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A Roman Supper
The Argosy V (April, 1866 - p.433-441) A ROMAN SUPPER. LUSCUS and Argyrion, rich young bloods of the period, were lounging one summer afternoon in the library belonging to the father of the latter. They had had a wild night of it—dancing, drinking, revelling, down at certain gardens on Tiber bank, where Nero himself had appeared in person, disguised as an old herb-woman of the slums, and accompanied by a horde of shrieking bacchantes. Luscus was hardly yet quite sober; Argyrion, who had a constitution of iron, was fresh as a daisy. They were turning over the quaintly-ornamented leaves of an old parchment on music, written in Greek by Philodemus. That sort of thing looked well; for the library was open to the public, and certain philosophers and grave men who frequented it would give the young rascals credit for studious habits. Not that their mad pranks were altogether a secret, even from their papas; not that they were a bit ashamed to flirt openly with little Lollia and lissome Cynthia, their sweethearts; but they wished, at the same time, to keep up their reputation for polite pursuits. They were critics in music, and painting, and gastronomy: they imitated the Emperor in writing verses; they had travelled, and had shallow and showy things to say on many subjects.
“Confound the old fellow’s hobby!” whispered Luscus to his friend. “These three saloons and their contents have run away with Jove knows how much good money, and the governor has the mania on him as strong as ever—it clings to him like the shirt of Alcides. Every one of these cedar and ivory boxes is so much out of my pocket; every bit of polypus inside so much more. Then it takes a small fortune yearly to salary the grammarians. It is all very well to like such things in moderation, you know. No one is fonder of a love tale, or a set of verses, than I am; but to accumulate these heaps of ancient stuff, not one leaf of which he ever reads, is abominable and ridiculous. It makes me wild, sometimes, to see those stupid old fools poking their noses here and there, rutting out their feet like wild hogs, and grunting out their satisfaction at Bibliophile’s Folly. There goes old Crotalus, perspiring with a treatise on the Greek Symposia, and smelling of the shambles.”
“Why does not thy father spend his money sensibly—if he will spend it?” asked Argyrion, with a yawn. “My old fellow is as fond of a lark as I am myself, and Cynthia swears that she spied his sly face under a satyr’s ears, last night among the revellers. Pompo, of all the old fogies, is the man for my money!”
“Pompo!” cried Luscus, with a laugh. “The charming, irresistible Polyposus, with the milk of Venus shining rubbly in his jolly old nose! the sweetest of puppies! the prince of coxcombs and fantastical verse-makers! the delicate little incarnation of frankincense and balsamum! royallest of liberal fools! Thou art right, my boy. When I am as withered without, may I still keep as much green sap within!”
“Thou wilt never have a tithe of his riches!” said Argyrion. “The cost of one of his suppers would consume half thy patrimony. He can’t count his wealth, ’tis so abundant. He rears everything he consumes; he brings rams from Tarentum, and bees from Hymettus; he hath lately writ to the Indian East for mustard-seed; and so many are his slaves, that not a tithe of them know their master. Well met, Crotalus,” continued the youth, addressing the philosopher. “Thou art busy, I see!”
“Wool-gathering, wool-gathering!” mumbled the old gentleman. “I have discovered a treatise—a manuscript—by Athenæus, treating with marvellous cunning of the symposias of Aspasia. But I accosted thee to ask a question. Art thou one of the invited to Pompo’s feast to-night?”
Argyrion stared. He had not heard, he said, of the feast in question.
“There will be wondrous sport for thy young blood, nevertheless,” observed Crotalus, smacking his lips. “He hath solicited verses from me to adorn two marvellous new dishes.”
“Now that I remember,” cried Luscus, gleefully. “I am one of the guests, though, heyday! I had wholly forgotten the affair until this moment. Thou wilt accompany me, Argyrion; I have the privilege to take a friend, and besides, thou art a favourite with the old fellow.”
“Then we shall meet there anon,” said the philosopher. And he hobbled off again to the armoury, there to bury his face anew in precious parchment, the smell of which was almost as dear to him as the scent of choice viands.
“The thought of the gourmandizing to come makes the old glutton talk soft like a maiden,” whispered Luscus to his friend. “But come, let us bury ourselves no longer in this dust-hole of dead bones. We will go bath, and prepare ourselves for the fun before us.”
