morning received from Glaucus. Ioni sank upon the couch, half dead with terror. Rapidly the eyes of Arbusy's ran over the writing. The near-politian did not dare to gaze upon him. She did not see the deadly pairness that came over his countenance. She marked not as withering frown, nor the quivering of his lip, nor the convulsions that he had spressed. He read it to the end, and then, as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice of deceitful calmness, Is the writer of this the man thou loved? Ioni solved, but answered not. Speak, he rather shrieked than said. It is, it is. And his name, it is written here. His name is Glaucus. Ioni, clasped in her hands, looked round as for succour or escape. Then hear me, said Arbusy, sinking his voice into a whisper. Thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms. What? Thinks thou Arbusy's will brick a rival such as this puny Greek? What? Thinks thou that he has watched the fruit ripen, to yield it to another? Pretty fool, no. Thou art mine. Or, only mine. And thus, thus I seize and claim thee. As he spoke, he caught Ioni in his arms, and in that ferocious grasp was all the energy, less of love than of revenge. But to Ioni despair gave supernatural strength. She again tore herself from him. She rushed to that part of the room by which she had entered. She half withdrew the curtain. He had seized her. Again she broke away from him, and fell, exhausted, with a loud shriek, at the base of the column which supported the head of the Egyptian goddess. Arbusy's paused for a moment, as if to regain his breath. And then it's once more darted upon his prey. At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside. The Egyptian felt a fierce, strong grasp upon her shoulder. He turned, and beheld before him the flashing eyes of Gorkus. And the pale, warm, but menacing countenance of Apacities. Ah, he muttered, as he cleared from one to the other. What fury hath sent ye hither? Hate answered Gorkus as he closed it once with the Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apacities raised his sister, now lifeless, from the ground. His strength, exhausted by a mind long overboard, did not suffice to bear her away, like and delicate though her shape. He placed her, therefore, on the couch, and stood over her with a brandishing knife, watching the contest between Gorkus and the Egyptian. And really to plunge his weapon in the bosom of Apacities should he be victorious in the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothing on her so terrible as a naked and unarmed conscious animal's strength. No weapon but those with nature's supplies to rage. Both the antagonists were now locked in each other's grasp, the hand of each seeking the throat of the other, the face drawn back, fierce eyes flashing, the muscles strained, the veins swelled, the lips apart, the teeth set. Both were strong beyond the ordinary power of men, both animated by relentless wrath. They coiled, they wound, around each other, they rocked to and fro, they swayed from end to end of the confined arena, they uttered cries of ire and revenge. They are now before the altar, now at the base of the column with the struggle he commenced. They drew back for breath. Apacities leaning against the column, Gorkus a few places apart. O ancient goddess, exclaimed Apacities, clasped in the column, raising his eyes towards the sacred image it supported. Protect thy chosen, proclaim thy vengeance against this thin of an upstart creed, who with sacrilegious violence, profane thy resting place in assiles they serve. As he spoke, the still and vast feats of the goddess seemed suddenly to glow with life, through the black marble, through the transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson and burning hue. Around the head played and darted the corescations of livid lightning. The eyes became like balls of lurid fire, and seemed fixin' withering an intolerable wrath upon the countenance of the Greek. Ordained appalled by the sudden and mystic answer to the prayers of his foe, and not free from the hereditary superstitions of his race, the cheeks of Gorkus pale before that strange and ghastly animation of the marble. His knees knocked together, he stood, seized with a divine panic, just made, a ghast, half-unmanned for his foe. Arbus' ears gave him not breathing time to recover his stupa. Die, wretch! he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang upon the Greek. The mighty mother claims there's a living sacrifice. Taken thus by surprise in the first consternation of his superstitious fears, the Greek lost his footing, the marble floor was as smooth as glass. He slid, he fell. Arbus' planted his foot on the breast of his fallen foe. The pacities, taught by his sacred profession, as well as by his knowledge of Arbus' to distrust all miraculous into positions, had not shared the dismay of his companion. He rushed forward, his knife gleamed in the air. The watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it descended. Run, wrench of his powerful hand, tore the weapon from the weak grasp of the priest. One sweeping blow stretched him to the earth. With a loud and exulting yell, Arbus' brandished the knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his impending foe with unwinking eyes, and in the stern and scornful resignation of a foreign gladiator. When? At that awful instant, the floor shook under them with rapid and convulsive throw. A mightiest spirit in that of the Egyptian was abroad. A giant in crushing power, before which, sunken to sudden impotence, his passion at his arts. It, woe, had stirred, that dread demon of the earthquake, laughing to scorn alike the magic of human guile and the malice of human wrath. As a titan, on whom the mountains are piled, it grasped itself from the sleep of years, which moved on its torched couch, and the heavens below groaned and trembled beneath the motion of its limbs. At the moment of his vengeance and his power, the self-priced him he got was humbled to his real clay, far and wide along the soil of winter horse and rumbling sound. The curtains of the chamber shook as yet the blast of a storm, the altar rocked and tripod reeled, and high over the place of contests, the cold trembled and waved from side to side, the sable head of the goddess totured and fell from its pedestal, and as the Egyptians stooped above his intended victim, right upon his vended form, right between the shoulders and the neck, struck the marble mass. The shock stretched to like the blow of death. At once, suddenly, he heard that sound of motion or semblance of life upon the floor, apparently crushed by the very divinity he had empiresly animated and invoked. The earth has preserved her children, said Glockus, staggering to his feet, blessed be the dread convulsion that has worshipped providence of the gods. He assisted a pace at ease to rise and then turned up with the face of other seeds. It seemed locked as in death from the Egyptians' lifts over his clitorine robes. He fell heavily from the arms of Glockus and the red stream trickled slowly along the marble. Again, the earth shook beneath their feet. Again, the earth shook beneath their feet. They were forced to cling to each other. The convulsion seized as suddenly as it came. They tarried no longer. Glockus bore only lightly in his arms and they fled from the unhealed spot. But scarce had entered the garden and they were met on all sides by flying and assorted groups of women and slaves whose festive and glittering garments contrasted in mockery the solemn tear of the hour. They did not appear to heath the strangers, though occupied only with their own fears. After the tranquility of sixteen years, that burning and treacherous soil again menaced destruction, they uttered but one cry. The earthquake, the earthquake and passing unlisted from the midst of them were pasted ease in his companions without entering the house, hastened unloved the ellies, passed a small open gate and there, sitting on a little mound over which spread the gloom of the dark green elos, the moonlight fell on the bended figure of the blind girl. She was weeping bitterly. End of Book Two, Chapter Nine Recording by Rachel Frischka, Australia Book Three, Chapter One of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ann Boulet Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lightin Book Three, Chapter One The Forum of the Pompeians The first rude machinery by which the new era of the world was wrought. It was early noon and the forum was crowded alike with the busy and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at that time in the cities of Italy, men lived almost wholly out of doors. The public buildings, the forum, the porticoes, the baths, the temples themselves might be considered their real homes. It was no wonder that they decorated so gorgeously these favorite places of resort. They felt for them a sort of domestic affection, as well as a public pride. And animated was, indeed, the aspect of the forum of Pompeii at that time. Along its broad pavement, composed of large flags and marble, were assembled various groups, conversing in that energetic fashion which appropriates a gesture to every word, and which is still the characteristic of the people of the south. Here, in seven stalls on one side of the colonnade, sat the money changers, with their glittering heaps before them, and merchants and seamen in various costumes crowding round their stalls. On one side, several men in long togas were seen bustling rapidly up to a stately edifice where the magistrates administered justice. These were the lawyers, active, chattering, joking and punning, as you may find them at this day in Westminster. In