The Emperor. Complete

But before the architect could comply with his desire the sculptor’s head had appeared above the screen. The young man had heard the approaching voices and steps; he greeted the prefect respectfully from his elevated position, and after satisfying his curiosity was about to spring down from the stool on which he had climbed when Pontius called to him that Claudius Venator, the architect from Rome, wished to make his acquaintance.

“That is very kind in him, and still more kind in you,” Pollux answered from above, “since it is only from you that he can know that I exist beneath the moon, and use the hammer and chisel. Allow me to descend from my four-legged cothurnus, for at present you are forced to look up to me, and from all I have heard of your talents from Pontius, nothing can be more absolutely the reverse of what it ought to be.”

“Nay, stop where you are,” answered Hadrian. “We, as fellow-artists, may waive ceremony.—What are you doing in there?”

“I will push the screen back in a moment and show you our Urania. It is very good for an artist to hear the opinion of a man who thoroughly understands the thing.”

“Presently, friend-presently; first let me enjoy a scrap of bread, for the severity of my hunger might very possibly influence my judgment.”

As he was speaking the architect offered the Emperor a salver with bread, salt, and a cup of wine, which his own slave had carried to him. When Pollux observed this modest meal, he called out:

“That is prisoners’ fare, Pontius; have we nothing better in the house than that?”

“Possibly you yourself assisted in demolishing the dainty dishes I had sent down for the architect,” cried Titianus, pretending to threaten him.

“You are defacing a fair memory,” sighed the sculptor, with mock melancholy. “But, by Hercules, I did my fair share of the work of destruction. If only now—but stay! I have an idea worthy of Aristotle himself! that breakfast, to which I invited you to-morrow morning, most noble Pontius, is all ready at my mother’s, and can be warmed up in a few minutes. Do not be alarmed, worthy sir, but the dish in question is cabbage with sausages—a mess which, like the soul of an Egyptian, possesses at the instant of resurrection, nobler qualities than when it first sees the light.”

“Excellent,” cried Hadrian. “Cabbage and sausages!” He wiped his full lips with his hand, smiling with gratification, and he broke into a hearty laugh of amusement as he heard a loud “Ah!” of satisfaction from Antinous, who drew nearer to the canvas screen. “There is another whose mouth waters and whose imagination revels in a happy future,” said the Emperor to the prefect, pointing to his favorite.

But he had misinterpreted the lad’s exclamation, for it was the mere name of the dish—which his mother had often set on the table of his humble home in Bithynia—which reminded him of his native country and his childhood, and transplanted him in thought back into their midst. It was a swift leap at his heart, and not merely the pleasant watering of his gums, that had forced the “Ah” to his lips. Still, he was glad to see his native dish again, and would not have exchanged it against the richest banquet. Pollux had meanwhile come out of his nook, and said:

“In a quarter of an hour I shall set before you the breakfast which has been turned into a supper. Mitigate your worst hunger with some bread and salt, and then my mother’s cabbage-stew will not only satisfy you, but will be enjoyed with calm appreciation.”

“Greet dame Doris from me,” Hadrian called after the sculptor; and when Pollux had quitted the hall he turned to Titianus and Pontius and said:

“What a splendid young fellow. I am curious to see what he can do as an artist.”

“Then follow me,” replied Pontius, leading the way.

“What do you say to this Urania? Papias made the head of the Muse, but the figure and the drapery Pollux formed with his own hand in a few days.”

The imperial artist stood in front of the statue, with his arms crossed, and remained there for some time in silence. Then he nodded his bearded head approvingly, and said gravely:

“A well-considered work, and carried out with remarkable freedom; this mantle drawn over the bosom would not disgrace a Phidias. All is broad, characteristic and true. Did the young artist work from the model here at Lochias?”

“I have seen no model, and I believe that he evolved the whole figure out of his head,” replied Pontius.

“Impossible, perfectly impossible,” cried the Emperor, in the tone of a man who knows well what he is talking about. “Such lines, such forms not Praxiteles himself could have invented. He must have seen them, have formed them as he stood face to face with the living copy. We will ask him. What is to be made out of that newly-set-up mass of clay?”

“Possibly the bust of some princess of the house of the Lagides. To-morrow you shall see a head of Berenice by our young friend, which seems to me to be one of the best things ever done in Alexandria.”

“And is the lad a proficient in magic?” asked Hadrian. “It seems to me simply impossible that he should have completed this statue and a woman’s bust in these few days.”

Pontius explained to the Emperor that Pollux had mounted the head on a bust already to hand, and as he answered his questions without reserve, he revealed to him what stupendous exertions of the arts had been called into requisition to give the dilapidated palace a suitable and, in its kind, even brilliant appearance. He frankly confessed that here he was working only for effect, and talked to Hadrian exactly as he would have discussed the same subject with any other fellow-artist.