Arm-in-arm, the friends made their way to another part of the building, where the baths were situated. Once out of the library, they breathed more freely. They presently entered a great court, in the centre of which was a great open basin for cold bathing, covered by an elegantly-wrought roof supported on columns. The walls and partitions were strangely adorned—with paintings of green trees laden with golden fruits, and waters swarming with all sorts of fishes. The pavement was mosaic. In this court, which was quite deserted, they did not tarry, but passed hastily into the Spoliatorium. Here they undressed and consigned their garments to the care of sleepy-looking slaves. Then passing naked through a portico, they entered a great saloon, containing two large basins of tepid water. Here certain guests of the master of the mansion were already disporting themselves. Some were dipping merrily in the basins. Others stood on the floor, going through various exercises—such as lifting heavy brazen rings, or trying, without bending the knee, to touch their heads with their feet. Down plunged Luscus, followed by Argyrion, and flinging jests at each other, they began to swim hither and thither. After the lapse of a few minutes, out they ran, trotting into the adjoining chamber. “Now for Afric summer!” cried Luscus. And it was Afric summer indeed. The chamber was thick with warm vapour, which jetted out with a hollow sound by a large pipe in the roof. The floor was as fire, the seats seemed red-hot, the atmosphere was heated to suffocation. A very little of this went a long way. The young fellows were soon perspiring at every pore, and drawing great breaths with lungs of liquid fire. When they could endure no more, back they rushed to the Tepidarium, and after another dip in the delicious cool water consigned themselves to slaves, who rubbed their white bodies softly, until every joint seemed as lissome as the coils of snakes, and after drying them delicately with soft linen napkins, covered them with light robes.
“I am again a Roman!” said Luscus, as they sat close to each other, lazily cutting their nails.
“Thou wouldst be thrice a Roman,” observed an elderly gentleman, who was busily endeavouring to touch his toes with his nose, “if thou wouldst eschew the hot bath. It is an ill luxury for the young men, and I have forbade my sons to use it.”
The young scamps only laughed. They knew the speaker as an esteemed friend of old Bibliophilus, the master of the house. The old gentleman continued to talk, inveighing warmly against the dissipation and effeminacy of the period, but he was unheeded. For up came the pueri unguentarii, carrying their little alabaster vases full of perfumed oils. After being deliciously anointed, Luscus and Argyrion reassumed their attire, feeling fresh and hearty as if they had passed the previous night in refreshing sleep. It was now time to direct their steps to the mansion of Polyposus Pompo.
After they had procured their eating napkins, which it was the custom in those days to take with you to a feast, they set out, making their way to the finest quarter of the city; stopping on the way at a pastrycook’s, to sip a little appetizing bitter drink. Luscus discoursed confidentially, hanging on Argyrion’s arm.
“I have not only received an invitation from the sweet Polyposus, but have been requested to have an interview to-morrow with his wife, the sour Biberia!”
“Impossible!” cried Argyrion, staring amazedly.
“Don’t make a blunder,” said Luscus, quickly. “Biberia is a pattern to her sex, and it is not that she has formed an attachment for me. No, no! It is notorious, on the other hand, that she is confoundedly jealous; and knowing how well I am acquainted with her husband, she has more than once set love on the watch. She suspects the old gentleman of sending presents to a little dancing girl, Tripudia, and I guess ’tis on that business she desires to see me.”
“She hath a sweetheart, nevertheless!” observed Argyrion. “One who is a great favourite with her husband, though he hath frequently swollen the great nose.”
“That is not true, I can swear! But who, say you, is the man?”
“His clothing is brittle, his head is sealed, his lips are perfumed with nard, he was born numberless years ago, and his name is—choice Falernian! But here we are at last, at the temple of the Bromian oracle.”
In the outer gateway of the palatial residence stood a porter in green livery, cleaning peas in a golden basin; and overhead hung a speckled magpie, which blinked from its golden cage at the sunshine, and croaked “welcome” not harmoniously. Close by was a painting, representing a huge mastiff fastened to a chain, and underneath was written in large letters— CAVE CANEM.* This picture was life-like enough, and not unfrequently sent country clients into fits of fright, when they came into Rome to do business with the great man. Passing in, the young men crossed an open court, in the centre of which was a êëåøýäñá, or water-clock, representing an old man pointing to a dial. At that very moment the dial sounded trumpet-like, and the figure, with nine distinct blows of the hammer, struck the ninth hour. The sun was close to its setting.