the center of the space, pedestals supported various statues, of which the most remarkable was the stately form of Cicero. Around the court ran a regular and symmetrical colonnade of Doric architecture, and there are several, whose business drew them early to the place, were taking the slight morning repass which made an Italian breakfast. Talking vehemently on the earthquake of the preceding night as they dipped pieces of bread in their cups of diluted wine. In the open space too, you might perceive various petty traders exercising the arts of their calling. Here, one man was holding out ribbons to a fair dame from the country. Another man was vaunting to a stout farmer the excellence of his shoes. A third, a kind of stall restaurateur, still so common in the Italian cities, was supplying many a hungry mouth with hot messes from his small and itinerant stove, wild, contrast strongly typical of the mingled bustle and intellect of the time. Close by, a school master was expounding to his puzzle pupils the elements of the Latin grammar. A gallery above the portico, which was ascended by small wooden staircases, had also its throng, though, as here the immediate business of the place was mainly carried on, its groups were a more quiet and mysterious air. Every now and then, the crowd below respectfully gave way to some senators swept along to the temple of Jupiter, which filled at one side of the forum and was the senator's hall of meeting, nodding with ostentatious condescension to such of his friends or clients as he distinguished amongst the throng. Mingling amidst the gay dresses of the better orders, you saw the hearty forms of the neighboring farmers as they made their way to the public granaries. By the temple you caught a view of the triumphal arch and the long street beyond swarming with inhabitants. In one of the niches of the arch, a fountain played, cheerily sparkling in the sunbeams, and above his cornice rose the bronze and equestrian statue of Caligua, strongly contrasting the gay summer skies. Behind the stalls of the money changers was that building now called the Pantheon, and a crowd of the poorer Pompeians passed through the small vestibule which admitted to the interior. With panniers under their arms, pressing on towards a platform placed between two columns, where such provisions as the priest had rescued from sacrifice were exposed for sale. At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business of the city, workmen were employed upon the columns, and you heard the noise of their labor every now and then rising above the hum of the multitude. The columns are unfinished to this day. All then united, nothing could exceed in variety the costumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the crowd. Nothing could exceed the bustle, the gaiety, the animation, where pleasure and commerce, idleness and labor, avarice and ambition mingled in one gulf their motley rushing, yet harmonious streams. Facing the steps of the temple of Jupiter with folded arms and a knit and contemptuous brow, the man of about fifty years of age, his dress was remarkably plain, not so much from its material, as from the absence of all those ornaments which were worn by the Pompeians of every rank, partly from the love of show, partly also because they were chiefly wrought into those shapes deemed most efficacious in resisting the assaults of magic and the influence of the evil eye. His forehead was high and bald. The few locks that remained at the back of the head were concealed by a sort of cowl, which was made a part of his cloak, to be raised or lowered at pleasure and was now drawn half way over the head as a protection from the rays of the sun. The color of his garments was brown, no popular hue with the Pompeians, all the usual admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. His belt or girdle contained a small receptacle for ink which hooked onto the girdle, a stylus or implement of writing and tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, the cincher held no purse, which was the almost indispensable a pertinence of the girdle, even when that purse had the misfortune to be empty. It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians busy themselves with observing the countenances and actions of their neighbors, but there was that in the lip and eye sender so remarkably bitter and disdainful as he surveyed the religious procession sweeping up the stairs of the temple that could not fail to arrest the notice of many. Who is yawned cynic? asked a merchant of his companion, a jeweler. It is a lengthess, replied the jeweler, a reputed Nazarene. The merchant shuddered, a dreaded sect, he said in a whispered and fearful voice. He said that when they meet at nights, they always commence their ceremonies by the murder of a newborn babe. They profess a community of goods, too, the wretches, a community of goods. What would become of merchants, or jewelers, either, if such notions were in fashion? That is very true, said the jeweler. Besides, they wear no jewels. They mutter implications when they see a serpent, and at Pompeii, all our ornaments are serpentine. Do but observe, said a third, who is a fabricant of bronze, how yawned Nazarene scowls at the piety of the sacrificial procession. He is murmuring curses on the temple, be sure. Do you know, Salinas, that this fellow, passing by my shop the other day, and seeing me employed on a statue of Minerva, told me with a frown that, had it been marble, he would have broken it. But the bronze was too strong for him. Break a goddess, I said. A goddess, answered the atheist. It is a demon, an evil spirit. Then he passed on his way cursing. Are such things to be borne? What marble that the earth heaved so fearfully last night, anxious to reject the atheist from her bosom? An atheist, do I say? First still. A scornor of the fine arts. Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if such fellows as this give the law to society. These are the incendiaries that burnt Rome under Nero, grown the jeweler. While such were the friendly remarks provoked by the air and faith of the Nazarene, Olympus himself became sensible of the effect he was producing. He turned his eyes round and observed the intent faces of the accumulating throng, whispering as they gazed and surveyed them for a moment with an expression, first of defiance and afterwards of compassion. He gathered his cloak round him and passed on, muttering audibly. Deluded idolaters, did not last night's convulsions warn ye? Alas, how will you meet the last day? The crowd that heard these boating words gave them different interpretations according to their different shades of ignorance and of fear. All, however, concurred in imagining them to convey some awful implication. They regarded the Christian as the enemy of mankind. The epitest they've lavished upon him, of which Atheist, was the most favored and frequent, may serve perhaps to warn us. Believers of that same creed, now triumphant, how we indulge the persecution of men underwent, and how we apply to those whose notions differ from our own, the terms at that day lavished on the fathers of our faith. As Olympus stalked through the crowd and gained one of the more private places of egress from the forum, he perceived gazing upon him a pale and earnest countenance, which he was not slow to recognize. Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred robes, the young apacities surveyed of that new and mysterious creed, to which at one time he had been half a convert. Is he, too, an impostor? Does this man, so plain and simple in life, in garb, in mean, does he, too, like our bases, make austerity the robe of the sensualist? Does the veil of Vesta hide the vices of the prostitute? Olympus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of his kind, guest, perhaps, by the index of the countenance, something of what passed within the breast of the priest. He met the survey of apacities with a steady eye and a brow of serene and open candor. Peace be with you, he said, saluting apacities. Peace echoed the priest in so hollow a tone that it went at once to the heart of the Nazarene. In that wish, continued Olympus, all good things are combined. Without virtue, thou canst not have peace. Like the rainbow, peace rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in heaven. Heaven bathes it in hues of light. It springs up amidst tears and clouds. It is a reflection of the eternal sun. It is an assurance of calm. It is the sign of a great covenant between man and God. Such peace, oh young man, is the smile of the soul. It is an emanation from the distant orb of immortal light. Peace be with you. Alas, began apacities when he caught the gaze of the curious loiterers inquisitive to know what could possibly be the theme of conversation between a reputed Nazarene and a priest of Isis. He stopped short and then added in a low tone, that he should not converse here. I will follow thee to the banks of the river. There is a walk which at this time is usually deserted and solitary. Olymthus bowed ascent. He passed through the streets with a hasty step, but a quick and observant eye. Every now and then he exchanged a significant glance, a slight sign with some passenger, whose garb usually be tokened the wearer to belong to the humbler classes. He was in this, the type of all other and less mighty revolutions. The grain of mustard seed was in the heart of the lowly. Amidst the huts of poverty and labor, the vast stream which afterwards poured its broad waters beside the cities and palaces of earth took its neglected source. End of Book 3, Chapter 1 Recording by Anne Boulet Book 3, Chapter 2 