Novels, Tales, Journeys

Petronius paused on the marble threshold and read the greeting inscribed on it: Welcome! A sad smile appeared on his face. The old steward led him to the library, where we examined several scrolls and then went on to the master’s bedroom. It was simply decorated. There were only two family statues in it. One portrayed a matron sitting in a chair, the other a girl playing with a ball. A small lamp stood on a night table by the bed. Here Petronius stayed to rest and dismissed us, inviting us to gather there in the evening.

I could not fall asleep; sorrow filled my soul. I saw in Petronius not only a generous benefactor, but also a friend, sincerely attached to me. I respected his vast mind; I loved his beautiful soul. From his conversation I drew a knowledge of the world and of men, which were known to me more from the speculations of the divine Plato than from my own experience. His judgments were usually quick and correct. Indifference toward everything saved him from partiality, and sincerity in regard to himself made him perspicacious. Life could not offer him anything new; he had tasted all pleasures; his senses slumbered, dulled by habit, but his mind kept an astonishing freshness. He liked the play of ideas, as he did the harmony of words. He listened eagerly to philosophical discussions and wrote verses no worse than Catullus.

I went out to the garden and for a long time walked along its winding paths, shaded by old trees. I sat down on a bench in the shadow of a spreading poplar, beside which stood the statue of a young satyr fashioning a reed pipe. Wishing to drive my sad thoughts away somehow, I took out a writing tablet and translated one of the odes of Anacreon, which I have kept in memory of that sad day:

Gray they’ve grown, thin they’ve grown,

My locks, the honor of my head,

The teeth have weakened in my gums,

The fire of my eyes grows dim.

Not many days are left to me

Of this sweet life to be seen off,

The Parcae keep a strict account,

Tartarus awaits my shade—

Dreadful the cold of the nether vault,

The way in is open to us all,

But there is no coming out of it…

All go down—and lie forgot.3

The sun was sinking towards the west; I went to Petronius. I found him in the library. He was pacing about; with him was his personal doctor, Septimius. Seeing me, Petronius stopped and recited facetiously:

Proud steeds are known

By the brand they bear,

The arrogant Parthian

By his tall headpiece,

Happy lovers I know

By looking in their eyes.4

“You’ve guessed right,” I replied to Petronius and gave him my tablets. He read my verses. A cloud of pensiveness passed over his face and dispersed at once.

“When I read such poems,” he said, “I’m always curious to know how those who were so struck by the thought of death died themselves. Anacreon assures us that Tartarus terrifies him, but I don’t believe him—just as I don’t believe the cowardice of Horace. Do you know his ode?

Which of the gods restored to me

The one with whom I first campaigned

And shared the horror of mortal combat,

When we were led by desperate Brutus

In the pursuit of phantom freedom?

With whom I’d forget the alarms of war

In a tent over a cup of wine,

And my locks, entwined with ivy,

I would anoint with Syrian myrrh?

Remember the hour of dreadful battle,

When I, a trembling quiritis,

Fled and shamefully dropped my shield,

Making vows and saying prayers?

How frightened I was! How fast I fled!

But Hermes suddenly covered me

In a cloud and whirled me far away

And saved me from a certain death.5

“The cunning poet wanted to make Augustus and Maecenas laugh at his cowardice so as not to remind them of the brother-in-arms of Cassius and Brutus. Say what you like, I find more sincerity in his exclamation:

Sweet and seemly it is to die for your country.”6

Maria Schoning

ANNA HARLIN TO MARIA SCHONING,

April 25, W.

Dear Maria,