They then approached another gate, at which stood a bilious-looking boy, crying, in a shrill voice, “Right foot foremost!” as they crossed the threshold. To have stepped in with the left foot would have been a dreadfully bad omen,—at which even these reckless young bloods would have felt uneasy. Entering an antechamber, they were surrounded by silent slaves, who divested them of their outer apparel and cast over them richly-wrought robes, exquisitely perfumed; and then pointed the way into the Triclinium, or banquet hall, where not a few guests were already waiting. More than one person there looked timid and awkward, oppressed by the greatness of the house, but not so Luscus and Argyrion. They swaggered across the hall, flung a joke at Crotalus, who sat hungry in an obscure corner, and exchanged greetings with other acquaintances. ’Twas a great saloon, twice as long as broad. At the higher end stood the table and beds, but the lower part was left open for spectacles and games. The hangings behind the tables were of costliest tapestry. Painted columns, inimically woven with ivy and leaves of vine, divided the walls into partition, and each partition was a picture—fauns tippling in the woodland, bacchantes adorned with flowers, satyrs crowned with wine and armed with thyrsi, reeling tipsily round the leopard-drawn car of the young and blushing Bacchus. The ceiling was a great frieze, forming two pictures, representing all kinds of eatables ranged under the signs of the zodiac: under Aries, a ram’s head; under Taurus, a huge bit of roast beef; under Leo, an African fig (Afric being famed for its lions); under Sagittarius, a hare; under Capricornus, a lobster (on account of its horns); and under Aquarius, a goose (because your goose is very fond of the water), and so on. The pavement was a marvellous piece of work in mosaic, cleverly painted to seem strewn with débris from the last repast,—with flesh, with fish, with fowl, with broken dishes and wine-cups. The banquet table was of choice wood, with huge lion’s feet of massive ivory, and a covering of pure silver. The beds, or couches, were of bronze, ornamented with silver, gold, and tortoiseshell; the mattresses of purple-tinted Gaulish linen, and the pillows stuffed with feathers and covered with many-coloured silks seamed with gold thread. “Made at Babylon,” whispered Luscus, pointing to the couches; “and cost a fortune as large as my patrimony!” Suspended from the ceiling, or upheld by shining candelabras of precious metal, were lamps of bronze attended by slaves, whose special duty it was to cut the wicks and pour the oil. They filled the hall with a great blaze of brilliance, amid which sat the _____________________
* Beware of the dog.
_____________________ guests and moved the slaves, like spirits enchanted in the garden of some happy Hesperides.
Flinging themselves on a couch, the young men resigned themselves to the care of Egyptian slaves who poured over their hands water from silver vessels, and loosening their sandals, laved their feet and pared the nails—singing all the while in a soft voice. Indeed, no attendant moved about silently—all hummed at their work—so that, as Crotalus remarked, “the sound of the slaves was like the noise of innumerable bees on Hybla, amid which rose the conversation of the guests, like the tones of gods.” The guests, when all had assembled, might be about thirty, but the attendants seemed legion.
While all were looking forward to the entrance of the Great Pompo, a young Athenian ventured to propose a riddle, which he gave in rhyme:
Sisters twain are we,—
But one, as she dies, bears the other,
Yet in her turn dies she,
And, in dying, brings forth—her mother?
“That is not new,” grunted Crotalus, the bookworm. “’Tis a riddle of the tragedian Theodoktes, and the answer is—Day and Night. I like not borrowed wares.”
“Thou art right, Crotalus,” cried Luscus, with sly malice. “Filched dinner-napkins are not always clean, and seldom bring good to the stealer!”
This remark caused a general titter; for the philosopher had been more than once suspected of abstracting—in absence of mind, let us hope—the napkins of his acquaintances,—a crime which had long before caused the indignant “tollis lintea negligentiorum” of Catullus, in his hendecasyllabics to Asinius, and which was by no means unknown even among people of position. Crotalus reddened to the ears, and would have retorted very fiercely, had not the general attention just then been drawn in another direction; for young slaves approached, singing in chorus, and sprinkling the floor with dust of precious wood, intermixed with glittering specular powder. Then there was a playing of flutes, in the midst of which Polyposus Pompo the Great, entered smiling.
Polyposus—so called on account of the great wen on his jolly nose—was a little tun-bellied, bald-headed man, who would have looked admirable in a bacchanalian procession, mounted on the ass of Silenus. There was as much conceit as good-humour in his look and manner. His face wore an effeminate smile, which showed that he was in some respects a fool, and his eyes had a shrewd twinkle, which showed that he was a bit of a knave. He entered perspiring, and wiping his brow with a delicate napkin, taking care as he did so to show the precious jewels on his white hand,—nay, even by baring the right arm, to reveal bracelets of finely-wrought gold and ivory. He smiled elegantly on his friends, embraced one of the most intimate, and saluted our two young men with a patronizing word of recognition. He then gave a great yawn, as if he had just got up from bed (as indeed was the case), and getting up was a bore.