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Anne Boulet Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lighten Book 3, Chapter 2 The Noonday Excursion on the Companion Seas But tell me Glaucus said Ioni as they glided down the rippling of pleasure. How came as thou with apacities to my rescue from that bad man? Ask Nydia Yonder answered the Athenian pointing to the blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning pensively over her lyre. She must have thy thanks, not we. It seems that she came to my house and, finding me from home, sought thy brother in his temple. He accompanied her to our bases. On their way they encountered me, with a company whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit cheerful enough to join. Nydia's quick ear detected my voice. A few words suffice to make me the companion of apacities. I told not my associates why I left them. Could I trust thy name to their light tongues and gossiping opinion? Nydia led us to the garden gate by which we afterwards bore thee. We entered, and were about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil house, when we heard thy name. Thou knowest the rest. Ioni blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those of Glaucous, and he felt all the thanks she could not utter. Come hither, my Nydia, she said tenderly to the Thessalian. Did I not tell thee that thou shouldest be my sister and friend? Has thou not already been more, my guardian, my preserver? It is nothing, answered Nydia coldly and without stirring. Ah, I forgot, continued Ioni. I should come to thee. And she moved along the benches till she reached the place where Nydia sat, and flinging her arms caressingly round her covered her cheeks with kisses. Nydia was, that morning, paler than her want, and her countenance grew even more wane and colorless as she submitted to the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. But how cameest thou, Nydia? whispered Ioni. To surmise so faithfully the danger I was exposed to. Didest thou know the Egyptian? Yes, I knew of his vices. And how? Noble Ioni, I have been a slave to the vicious. Those whom I served were his minions, and thou hast entered his house since thou knewest so well that private entrance? I have played on my lyre to our bases, answered the Thessalian with embarrassment. And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou hast saved Ioni, returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too low for the ear of Glaucus. Noble Ioni, I have neither beauty nor station. I am a child, a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe. It was with a pained and proud and indignant tone that Nydia made this humble reply, and Ioni felt that she only wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained silent, and the bark now floated into the sea. Confess that I was right, Ioni said Glaucus, and prevailing on thee not to waste this beautiful moon in thy chamber, confess that I was right. Thou weren't right, Glaucus, said Nydia abruptly. The dear child speaks for thee, returned the Athenian, but permit me to move opposite to thee, or our light boat will be overbalanced. So saying he took a seat exactly opposite to Ioni, and leaning forward, he fancied that it was her breath and not the winds of summer that flung fragrance over the sea. Thou were to tell me, said Glaucus, for so many days thy door was closed to me. Oh, think of it no more, answered Ioni quickly. I gave my ear to what I now know was the malice of Slander, and my Slanderer was the Egyptian. Ioni's silence assented to the question. His motives are sufficiently obvious. Talk not of him, said Ioni, covering her face with her hands, as if to shut out his very thought. Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow sticks, but in that case we should probably have heard of his death. Thy brother, me thinks, have felt the dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we arrived last night at thy house, he left me abruptly. Will he ever vouch safe to be my friend? He is consumed by some secret care, answered Ioni tearfully. Would that we could lure him from himself? Let us join in that tender office. He shall be my brother, return the Greek. How calmly, said Ioni, rousing herself from the gloom into which her thoughts of opacities had plunged her. How calmly the clouds seemed to repose in heaven, and yet you tell me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth shook beneath us last night. It did, and more violently they say, than it has done since the great convulsion sixteen years ago, the land we live in yet nurses mysterious terror, and the rain of Pluto, which spreads beneath our burning fields, seems an unseen commotion. Didest thou not feel the earthquake, Nydia, where thou weret seated last night? And was it not the fear that it occasioned thee that made thee weep? I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some monstrous serpent, answered Nydia, but as I saw nothing I did not fear. I imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the Egyptians. They say he has power over the elements. Thou art at the salient, my Nydia, said Glaucus, and has the national right to believe in magic. Magic? Who doubts it? answered Nydia simply. Does thou? Until last night, when a necromanic prodigy did indeed appall me, me thinks I was not credulous in any other magic save that of love. Said Glaucus in a tremulous voice and fixing his eyes on Ioni. Ah, said Nydia with a sort of shiver, and she woke mechanically a few pleasing notes from her lyre. The sounds welled the tranquility of the waters and the sunny stillness of the noon. Play to us, dear Nydia, said Glaucus, play and give us one of thine old the salient songs. Whether it be of magic or not, as thou wilt, let it at least be of love. Of love, repeated Nydia, raising her large wandering eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a mingled fear and pity. You could never familiarize yourself to their aspect. So strange did it seem that those dark wild orbs were ignorant of the day and either so fixed with their deep mysterious gaze or so restless and perturbed their glance that you felt when you encountered them. That same vague and chilling and half-preacher natural impression that comes over you in the presence of the insane of those who, having a life outwardly like your own, have a life within life dissimilar, unsearchable, unguessed. Will you that I should sing of love, she said, fixing her eyes upon Glaucus? Yes, he replied, looking down. She moved a little away from the arm of Ioni, still cast round her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed, and placing her light and graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain. Nydia's love song, One. The wind and the beam loved the rose and the rose loved one, for who wrecks the wind where it blows, or loves not the sun? Two. None knew hence the humble wind stole, poor sport of the skies, none dreamt that the wind had a soul in its mournful size. Three. O happy beam, how canst thou prove that bright love of thine, in thy light is the proof of thy love, thou hast but to shine. Four. How is love can the wind reveal, unwelcome at sigh, mute, mute to its rose, let it steal, its proof is, to die? Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl, said Glaucous, thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of love, far other inspiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens upon us. I sing as I was taught, Nydia replied sighing, thy master was Lovecross then, try thy hand at a gayer air. Nay, girl, give that instrument to me. As Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and with that slight touch, her breast heaved, her cheek flushed. Ioni and Glaucous occupied with each other, perceived not those signs of strange and premature emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, nourished by imagination, dispensed with hope. And now, broad blue, bright before them, spread the Halcyon Sea, fair as at this moment, 17 centuries from that date, I behold it circling on the same divine shores, climb that yet innervates with a soft and cercian spell, that molds us insensibly, mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banishing the thought of austere labor, the voices of wild ambition, the contests, and the roar of life, filling us with gentle and subduing dreams, making necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly portion, so that the very air of love, whoever visits thee seems to leave earth and its harsh cares behind, to enter by the ivory gate into the land of dreams, the young and laughing hours of the present, the hours those children of Saturn, which he hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his grasp, the past, the future are forgotten, we enjoy but the breathing time, flower of the world's garden, fountain of delight, Italy of Italy, beautiful benign pania, vain were indeed the titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another heaven. Here, if God meant this working day for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell forever, asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while thy sky shined over him, while thy seas sparkle at his feet, while thine air brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange, and while thine too, beating with but wanting motion, but could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it, vanity of vanities, that love can defy custom and be eternal, it was then in this climb, on those seas, that the Athenian gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit of the place, feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, loving and loving. In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is