While the Emperor and the architect were thus eagerly conversing, and the prefect was hearing from Phlegon, the secretary, all the experience of their journey, Pollux reappeared in the hall of the Muses accompanied by his father. The singer carried before him a steaming mess, fresh cakes of bread, and the pasty which a few hours previously he had carried home to his wife from the architect’s table. Pollux held to his breast a tolerably large two-handled jar full of Mareotic wine, which he had hastily wreathed with branches of ivy.

A few minutes later the Emperor was reclining on a mattress that had been laid for him, and was making his way valiantly through the savory mess. He was in the happiest humor; he called Antinous and his secretary, heaped abundant portions with his own hand on their plates, which he bade them hold out to him, declaring as he did so that it was to prevent their fishing the best of the sausages out of the cabbage for themselves. He also spoke highly of the Mareotic wine. When they came to opening the pasty the expression of his face changed; he frowned and asked the prefect in a suspicious tone, severely and sternly:

“How came these people by such a pasty as this?”

“Where did you get it from?” asked the prefect of the singer.

“From the banquet which the architect gave to the artists here,” answered Euphorion. “The bones were given to the Graces and this dish, which had not been touched, to me and my wife. She devoted it with pleasure to Pontius’ guest.”

Titianus laughed and exclaimed:

“This then accounts for the total disappearance of the handsome supper which we sent down to the architect. This pasty-allow me to look at it—this pasty was prepared by a recipe obtained from Verus. He invited us to breakfast yesterday and instructed my cook how to prepare it.”

“No Platonist ever propagated his master’s doctrines with greater zeal than Verus does the merits of this dish,” said the Emperor, who had recovered his good humor as soon as he perceived that no artful preparation for his arrival was to be suspected in this matter. “What follies that spoilt child of fortune can commit! Does he still insist on cooking with his own hands?”

“No, not quite that,” replied the prefect. “But he had a couch placed for him in the kitchen on which he stretched himself at full length and told my cook exactly how to prepare the pasty, of which you are—I should say, of which the Emperor is particularly fond. It consists of pheasant, ham, cow’s udder and a baked crust.”

“I am quite of Hadrian’s opinion,” laughed the Emperor; doing all justice to the excellent pie. “You entertain me splendidly my friend, and I am very much your debtor. What did you say your name is young man?”

“Pollux.”

“Your Urania, Pollux, is a fine piece of work, and Pontius says you executed the drapery without a model. I said, and I repeat, that it is simply impossible.”

“You judge rightly, a young girl stood for it.”

The Emperor glanced at the architect, as much as to say, I knew it!

Pontius asked in astonishment:

“When? I have never seen a female form within these walls.”

“Recently.”

“But I have never quitted Lochias for a minute. I have never gone to rest before midnight, and have been on my legs again long before sunrise.”

“But still there were several hours between your going to sleep, and waking up again,” replied Pollux. “Ah, youth—youth!” exclaimed the Emperor, and a satirical smile played upon his lips.

“Part Damon and Phyllis by iron doors, and they will find their way to each other through the key-hole.”

Euphorion looked seriously at his son, the architect shook his head and refrained from further questions, but Hadrian rose from his couch, dismissed Antinous and his secretary to bed, requested Titianus to go home and to give his wife his kindly greetings, and then desired Pollux to conduct him within this screen, since he himself was not tired and was accustomed to do with only a few hours sleep.

The young sculptor was strongly attracted by this commanding personage. It had not escaped him that the gray-bearded stranger greatly resembled the Emperor; but Pontius had prepared him for the likeness, and in fact there was much in the eyes and mouth of the Roman architect that he had never traced in any portrait of Hadrian ‘Imperator.’ And as they stood before his scarcely-finished statue his respect increased for the new visitor to Lochias; for, with earnest frankness, he pointed out to him certain faults, and while praising the merits of the rapidly-executed figure he explained in a few brief and pithy phrases his own conception of the ideal Urania. Then shortly but clearly, he stated his views as to how the plastic artist must deal with the problems of his art.

The young man’s heart beat faster, and more than once he turned hot and cold by turns as he heard things uttered by the bearded lips of this imposing man, in a rich voice and in lucid phrases, which he had often divined or vaguely felt, but for which, while learning, observing, and working, he had never sought expression in words. And how kindly the great master took up his timid observations, how convincingly he answered them. Such a man as this he had never met, never had he bowed with such full consent before the superiority and sovereign power of another mind.

The second hour after midnight had begun, when Hadrian, standing before the rough-cast clay bust, asked Pollux:

“What is this to be?”

“A portrait of a girl.”

“Probably of the complaisant model who ventures into Lochias at night?”