“I had hoped,” he said, “to find that you had commenced to sup, but indeed I have little to tempt the appetite. It is not for poor men to boast of their boards. I can offer ye but simple fare, to which I, for one, bring the sauce of hunger. Crotalus, thou hast a longing look! Hast thou made the verses I requested of thee?” The philosopher having answered in the affirmative, the rich man proceeded: “I myself was thought to have a gift that way in my youth. I will not praise myself, but ye shall see. This will I say,—I never stooped to imitate the Greeks, as certain of our poets have done; and I dare trust mine own ear for musical numbers; nor do I wish to set up shop as a poet,—I would rather rest honest and cleanly. But there is a time for all things, and discourse is unsavoury before meat. We will begin.”
A burst of applause greeted this speech. Polyposus, well pleased, sank into the central couch—half-a- dozen slaves running nimbly to prop him up with cushions—and clapped his hands. The doors at the lower end of the hall were thrown open, and a fresh train of servants entered, laden with the first service, or ante-meal.
At the same moment, crowns of artificial flowers were distributed among the guests, by servants singing:—
These crowns were supposed to have a special virtue, that of preventing drunkenness, by neutralizing the vapours of wine.
It would be tedious to note in detail all the fine things that were set before guests. The most costly and splendid dishes, prepared by the occultist culinary skill, came and went in rapid succession. Noteworthy in the first service were hares with wings, so adorned as to represent fabulous animals, peacocks shining in all their splendid plumage, ostrich eggs, Spanish capons, and cranes! Luscus tried a slice of crane—a food whose only merit was that of exceeding rarity. Argyrion would have followed his example, had not he been warned by the expression of disgust on his friend’s face. In the second service was an enormous wild boar, with palm-baskets, full of dates, hanging on his fierce tusks, and tiny sweetmeat pigs lying by his side. At a signal from Pompo, up stepped a great cook, brandishing a glittering carving-knife, and ripping up the boar’s stomach, set free a fluttering quire of live thrushes, which flew wildly into the air among the guests. Then there was a huge platter of birds’ tongues, a dish of the enormous fish called muraena, and a plate of barbel—a fish which spoiled unless it died in pickle, and which had been brought at great expense from the far shores of the western ocean. Meanwhile, hither and thither passed Egyptian slaves, carrying round quaintly carved bread, and beautiful young Asians, with snow-water for the hands. At a sign from the host, there was brought a number of bottles closely sealed, with labels round their necks bearing this inscription:— Falernian, a hundred years old. _____________________
* It has been thought unnecessary, in any part of the description, to refer to authorities, but it should be stated that these three lines are Ben Jonson’s paraphrase of a bit of Horace. The other verses in the text are original renderings.—R. B.
_____________________ “Behead!” cried Pompo; and the contents of the bottles were poured into crystal vases, perfumed, and cooled with snow. The guests charged their glasses.
“Friends,” cried Polyposus, holding up a beaker bright with precious gems, “we dedicate the first goblet as a libation to the new moon.” So saying, he reversed his glass, and all the guests followed his example. “Alas, my friends!” he continued, “that very wine should survive the finer stuff we men are made of. This wine was born when Opimius was consul; deeply hath it sweated in the dark while we have been flaunting in the sunshine. A lyric fancy struck me the other day like a box on the ear; I tingled to the finger nails as I sipped my cup; I could have cried for pleasure. Your patience, friends, to hear this trifle.”
There was dead silence, while Pompo recited the following doggrel in a sing-song treble:—
“Potent Philosopher, whose breath
Breathes wit, or love, or rage, or death,
Thou quarrel-causer, pain-subduer,
Potent disputer, wondrous wooer,
May Polyposus, like to thee,
Ere comes the time for his last sleeping,
Each summer richer, ruddier, be,
Grow purer and improve by keeping
Till at the last, when I, old fellow,
No more at yonder heav’n can blink up,
May I, like thee, be mellow, mellow,
And worthy for the gods to drink up!”
The applause was tremendous. Crotalus averred that there was no neater set of verses in the Greek; Anacreon was an ass to Pompo. “The numbers are as milk and honey,” said Luscus; “Horatius’ ‘ad Amphoram’ cannot be compared with them.” “’Tis a trifle,” murmured Pompo, fidgeting with joy. “I would have ye hear my heroics on the wrath of Achilles, though tis unfortunate that Homer has treated the same subject before me.”