something of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We love to feel within us the bond which unites the most distant era, men, nations, customs perish. The affections are immortal. They are the sympathies which unite the ceaseless generations. The past lives again. When we look upon its emotions, it lives in our own. That which was, however, is the magician's gift that revives the dead, that animates the dust of forgotten graves, is not in the author's skill, it is in the heart of the reader. Still vainly seeking the eyes of Ioni, as half downcast, half averted, they shunned his own. The Athenian, in a low and soft voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by happier thoughts than those which had colored the song of Nidia. The Song of Glaucus, One As the bark floateth on, or the sun let's see, floats my heart or the deeps of its passion for thee, all lost in the space without terror it glides. For bright thy soul is the face of the tides. Now heaving, now hushed, is the passionate ocean, as it catches thy smile or thy size, and the twin stars that shine on the wanderer's devotion its guide and its god are thine eyes. Two. The bark may go down, should the clouds sweep above, for its being is bound to the light of thy love. As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy, so thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy. Ah, sweeter to sink while the sky is serene, if time hath the change for thy heart. If to live be too weep over what thou hast been, let me die while I know what thou art. As the last words of the song I see, I only raised her looks. They met those of her lover. Happy Nydia, happy in thy affliction, that thou couldst not see that fascinated and charmed gaze that said so much, that made the eye the voice of the soul, that promised the impossibility of change. But, though the Thessalian could not detect the gaze, she divine is meaning by their silence, by their size. She pressed her hands lightly across her breast, as if to keep down its bitter and jealous thoughts. Then she hastened to speak for that silence was intolerable to her. After all, oh Glaucous, she said, there is nothing very mirthful in your strain. Yet I meant it to be so when I took up thy lyre, pretty one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be mirthful. How strange it is, said Ioni, changing a conversation which oppressed her while it charmed, that for the last several days, yonder cloud seemed motionless over Vesuvius. Yet not indeed motionless, for sometimes it changes its form. Now me thinks it looks like some vast giant, with an arm outstretched over the city. Does thou see the likeness? Or is it only to my fancy? Fair Ioni, I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct. The giant seems seated on the brow of the mountain. The different shades of the cloud appear to form a white robe that sweeps over its breast and limbs. It seems to gaze with a steady face upon the city below, to point with one hand, as thou sayest, over its glittering streets. And to raise the other, does thou note it, towards the higher heaven? It is like the ghost of some huge titan brooding over the beautiful world he lost, sorrowful for the past, yet with something of menace for the future. Could that mountain have any connection with last night's earthquake? To say that, ages ago, almost in the earliest era of tradition, it gave forth fires as Etna still, perhaps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath. It is possible, said Glaucus musingly. Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic, said Nidia suddenly. I have heard that a potent witch dwells amongst the scorched caverns of the mountain, and yon cloud may be the dim shadow of the demon she confers with. Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly, said Glaucus, and a strange mixture of sense and all conflicting superstitions. We are ever superstitious in the dark, replied Nidia. Tell me, she added, after a slight pause. Tell me, O Glaucus, do all that are beautiful resemble each other? They say you are beautiful, and Ioni also. Are your faces then the same? I fancy not, yet it ought to be so. Fancy no such grievous rung to Ioni, answered Glaucus, laughing. But we do not, alas, resemble each other, as the homely and the beautiful sometimes do. Ioni's hair is dark, mine light. Ioni's eyes are what color Ioni? I cannot see, turn them to me. Oh, are they black? No, they are too soft. Are they blue? No, they are too deep. They change with every ray of the sun. I know not their color. But mine, sweet Nidia, are gray, and bright only when Ioni shines on them. Ioni's cheek is. I do not understand one word of thy description, interrupted Nidia, peevishly. I comprehend only that you do not resemble each other, and I am glad of it. Why, Nidia, said Ioni, Nidia colors slightly. Because, she replied coldly, I have always imagined you under different forms, and one likes to know one is right. And what thou imagine Glaucus to resemble, asked Ioni softly. Music, replied Nidia, looking down. Thou art right, thought Ioni. And what likeness hast thou ascribed to Ioni? I cannot tell yet, answered the blind girl. I have not yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign for my guesses. I will tell thee then, said Glaucus passionately, she is like the sun that warms, like the wave that refreshes. The sun sometimes scorches and the wave sometimes drowns, answered Nidia. Take then these roses, said Glaucus, let their fragrance suggest to thee Ioni. Alas, the roses will fade, said the Neapolitan archly. Thus conversing, they wore away the hours, the lovers conscious only of the brightness and smiles of love, the blind girl feeling only its darkness, its tortures, the fierceness of jealousy and its woe. And now, as they drift on, Glaucus once more resumed the lyre, and woken strings with a careless hand to a strain, so wildly and gladly beautiful that even Nidia was roused from her reverie and uttered a cry of admiration. Thou seeest my child, cried Glaucus, that I can yet redeem the character of love's music, and that I was wrong in saying happiness could not be gay. Listen, Nidia, listen, dear Ioni, and hear. The birth of love, one. Like a star in the seas above, like a dream to the waves of sleep, up, up, the incarnate love, she rose from the charm deep. And over the Cyprian Isle, the sky is shed, their silent smile, and the forest green heart is rife with the stir of the gushing life, the life that had leaped to birth, in the veins of the happy earth, hail, oh hail, the dimmest sea cave below thee, the farless sky arch above. In their innermost illness know thee, and heave with the birth of love. Gale, soft Gale, thou comest on thy silver winglets, from thy home in the tender west, now fanning her golden ringlets, now hushed on her heaving breast, and afar on the murmuring sand, the seasons wait hand in hand to welcome thee, birth divine to the earth which is henceforth thine. Two. Behold how she kneels in the shell, bright pearl in its floating cell. Behold how the shells rose hues the cheek and the breast of snow, and the delicate limbs suffuse, like a blush with a bashful glow. Sailing on, slowly sailing o'er the wild water, all hail as the fond light is hailing her daughter. All hail, we are thine, all thine evermore, not a leaf on the laughing shore, not a wave on the heaving sea, nor a single sigh in the boundless sky, evermore to thee. Three. And thou, my beloved one, thou, as I gaze on thy soft eyes now. Me thanks from their depths I view the holy birth born anew. Thy lids are the gentle cell where the young love blushing lies. See, she breaks from the mystic shell. She comes from thy tender eyes. Hail, all hail, she comes as she came from the sea, to my soul as it looks on thee. She comes, she comes as she came from the sea, to my soul as it looks on thee. Hail, all hail. End of Book 3, Chapter 2 Book 3, Chapter 3 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Ann Boulet. Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bollwer-Lytton Book 3, Chapter 3 The Congregation Followed by Apacities, the Nazarene gained the side of the Sarnus. That river, which now has shrunk into a petty stream, then rushed gaily into the sea, covered with countless vessels and reflecting on its waves the gardens, the vines, the palaces and the temples of Pompeii. From its more noisy and frequented banks, Olymthus directed his steps to a path which ran amidst a shady vista of trees at the distance of a few paces from the river. This walk was, in the evening, a favorite resort of the Pompeians, but during the heat and business of the day was seldom visited, saved by some groups of playful children, some meditative poet, or some disputative philosophers. At the side farthest from the river, frequent copes of vox interspersed the more delicate and effervescent and these were cut into a thousand quaint shapes, sometimes into the forms of fawns and satyrs, sometimes into the mimicry of Egyptian pyramids, sometimes into the letters that composed the name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus the false taste is equally ancient as the pure, and the retired traders of Hackney and Paddington, a century ago, were little aware, perhaps, that in their tortured use and sculpture box, they found their models in a period of Roman antiquity, in the gardens of Pompeii and the villas of the fastidious Pliny. This walk now, as the noon-day sun shone perpendicularly through the checkered leaves, was entirely deserted, at least no other forms than those of Olympus and the priest infringed upon the solitude. They sat themselves on one of the benches, placed at intervals between the trees