Part 1 (2/2)
”Be still, dear young master,” said the tutor. ”Try to forget and try to be resigned. She is gone. She is not to be found. We have searched everywhere. You have vainly squandered treasures to find her. Ilia is gone. It is three months now since she disappeared. She was probably kidnapped by pirates while bathing. She used often to bathe in the sea, among the rocks....”
”Is the villa at Baiae sold? I won't go back to it!... Since she is no longer there, since she has disappeared, disappeared! She has disappeared! She has disappeared without a trace! Just one sandal on the sh.o.r.e. It was a calm sea. She cannot have been drowned!... In my house she was queen! My Ilia: she was the queen of my house, though she was a slave! Everything for her and because of her! She was my slave, but she had slaves herself, male and female: she had the jewels of an empress, she had the raiment of a G.o.ddess! I wors.h.i.+pped her as I would Venus herself! And she has disappeared, she has disappeared without a trace, without a trace! Not a thing of hers has been found save a sandal, a sandal! Where can she be? Is she dead, is she alive? Did she run away, was she kidnapped, has she been murdered? Shall I never, never see her again? Here, here”--he rose suddenly--”here, in my boiling breast, I feel it welling up now, the fury of frenzy! I want her, I will have her! Ilia, Ilia, Ilia!”
And he uttered a despairing cry, a scream of anguish, and burst into sobs.
His cry, his scream was heard in the night, throughout the s.h.i.+p.
And suddenly, because of his grief, all the music fell silent: the melancholy chant of the rowers, the joy-song of the sailors and the hymn to the G.o.ddess, sung to the tw.a.n.ging Lesbian harp.
Only the oars continued to beat the waves. For the rest, silence, silence, silence ... over all the s.h.i.+p, under the starry dome....
Then the boatswain's voice made itself heard. The rowers' melodious phrase rose in a mournful swell, always the same. And the high voice of the sailor who led the singing set the time. The seamen took up the chant. And bright, golden beads from the four-stringed harp fell like clear drops through the night; and the Greek hymn of the songstress pined away with love and tenderness, to ring out suddenly, imploringly:
”Aphrodite!... Aphrodite!...”
CHAPTER II
Lucius lay on his cus.h.i.+ons sobbing like a child. Beside him sat old Thrasyllus, with his hand on his master's heaving shoulder:
”Lucius, pray control yourself,” he said. ”Master yourself and yield piously to Fate. Ilia is gone, she is gone. She is probably gone for ever. She has disappeared. Pirates must have kidnapped her while she was bathing.... Do not think of her any more. Life is rich in promise. Fortune has favoured you not only with untold treasures, but also with genius and soul. You love beauty and study, every art and every science. You did well to follow my advice at last and not to go on languis.h.i.+ng with grief in the villa at Baiae. Yes, it is sold. We shall never go back there. The villa is sold to Caesar. For almost nothing. Tiberius can look upon it as a gift! What does it matter? Forget the villa and ... forget Ilia.... We are now sailing towards Egypt, the birthplace of all wisdom, the cradle of humanity. You did well to follow my advice: you needed distraction, my dear young master; and this distraction will bring healing to your sick soul. To-morrow we shall reach Alexandria. The voyage is auspicious and will probably be completed without storms. Try to sleep now; and, once again, thank you for your kind word. You are generous. I had nothing to forgive, but I am grateful that you love me better than you would a simple slave. Good-night. Good-night, Lucius.”
The tutor left the pavilion:
”Draw the curtains close, Tarrar,” he said to the Libyan boy. ”Noiselessly.”
”Yes, Thrasyllus,” said the child.
The tutor walked to the end of the long deck. The sailors' song was hushed, the hymn was hushed; only the rowers' melancholy phrase sounded very softly, m.u.f.fled in undertone.
The old man stopped. On a pile of cus.h.i.+ons lay Catullus, Lucius'
penniless uncle, pot-bellied as Silenus and with a bald and s.h.i.+ning pate; and on a low chair sat Cora, the Greek slave from Cos. Her harp stood like a rounded bow by her side; and she leant her head against it.
”Well, Thrasyllus,” mumbled Catullus, sleepily, ”how goes it with my nephew?”
”He has spoken a kind word to me,” replied the tutor, joyfully.
”A kind word?” cried Catullus, raising himself, with his hands still behind the grey fringe of his cranium. ”I shall become jealous! I have not had a kind word since that wench bolted....”
”Ss.h.!.+ Be silent, worthy Catullus,” said Thrasyllus. ”He believes that she has been kidnapped. Leave him in that belief.”
”And every one knows--the steersman told me so himself--that she ran away with Carus the Cypriote, the sailor! Every one knows it, all the sailors and rowers....”
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