CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE ACTOR.
Hardly had Eboracus conveyed Domitia out of the Forum into a place ofsafety, than a rush of people down the street threatened to drive him backin the direction whence he had come. The drifting mob, as it cascadeddown, cried: "The Praetorians are coming from their camp!"
It was so. Down the hill by the Tiburtine way marched a compact body ofsoldiery.
The danger was imminent; Eboracus and his young charge were between twomasses of military, entangled in a seething mob of frightened people,mostly of the lowest class.
"My lady!" said the slave. "There is but one thing to be done."
He drew her to a door, knocked, and when a voice asked who demandedadmittance, answered,
"Open speedily--Paris!"
The door was furtively unbarred and opened sufficiently to admit the slaveand Domitia, and then hastily bolted and locked again.
"Excuse me, dear mistress," said Eboracus. "I could do no other. In this_insula_ live the actor Paris and Glyceria. They were both slaves in yourhousehold, but were given their freedom by your father, my late master,when he went to the East. They will place themselves at your service, andoffer you shelter in their humble dwelling, the first flat on the right."
The house was one of those _insulae_, islets of Rome in which great numbersof the lower classes were housed. They consisted in square blocks, builtabout a court, and ran to the height of seven and even more stories. Theseveral flats were reached by stone stairs that ran from the central yardto the very summit of these barrack-like buildings. They vastly resembledour modern model lodging-houses, with one exception, that they had noexterior windows, or at most only slits looking into the street; doors andwindows opened into the central quadrangle. These houses were littletowns, occupied by numerous families, each family renting two or morechambers on a flat, and as in a city there are diversities in rank, so wasit in these lodging-houses; the most abjectly poor were at the very top,or on the ground floor. The first flat commanded the highest rent, and theprice of rooms gradually dwindled, the greater the elevation was. Glasswas too great a luxury, far too costly to be employed except by the mostwealthy for filling their windows. Even talc was expensive; in its placethin films of agate were sometimes used; but among the poor there waslittle protection in their dwellings against cold. The doors admittedlight and air and cold together, and were always open, except at night,and then a perforation in the wood, or a small window in the wall, toonarrow to allow of ingress, served for ventilation.
In a huge block of building like the _insula_, there were no chimneys. Allcooking was done at the hearth in the room that served as kitchen anddining-room, often also as bedroom, and the smoke found its way out at thedoorway into the central court.
But, in fact, little cooking of food was done, except the boiling ofpulse. The meals of the poor consisted mainly of salads and fruit, withoil in abundance.
Dressed always in wool, in cold weather multiplying their wraps, the Romancitizens felt the cold weather much less than we might suppose possible.In the rain--and in Rome in winter it raineth almost every day--thebalconies were crowded, and then the women wove, men tinkered or patchedsandals, children romped, boys played marbles and knuckle-bones, andsometimes a minstrel twanged a lyre and the young girls danced to keepthemselves warm. There were little braziers, moreover, one on everylanding, that were kept alight with charcoal, and here, when the women'sfingers were numb, they were thawed, and children baked chestnuts orroasted apples.
Domitia had never been in one of these blocks of habitations of the lowerclasses before, and she was surprised. The quadrangle was almost like anamphitheatre, with its tiers of seats for spectators; but here, in placeof seats, were balconies, and every balcony was alive with women andchildren. Men were absent; they had gone out to see the commencement ofthe Saturnalia, and of women there were few compared to the numbers thatusually thronged these balconies.
Eboracus conducted his young mistress up the first flight of steps, and atonce a rush of children was made to him to ask for toys and cakes. Hebrushed them aside, and when the mothers saw by the purple edge to herdress that Domitia belonged to a noble family, they called theiryoungsters away, and saluted her by raising thumb and forefinger united tothe lips.
The slave at once conducted Domitia through a doorway into a littlechamber, where burnt a fire of olive sticks, and a lamp was suspended, bythe light of which she could see that a sick woman lay on a low bed.
Domitia shrank back; but Eboracus said encouragingly:
"Be not afraid, dear young mistress; this is no catching disorder;Glyceria suffers from an accident, and will never be well again. She isthe sister of your servant Euphrosyne."
Then, approaching the sick woman, he hastily explained the reason for histaking refuge with his mistress in this humble lodging.
The sick woman turned to Domitia with a sweet smile, and in courteouswords entreated her to remain in her chamber so long as was necessary.
"My husband, Paris, the actor, is now out; but he will be home shortly, Itrust--unless," her face grew paler with sudden dread, "some ill havebefallen him. Yet I think not that can be, he is a quiet, harmless man."
"I thank you," answered Domitia, and took a seat offered her by Eboracus.
She looked attentively at the sick woman's face. She was no longer young,she had at one time been beautiful, she had large, lustrous dark eyes, anddark hair, but pain and weakness had sharpened her features. Yet there wassuch gentleness, patience, love in her face, a something which to Domitiawas so new, a something so new in that old world, that she could not takeher eyes off her, wondering what the fascination was.
Glyceria did not speak again, modestly waiting till the lady of rank choseto address her.
Presently Domitia asked:
"Have you been long ill?"
"A year, lady."
"And may I inquire how it came about?"
"Alas! It is a sad story. My little boy----"
"You have a son?"
"I had----"
"I ask your pardon for the interruption; say on."
"My little boy was playing in the street, when a chariot was drivenrapidly down the hill, and I saw that he would be under the horses' feet,so I made a dart to save him."
"And then?"
"I was too late to rescue him, and I fell, and the wheel went over me. Ihave been unable to rise since."