and facing the faint breeze that came languidly from the river, whose waves danced and sparkled before them, a singular and contrasted pair, the believer in the latest, the priest of the most ancient, worship of the world. Since thou leftest me so abruptly, said Olympus, hast thou been happy? Has thy heart found contentment under these priestly robes? Hast thou, still yearning for the voice of God, heard it whisper comfort to thee from the oracles of Isis? That sigh, that averted countenance, give me the answer my soul predicted. Alas, answered Apacities sadly, thou seeest before thee a wretched and distracted man. From my childhood upward I have idolized the dreams of virtue. I have envied the holiness of men who, in caves and lonely temples, have been admitted to the companionship of beings above the world. My days have been consumed with feverish and vague desires, my nights with mocking but solemn visions. Seduced by the mystic prophecies of an imposter, I have endued these robes. My nature, I confess it to thee frankly. My nature has revolted at what I have seen and been doomed to share in. Searching after the truth I have become but the minister of falsehoods. On the evening in which we last met I was buoyed by hopes created by that same imposter, whom I ought already to have better known. I have, no matter, no matter, suffice it. I have added perjury and sin to rashness and to sorrow. The veil is now rent forever from my eyes. I behold a villain where I obeyed a demigod. The earth darkens in my sight. I am in the deepest abyss of gloom. I know not if there be gods above. If we are the things of chance. If beyond the bounded and melancholy present there is annihilation or a hereafter. Tell me then, thy faith, solve these doubts, if thou hast indeed the power. I do not marvel, answered the Nazarene, that thou hast thus erred or that thou art thus septic. Eighty years ago there was no assurance to man of God, or of a certain and definite future beyond the grave. New laws are declared to him who has ears. A heaven, a true Olympus, is revealed to him who has eyes. Heed then and listen. And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently himself and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth to opacities the assurances of scriptural promise. He spoke first of the sufferings and miracles of Christ. He wept as he spoke. He turned next to the glories of the Saviour's ascension, to the clear predictions of revelation. He described that pure and unsensual heaven destined to the virtuous, those fires and torments that were the doom of guilt. The doubts which sprung up to the mind of later reasoners in the immensity of the sacrifice of God to man were not such as would occur to the early heathen. He had been accustomed to believe that the Gods had lived upon the earth and taken upon themselves the form of men, had shared in human passions, in human labors, and in human misfortunes. What was the travail of his own Alcmina's son, whose altar now smoked with the incense of countless cities but a toil for the human race? Had not the great Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin by descending to the grave? Those who were the deities of heaven have been the law givers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude had led to worship. It seemed therefore to the heathen, a doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had been sent from heaven, that an immortal had endued mortality and tasted the bitterness of death, and the end for which he thus toiled and thus suffered. How far more glorious did it seem to apacities than that for which the deities of old had visited the netherworld and passed through the gates of death? Was it not worthy of a god to descend to these dim valleys in order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark mound beyond, to satisfy the doubts of sages, to convert speculation into certainty, by example to point out the rules of life, by revelation to solve the enigma of the grave, and to prove that the soul did not yearn in vain and it dreamed of an immortality? In these last was the great argument of those lowly men destined to convert the earth, as nothing is more flattering to the pride and the hopes of man than the belief in a future state, so nothing could be more vague and confused than the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic subject. Apacities had already learned that the faith of the philosophers was not that of the herd, that if they secretly professed a creed in some divine power, it was not the creed which they thought it wise to impart to the community. He had already learned that even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the people, that the notions of the few and the many were never united. But, in this new faith, it seemed to him that philosopher, priest, and people, the expounders of the religion and its followers were alike accordants. They did not speculate and debate upon immortality. They spoke of as a thing certain and assured. The magnificence of the promise dazzled him. Its consolation soothed. For the Christian faith made its early converts among sinners. Many of his fathers and his martyrs were those who felt the bitterness of vice and who were therefore no longer tempted by his false aspect from the paths of an austere and uncompromising virtue. All the assurances of this healing faith invited to repentance. They were peculiarly adapted to the bruised and sore of spirit, the very remorse which apacities felt for his late excesses made him inclined to one who found holiness in that remorse and who whispered of the joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth. Come, said the Nazarene as he perceived the effect he had produced, come to the humble hall in which we meet, a select and a chosen few, listen there to our prayers, note the sincerity of our repentant tears, mingle in our simple sacrifice, not of victims nor of garlands, but offered by white-robed thoughts upon the altar of the heart. The flowers that we lay there are imperishable, they bloom over us when we are no more, nay, they accompany us beyond the grave, they spring up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight us with an eternal odor, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature, these offerings are temptations overcome and sins repented. Come, oh come, lose not another moment, prepare already for the great the awful journey, from darkness to light, from sorrowness to bliss, from corruption to immortality. This is the day of the Lord the Son, a day that we have set apart for our devotions. Though we meet usually at night, yet some amongst us are gathered together even now. What joy, what triumph will be with us all if we can bring one stray lamb into the sacred fold. There seem to apacities so naturally pure of heart, something ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of conversation which animated Olymthus, a spirit that found its own bliss in the happiness of others, that sought in his wise sociality to make companions for eternity. He was touched, softened and subdued. He was not in that mood which can bear to be left alone. Curiosity too, mingled with his purest stimulants. He was anxious to see those rites of which so many dark and contradictory rumors spread. He paused a moment, looked over his garb, thought of our bases, shuttered with horror, lifted his eyes to the broad brow of the Nazarene, intent, anxious, watchful. But for his benefit, for his salvation he drew his robe around him so as wholly to conceal his robes and said, Lead on, I follow thee. Olymthus pressed his hand joyfully and then descending to the riverside hailed one of the boats that were constantly. They entered it. An awning overhead, while it sheltered them from the sun, screened also their persons from observation. They rapidly skimmed the wave. From one of the boats that passed them floated a soft music and its prow was decorated with flowers. It was gliding towards the sea. So, said Olymthus sadly, unconscious and mirthful in their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the great ocean of storm and shipwreck. We passed them, silent and unnoticed, to gain the land. Opacities, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture in the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates on that gay bark. It was the face of Ioni. The lovers were embarked on the excursion at which we have been made present. The priest sighed and once more sunk back upon his seat. They reached the shore where, in the suburbs, an alley of small and mean houses stretched towards the boat, landed, and Olymthus, preceding the priest, threaded the labyrinth of lanes and arrived at last at the closed door of a habitation somewhat larger than its neighbors. He knocked thrice. The door was opened and closed again as opacities followed his guide across the threshold. They passed a deserted atrium and gained an inner chamber of moderate size which, when the door was closed, received its only light from a small window cut halting at the threshold of this chamber and knocking at the door, Olymthus said, Peace be with you! A voice from within returned, Peace be with whom? The faithful answered Olymthus and the door opened. Twelve or fourteen persons were sitting in a semi-circle, silent and seemingly absorbed in thought and opposite to a crucifix, rudely carved in wood. They lifted up their eyes when Olymthus entered without speaking. The Nazarene himself, before he accosted them, knelt suddenly down and by his moving lips and his eyes fixed steadfastly on the crucifix, opacities saw that he prayed inly. This rite performed. Olymthus turned to the congregation. Men and brethren, he said, Start not to behold amongst you a priest of ices. He hath sojourned with the blind, but the spirit hath fallen on him. He desires to see, to hear and to understand. Let him, said one of the assembly and opacities beheld in the speaker a man still younger than himself of a countenance equally worn and pallid, of an eye which equally spoke of the restless and fiery operations of a working mind. Let him, repeated a second voice and he who thus spoke was in the prime of manhood. His bronze skin and asiatic features bespoke him a son of Syria. He had been a robber in his youth. Let him, said a third voice and the priest, again turning to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long gray beard, whom he recognized as a slave to the wealthy diomed. Let him, repeated simultaneously the rest, men who, with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior ranks. In these exceptions, opacities noted an officer of the guard and an Alexandrian merchant. We do not recommend, Olymthus, we do not bind you to secrecy. We impose on you no oaths as some of our weaker brethren would do. It is true, indeed, that there is no absolute law against us, but the multitude, more savage than the rulers, thirst for our lives. So, my friends, when Pilate would have hesitated it was the people who shouted, Christ to the cross. But we bind you not to our safety. No, betray us to the crowd. Impeach, Columniate, Malinus, if you will. We are above death. We should walk cheerfully to the den of the lion, or the rack of the torturer. We can trample down the darkness of the grave, and what is death to a criminal is eternity to the Christian. A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly. Thou comest among us as an examiner. Mayest thou remain a convert. Our religion, you behold it. Yon cross, our soul image. Yon scroll the mysteries of Arsary and Eolysis. Our mentality. It is in our lives. Sinners we all have been. Who now can accuse us of a crime? We have baptized ourselves from the past. Fake not that this is of us. It is of God. Approach, Meadon. Beckoning to the old slave who has spoken third for the emission of opacities. Thou art the soul man amongst us who is not free. But in heaven, the last shall be first. So with us. Unfold your scroll, read, and read. Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of Meadon or the comments of the congregation. Familiar now are those doctrines, then strange and new. Eighteen centuries have left us little to expound upon the lore of Scripture or the life of Christ. To us, too, there would seem little congenial in the doubts that occurred to a heathen priest, and little learned in the answers they received from men uneducated, rude, and simple, possessing only the knowledge that it seemed. There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapolitan. When the lecture was concluded, they heard a very gentle knock at the door. The password was given and replied to. The door opened, and two young children, the eldest of whom might have told it seventh year, entered timidly. They were the children of the master of the house, that dark and hardy Syrian, whose youth had been spent in pillage and bloodshed. The eldest of the congregation, it was that old slave, opened to them his arms. They fled to the shelter, they crept to his breast, and his hard features smiled as he caressed them. And these bold and fervent men nursed in vicissitude, beaten by the rough winds of life, men of male and impervious fortitude, ready to affront a world, prepared for torment and armed for death, men who presented all imaginable contrast to the weak nerves, the light hearts, the tender fragility of childhood, crowded round the infants, smoothing their rugged brows and composing their bearded lips to kindly and fostering smiles. Then the old man opened the scroll and he taught the infants to repeat after him that beautiful prayer which we still dedicate to the Lord and still teach to our children. And then he told them in simple phrase, of God's love to the young, and how not a sparrow falls but his eyes sees it. This lovely custom of infant initiation was long cherished in the church, in memory of the words which said, suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not. And was perhaps the origin of the superstitious columny which described to the Nazarenes the crime which the Nazarenes, when victorious, attributed to the Jew. These, the decoying children to hideous rites at which they were secretly immolated. And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the innocence of his children the early life, life ere yet it sinned. He followed the motion of their young lips with an earnest gaze. He smiled as they repeated with hush and reverent looks, the holy words. And when the lesson was done, and they ran, released, and gladly to his knee he clasped them to his breast, kissed them again and again, and tears flowed fast down his cheek. Tears of which it could have been impossible to trace the source, so mingled they were with joy penitence and hope, remorse for himself and love for them. Something I say there was in this scene which peculiarly affected apacities, and, in truth, it is difficult to conceive a ceremony more appropriate to the religion of benevolence, more appealing to the household in everyday affections, striking a more sensitive cord in the human breast. It was at this time that an inner door opened gently and a very old man entered the chamber, leaning on his staff. At his presence the whole congregation rose. There was an expression of deep affectionate respect upon every countenance, and apacities, gazing on his countenance, felt attracted towards him by an irresistible sympathy. No man ever looked upon that face without love, for there had dwelt the smile of the deity, the incarnation of divinous love, and the glory of the smile had never passed away. My children, God be with you! said the old man, stretching his arms and as he spoke the infants ran to his knee. He sat down, and they nestled fondly to his breast. It was beautiful to see that mingling of the extremities of life, the rivers gushing from their early source, the majestic stream gliding to the ocean of eternity. As the light of declining day seems to mingle earth and heaven, making the outline of each scarce visible, and blending the harsh mountain tops with the sky, even so did the smile of that benign old age to hallow the aspect of those around, to blend together the strong distinctions of varying years, and to diffuse over infancy and manhood the light of that heaven into which it must soon vanish and be lost. Father, said Olympus, thou on whose form the miracle of the redeemer worked, thou who worked snatch from the grave to become the living witness of his mercy and his power. Behold, a stranger in our meeting, a new lamb gathered to the fold. Let me bless him, said the old man. The throng gave way. Apacities approached him as by an instinct. He fell on his knees before him. The old man laid his hands on the priest's head and blessed him, but not aloud. As his lips moved, his eyes were upturned and tears, those tears that good men only shed in the hope of happiness to another, flowed fast down his cheeks. The children were on either side of the convert. His heart was theirs. They had become as one of them to enter into the kingdom of heaven. End of Book 3, Chapter 3 Book 3, Chapter 4 of Last Days of Pompeii This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Anne Boullet Last Days of Pompeii by Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton Book 3, Chapter 4 The stream of love runs on wither Days are like years and the love of the young. When no bar, no obstacle is between their hearts. When the sun shines and the course runs smooth, when their love is prosperous and confessed. Ioni no longer concealed from Glaucus the attachment she felt for him and their talk now was only of their love. Over the rapture of the present, the hopes of the future glowed like the heaven above the gardens of spring. When they went in their trustful thoughts far down the stream of time, they laid out the chart of their destiny to come. They suffered the light of today to suffuse the morrow. In the youth of their hearts it seemed as if care and change and death were as things unknown. Perhaps they loved each other the more because the condition of the world left to Glaucus no wish but love. Because the distractions common in free states to men's affections existed not for the Athenian. Because his country wooed him not to the bustle of civil life because ambition furnished no counter poise to love and therefore over their schemes and projects, love only reigned. In the Iron Age they imagined themselves of the Golden doomed only to live and to love. To the superficial observer who interests himself only in characters strongly marked and broadly colored both the lovers may seem of too slight and commonplace a mold. In the delineation of characters purposely subdued the reader sometimes imagines that there is a want of character. Perhaps indeed I wronged the real nature of these two lovers by not painting more impressively their stronger individualalities. But in dwelling so much on their bright existence I am influenced almost insensibly by the forethought of the changes that await them and for which they are so ill prepared. It was this very softness and gaiety of life that contrasted most strongly the vicissitudes of their coming fate. For the oak without fruit or blossom whose hard and rugged heart is fitted for the storm there is less fear than for the delicate branches of the myrtle and the laughing clusters of the vine. They now are far into August. The next month their