"What! like this for all these months! What say the doctors?"
"Alack, lady! they give me no hope."
"But for how long may this last?"
"I cannot say."
"As the gods love me! if this befell me, I should refuse my food andstarve myself to death!"
"I cannot do that."
"What! you lack the resolution?"
"I can bear what is on me laid by God."
"There is no need to endure what can be avoided. I would make short workof it, were this my lot. And your husband?"
"He is here."
Through the door came the actor, a handsome man, of Greek type, with apackage in his arms. He would have walked straight to his wife, but had toturn at the door and drive off a clamorous pack of urchins who had pursuedhim, believing that he was laden with toys.
"There, Glyceria!" he exclaimed joyously; "they are all for you. There issuch a riot and disturbance and such a crush in the street, that I hadhard work to push through. I misdoubt me some are broken."
"Oh, Paris! do you not observe?"
"What? I see nothing but thy sweet face?"
"Our dear master's daughter, the lady Domitia Longina."
The actor turned sharply, and was covered with confusion at the unexpectedsight, and almost let his parcel fall.
Eboracus explained the circumstances. Then Paris expressed his happiness,and the pride he felt in being honored by the visit under his humbleceiling, of the lady, the daughter of the good and beloved master who hadgiven hi
m and Glyceria their freedom.
"Go forth, Eboracus," said Domitia, "and I prithee learn how it has faredwith my mother. Bring me word speedily, if thou canst."
When the slave had withdrawn, she addressed Paris and Glyceria.
"I beseech you, suffer me to remain here in quiet, and concern notyourselves about me. I have been alarmed, and this has shaken me. I wouldfain rest in this seat and not speak. Go on with what ye have to say anddo, and consider me not. So will you best please me."
The actor was somewhat constrained at first, but after a little whileovercame his reserve. He drew a low table beside his wife's couch, and,stooping on one knee, began to unlade his bundle. He set out a number ofterra cotta figures on the table, representing cocks and hens, pigs,horses, cows and men; some infinitely comical; at them Glyceria laughed.
Then, as she put forth a thin white hand to take up one of the quaintestimages, Domitia noticed that Paris laid hold of it, and pressed it to hislips.
A lump rose in the girl's throat.
"No," thought she; "if I had one so to love me and consider me, though Iwere sick and in pain, I would not shorten my days. I would live to enjoyhis love."
Then again, falling into further musing, she said to herself:
"In time to come, if it chance that I become ill, will my Lamia be to meas is this actor to his poor wife? Will he think of and care for me?But--and if evil were to befall him, would not I minister to him, care forhim night and day, and seek to relieve his sorrow? Would I growindifferent when he most needed me? Then why think that he should becomecold and neglect me? Are women more inclined to be true than men?--Yet seethis actor--this Paris. By the Gods! Is Lamia like to be a more ignoble manthan a poor freedman that gains his living on the stage?--I should even behappy serving him sick and suffering. Happy in doing my duty."
And still musing, she said on to herself:
"Duty! Yes, I should find content and rest of mind in that; but to whatwould it all lead? Only to a heap of dust in the end. His light would beextinguished, and then I, having nothing else to live for, would diealso--by mine own hand:--there is nothing beyond. It all leads to anash-heap."
Glyceria, observing the girl's fixed eye, thought it was lookinginquiringly at her, and said in her gentle voice that vibrated with thetremulousness given by suffering:
"Ah, lady! the neighbors and their children are very kind. There is moreof goodness and piety in the world than you would suppose, seeing men andwomen only in an amphitheatre. I can do but very little. One boy fetchesme water--that is Bibulus, and my Paris has bought him this littlehorseman--and Torquata, a little girl, daughter of a cobbler, she sweepsthe floor; and Dosithea, that is a good widow's child; she does otherneighborly acts for me;--and they thrust me on my bed to the side of thehearth, and bring me such things as I need, that I may prepare the mealsfor my husband. And Claudia, the wife of a seller of nets, she makes mybed for me; but all the shopping is done for me by Paris, and I warrantyou, lady, he is quite knowing, and can haggle over a fish or a turnipwith a market-woman like any housewife."
"He is very good to you," said Domitia.
Then Paris turned, and, putting his hand on his wife's mouth, said:
"Lady! you can little know what a wife my Glyceria is to me. I had ratherfor my own sake have her thus than hale as of old. Somehow, sorrow andpain draw hearts together wondrously."
"He is good," said Glyceria, twisting her mouth from his covering hand."We have had a hard year; on account of the troubles, there has beenlittle desire among the people for the theatre, and he has earned but atrifle. I have cost him much in physicians that have done me no good, yethe never grumbles, he is always cheerful, always tender-hearted andloving."
"Hush, wife!" said Paris. "The lady desires rest. Keep silence."
Then again Domitia fell a-musing, and the player and his wife whispered toeach other about the destination of the several toys.
Somehow she had hitherto not thought of the classes of men and women belowher station as having like feelings, like longings, like natures to herown. They had been to her as puppets, even as those clay figures ranged onthe table, mostly grotesque. Now that great pulse of love that throbsthrough the world of humanity made itself felt, it was as though scalesfell from her eyes, and the puppets became beings of flesh and blood to beconsidered, capable of happiness and of suffering, of virtue as well as ofvice.
"I have a little lamp here--with a fish--_the_ fish on it," said Paris in awhisper. "It is for Luke, the Physician."
"What!" exclaimed Domitia, starting from her reverie, "you know him? Wehad a talk once, and it was broken off and never concluded. I would hearthe end of what he was saying--some day."