marriage was fixed and the threshold of Glaucus was already wreathed with garlands and nightly by the door of Ioni he poured forth the rich libations. He existed no longer for his gay companions. He was ever with Ioni. In the mornings they beguiled the sun with music. In the evenings they forsook the crowded haunts of the gay for excursions on the water or along the fertile and vine clad beneath the fatal mount of Vesuvius. The earth shook no more. The lively Pompeians forgot even that there had gone forth so terrible a warning of their approaching doom. Glaucus imagined that convulsion in the vanity of his heathen religion and a special interposition of the gods less in behalf of his own safety than that of Ioni. He offered up the sacrifices of gratitude at the temples of his faith and even the altar of Vesuvius was covered with his vote of garlands. As to the prodigy of the animated marble, he blushed at the effect it had produced on him. He believed it, indeed, to have been wrought by the magic of men, but the result convinced him that it be token not the anger of a goddess. Of our bases they heard only that he still lived, stretched on the bed of suffering. He recovered slowly from the effect of the shock he had sustained. He was then molested, but it was only to brood over the hour and the method of revenge. Alike in their mornings at the house of Ioni and in their evening excursions, Nidia was usually their constant and often their sole companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her, the abrupt freedom with which she mingled in their conversation. Her capricious and often her peevish moods found already indulgence in the desires they owed her, and their compassion for her affliction. They felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater and more affectionate from the very strangeness and waywardness of her nature, her singular alternations of passion and softness, the mixture of ignorance and genius, of delicacy and rudeness, of the quick humors of the child, and the proud calmness of the woman. Although she refused to go, she went where she listed. No curb was put either on her words or actions. They felt for one so darkly faded and so susceptible of every wound, the same pitying and compliant indulgence the mother feels for a spoiled and sickly child, dreading to impose authority, even where they imagined it for her benefit. She availed herself of this license by refusing the companionship of the slave whom they wished to and the slender staff by which she guided her steps. She went now, as in her former unprotected state, along the populous streets. It was almost miraculous to perceive how quickly and how dexterously she threaded every crowd, avoiding every danger, and could find her benighted way through the most intricate whinings of the city. But her chieft of light was still in visiting the few feet of ground, which made the garden of Glaucus, flowers that at least repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the chamber where he sat and sought a conversation, which she nearly always broke off abruptly. For conversation with Glaucus only tended to one subject, Ioni. And that name from his lips inflicted agony upon her. Often she bitterly repented the service she had rendered to Ioni. Often she said inly, if she had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no longer and then dark and fearful thoughts crept into her breast. She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store for her, when she had been thus generous. She had never before been present when Glaucus and Ioni were together. She had never heard that voice so kind to her, so much softer to another. The shock that crushed her heart with the tidings that Glaucus loved had at first only saddened and benumbed. By degrees, jealousy took a bitter and fiercer shape. It partook of hatred. It whispered revenge. As you see the wind only agitate the green leaf upon the bow, while the leaf which has lain withered and seared on the ground, bruised and trampled upon till the sap and life are gone is suddenly world aloft, now here, now there, without stay and without rest. So the love which visits the happy and the hopeful, hath but freshness on its wings, its but sportive. But the heart that hath fallen from the green things of life that is without hope that hath no summer in its fibers is torn in world by the same wind that but caresses its brethren. It hath no bow to cling to. It is dashed from path to path till the winds fall and it is crushed into the mire forever. The friendless childhood of Nidia had hardened prematurely her character. Perhaps the heated scenes of profligation through which she had passed, seemingly unscathed, had ripened her passions, though they had not sullied her purity. The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted. The banquets of the Egyptian might only have terrified at the moment. But the winds that pass unheated over the soil leave seeds behind them. As darkness too favors the imagination, so perhaps her very blindness contributed to feed with wild and delirious visions the love of the unfortunate girl. The voice of Glaucas had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear. His kindness had made an impression upon her mind. When he had left Pompey in the former year, she had treasured up in her heart every word he had uttered. And when anyone told her that this friend and patron of the poor flower girl was the most brilliant and the most graceful of the young revelers of Pompey, she had felt a pleasing pride in nursing his recollection. Even the task which she imposed upon herself, attending his flowers, served to keep him in her mind. She associated him with all that was most charming to her impressions and when she had refused to express that image she fancied Ioni to resemble, it was partly because that whatever was bright and soft in nature, she had already combined with the thought of Glaucas. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which they would smile to remember, an age in which fancy forestalled the reason, let them say whether that love among all its strange and complicated delicacies was not above all other and later passions susceptible of jealousy. I seek not here the cause. I know that it is commonly the fact. When Glaucas returned to Pompey, Nydia had told another year of life. That year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, had greatly developed her mind and heart, and when the Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast, deeming her still in soul as in years a child, when he kissed her smooth cheek and wound his arm around her trembling frame, Nydia felt suddenly, as by revelation, that those feelings she had long and innocently cherished were of love, doomed to be rescued from tyranny by Glaucas, doomed to take shelter under his roof, doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air, and doomed, in the first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicious sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved another, to be commissioned to that other, the messenger, the minister, to feel all at once that utter nothingness which she was, which she ever must be, but which, till then, her young mind had not taught her, that utter nothingness to him who was all to her, what wonder that, in her wild and passionate soul, all the elements jarred discordant, that if love reigned over the whole, it was not the love which is born of the more sacred and soft emotions, sometimes she dreaded only less Glaucas should discover her secret, sometimes she felt indignant that it was not suspected, it was a sign of contempt, could he imagine that she presumed so far? her feelings to Ioni ebbed and flowed with every hour, now she loved her because he did, now she hated him for the same cause, there were moments when she could have murdered her unconscious mistress, moments when she could have laid down life for her, these fierce and tremulous alternations of passion were too severe to be born long, her health gave way though she felt it not, her cheek paled, her step grew feebler, tears came to her often and relieved her less. one morning, when she repaired to her usual task in the garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucas under the columns of the peristyle, with a merchant of the town, he was selecting jewels for his destined bride, he had already fitted up her apartment, the jewels he bought that day were placed also within it, they were never faded to grace the fair form of Ioni, they may be seen at this day among overturned treasures of Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at Naples, come hither Nidia, put down thy vase, and come hither, thou must take this chain from me, stay, there I have put it on, there Servilius does it not become her, wonderfully answered the jeweler, for jewelers were well bred and flattering men, even at that day, but when these earrings glitter in the ears of the noble wife Bacchus, you will see whether my art adds anything to beauty, Ioni, repeated Nidia, who had hitherto acknowledged by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucas, yes replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the gems, I am choosing a present for Ioni, but there are none worthy of her, he was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of Nidia, she tore the chain violently from her neck and dashed it on the throne, how is this, what Nidia, does thou not like the bobble, art thou offended you treat me ever as a slave and as a child, replied the Athenian, with ill suppressed sobs, and she turned hastily away to the opposite corner of the garden, Glaucas did not attempt to follow, or to soothe, he was offended, he continued to examine the jewels and to comment on their fashion, to object to this and to that, and finally to be talked by the merchant into buying all, the safest plan for a lover and a plan that anyone will do right to adopt, provided always that he can obtain an Ioni. When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the jeweler he retired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his chariot and went to Ioni, he thought no more of the blind girl or her offense, he had forgotten both the one and the other. He spent the four noon with his beautiful Neapolitan, repaired thence to the baths, subbed, if, as we have said before, we can justly so translate the three o'clock Kona of the Romans, alone and abroad, for Pompey had its restauranteurs, and returning home to change his dress ere he again repaired to the house of Ioni. He passed the peristyle, but with the absorbed reverie and absent eyes of a man in love and did not note the form of the poor blind girl, bending exactly in the same place where he had left her. But though he saw her not, her ear recognized at once the sound of his step. She had been counting the moments to his return. He had scarcely entered his favorite chamber, which opened on the peristyle and seated himself musingly on his couch. When he felt his robe temorously touched and turning, he beheld Nydia kneeling before him and holding up to him a handful of flowers, a gentle and appropriate peace offering. Her eyes darkly upheld to his own, streamed with tears. I have offended thee, she said sobbing, and for the first time I would die rather than cause thee a moment's pain. Say that thou wilt forgive me. See, I have taken up the chain. I have put it on. I will never part from it. It is a gift. My dear Nydia, returned Glaucous and raising her, he kissed her forehead. Think of it no more. But why, my child, were thou so suddenly angry? I could not divine the cause. Do not ask, she said coloring violently. I am a thing full of faults and humors. You know I am but a child. You say so often. Is it from a child that you can expect a reason for every folly? But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more. And if you would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn to govern these singular impulses and gales of passion. Think not, I chide. No, it is for your happiness only I speak. It is true, said Nydia. I must learn to govern myself. I must bide. I must suppress my heart. This is a woman's task and duty. Me thinks her virtue is hypocrisy. Self-control is not deceit, Nydia. Return the Athenian. And that is the virtue necessary alike to man and to woman. It is the true senatorial toga. The badge of the dignity it covers. Self-control self-control. Well well, what you say is right. When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts grow calm and sweet and a delicious serenity falls over me. Advise ah, guide me ever, my preserver. Thy affection at heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings. Ah, that will be never sighed, Nydia, wiping away her tears. Say not so. The first effort is the only difficult one. I have made many first efforts, answered Nydia innocently. But you, my mentor, do you find it so easy to control yourself? Can you conceal? Can you even regulate your love for Ioni? Love, dear Nydia. Ah, that is quite another matter, answered the young preceptor. I thought so, replied Nydia, with a melancholy smile. Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers? Do with them as thou wilt. Thou canst give them to Ioni, she added, with a little hesitation. Nay, Nydia, answered Glaucus kindly, dividing something of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child. I will not give thy pretty flowers to anyone. Sit here and weave them into a garland. I will wear it this night. It is not the first those delicate fingers have woven for me. The poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She drew from her girdle a ball of the many colored threads, or rather slender ribbons, used in the weaving of garlands, and which, for it was her professional occupation, she carried constantly with her, and began quickly and gracefully to commence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears had already dried. A faint but happy smile played round her lips. Childlike indeed she was sensible only of the joy of the present hour. She had reconciled to Glaucus. He had forgiven her. She was beside him. He played caressingly with her silken hair. His breath fanned her cheek. Ioni, the cruel Ioni, was not by. None other man did, divided his care. Yes, she was happy and forgetful. It was one of the few moments in her brief and troubled life that it was sweet to treasure, to recall. As the butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a little in the sudden light, air yet the wind awakes and the frost comes, which shall blast it before the eve. She rested beneath a beam, which, by contrast with the wanted skies and the instinct which should have warned her of its briefness, bade her only gladden in its smile. Thou hast beautiful locks, said Glaucus. They were once, Iweenwell, a mother's delight. Nidia sighed. It was seemed that she had not been born a slave, but she ever shunned the mention of her parentage, and, whether obscure or noble, certain it is that her birth was never known by her benefactors, nor anyone in those distant shores, even to the last. The child of sorrow and of mystery, she came and went as some bird that enters our chamber for a moment. We see it flutter for a while before us. We know not once it flew or to what region it escapes. Nidia sighed, and after a short pause, without answering the remark, said, But do I weave too many roses in my wreath, Glaucus? They tell me it is thy favorite flower. And ever favored, my Nidia, be it by those who have the soul of poetry. It is the flower of love, of festival. It is also the flower we dedicate to silence and to death. It blooms on our brows in life, while life be worth the having. It is scattered above our sepulcher when we are no more. Ah, wood, said Nidia, instead of this perishable wreath, that I could take thy web from the hand of the fates and insert it. Pretty one, thy wish is worthy of a voice so attuned to song. It is uttered in the spirit of song, and whatever my doom, I thank thee. Whatever thy doom, is it not already destined to all things bright and fair? My wish was vain. The fates will be as tender to thee as I should. It may not be so, Nidia, were it not for love. While youth lasts, I may forget my country for all. But what Athenian, in his grave or manhood, can think of Athens as she was, and be contented that he is happy while she is fallen, fallen and forever? And why forever? As ashes cannot be rekindled, as love once dead can never revive, so freedom departed from a people is never regained. But talk we not of these matters unsuited to thee. To me, oh, thou heirest, I too have my size for Greece. My cradle was rocked at the foot of Olympus. The gods have left the mountain, but their traces may be seen, seen in the hearts of their worshippers, seen in the beauty of their climb. They tell me it is beautiful, and I have felt its heirs, to which even these are harsh. Its sun, to which these skies are chill. Oh, talk to me of Greece! Poor fool that I am, I can comprehend thee! And, me thinks, had I yet lingered on those shores, had I been a Grecian maid whose happy fate it was to love and to be loved, I myself could have armed my lover for another marathon, a new platea. Yes, the hand that now weaves the roses should have woven thee the olive crown. If such a day could come, said Glaucus, catching the enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian and half-rising, but no, the sun has set and the night only bids us be forgetful, and in forgetness be gay, weaves still the roses. But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gaiety that the Athenian uttered the last words, and, sinking into a gloomy reverie, he was only awakened from it a few minutes afterwards by the voice of Nidia as she sang in a low tone the following words which he had once taught her. The Apology for Pleasure Who will assume the bays that the hero wore? Reaves on the tomb of days gone ever more. Who shall disturb the brave or one leaf on their holy grave? The laurel is vowed to them leave the bay on its sacred stem, but this, the rose, the fading rose alike for slave and freemen grows. 2. If memories sit beside the dead with tombs her only treasure, if hope is lost and fled, the more excuse for pleasure. 3. Come weave the wreath, the rose's weave, the rose at least is ours to feeble hearts our fathers leave in pitying scorn the flowers. 3. On the summit worn in hoary of Philes solemn hill, the tramp of the brave is still and still in the sadness mart, the pulse of the mighty heart whose very blood was glory. Glaucopus for sakes her own angry gods forget us, but yet the blue streams along walk the feet of the silver song and the night bird wakes the moon and the bees in the blushing noon haunt the heart of the old hymatis. We are fallen, but not forlorn, if something is left to cherish, as love was the earliest born, so love is the last to perish. 4. Read then the roses, read the beautiful still is ours, while the streams will flow and the sky shall glow, the beautiful still is ours. Whatever is fair, or soft, or bright, in the lap of day or the arms of night whispers our soul of grease, of grease, and hushes our care with a voice of peace. Read then the roses, read, they tell me of earlier hours, and I hear the heart of my country breathe from the lips of the strangers' flowers. End of Book 3, Chapter 4