The heat of the banquet-hall was growing very oppressive, when there entered divers beautiful Spanish girls, carrying fans made with peacocks’ tails, with which they gently agitated the air round the faces of the guests. The Asian slaves then brought snow and ointments for the hands, feet, and face. More than once Pompo, who was breathing like a porpoise baking on a hot ocean, retired to change his robe. Presently Luscus, who had for some time given signs of great internal agony, stole from his friend’s side. As he did not return speedily, Argyrion went in search of him, and found him in a small antechamber, very sick.
“Why, what ails thee, Luscus?” Argyrion cried. “Art thou ill?”
“I have been sick to death!” was the reply. “That confounded crane hath spoiled all my pleasure— turned the very wine into wormwood. I am better now, however, and will take care never again to taste strange dishes.”
They returned to the banquet-hall just in time to witness the feats of a tumbler, who, suspended in the air just above the groaning table, went through the most extraordinary feats, to the great diversion of the guests, who expected every moment to see him tumble down and break his neck. Another service had been brought in—as unique as the others. Then there was a loud cry from without, and in rushed a troop of young men in Grecian costume, brandishing swords and spears and fencing with each other. These were the Homerists, or strolling players, whose profession it was to visit rich men’s houses and recite there the verses of Homer. On this occasion however, they chaunted no honied Greek, but the Latin verses of Polyposus about the wrath of Achilles. The hexameters halted dreadfully, but the players made the best of them, and of course the applause was prodigious. As the sounds died away, servants brought in a number of little images of household gods and placed them on the table, and set in the centre a skeleton made of silver.
“Behold,” said Polyposus, “our memento mori. Eat and drink, my friends, for to-morrow we die; honour also your lares and penates, that they may be serviceable to ye here and yonder. For myself, I am a philosopher, and neither fear nor desire death—Sic notus Polyposus? The pale fellow beats with his sure foot at the cottages of peasants and the palaces of kings. Invidious age forbids us to entertain long hope. I have built mine own monument, which some of ye have seen, and I have writ mine own epitaph, which ye shall hear:—
“Gentle stranger, pause and see
Here POLYPOSUS POMPO lies!
A poor and worthy wight was he,
Not wise, since none that live are wise,
And yet no fool, his deeds aver,
But poet and philosopher!
He cannot hear his friends abuse him,
And praise his widow’s guineas yellow!
He cannot feel his wife ill-use him
By marrying a sillier fellow;
But, toes and nose turn’d up, he’ll doze,
Free from the scenes where mortals flout,
And never will his jolly nose
Gleam like a gem at drinking bout!
Stranger, disturb not his repose!
Pour a libation, and get out!”
This also earned its share of smiling praise and applause—which again put Polyposus in excellent humour. By this time everybody was getting tipsy. Polyposus talked very thick indeed. Luscus saw double. Argyrion threw nutshells with drunken mirth at the heads of his acquaintances. Still quaffing tipsily, they listened to three Spanish girls, who sang to the lyre, and were attired voluptuously in short tunics of white thin silk. Some one then asked, in a thick voice, if there was to be a fight of gladiators?
“Nay,” cried the host; “my old nerves are growing too weak for such games; I cannot abear the sight of blood, and though I have made one in the field when young, the very flash of a sword will now spoil mine appetite at times. Last time the gladiators played here, there were two slain outright and one wounded sore under the rib. I am for no more of it, and have indeed writ verses in dispraise of the sport.”
At a sign from Polyposus, the attendants supplied the great lamps with fresh oil, and scattered the floor afresh with glittering powder. Pompo now discoursed, with as much flippancy as good-nature, on sculpture, history, poetry, painting, and astronomy. The others joined, seldom disagreeing with the great man; but there was little or nothing in the conversation worth quoting. In the obscurer parts of the chamber sat certain freedmen in waiting, talking among themselves. What said they to all this show and luxury? They had their fears, and dared whisper them.
“We are threatened with a famine,” said one. “I avow to thee, Fabius, that all to-day I could not procure myself a mouthful of bread. Provisions grow scarcer and scarcer, and the drought continues. Curse the Aediles! They are in league with the bakers! Poor men starve, and rich men never cease eating. Polyposus thinks more of a new dish than of a thousand Roman lives.”
“Ay, ay,” returned another. “I ate my clothes yesterday. I must sell up my poor house, if the drought continues. Gods aid us! But why talk of gods? Folks now-a-days don’t believe Olympus is Olympus, and hold Jupiter of no more value than a flea; they shut their eyes, and eat if they can, and count their money if they have any.”
This talk was overheard by a wealthier freedman, who only laughed, saying:
“Cheerly, my poor fellow! Are we not going to have a grand gladiatorial combat in a few days? There will be real sharp swords and downright slaughter this time,—a rare sight to feed on for a week. Yet wilt thou go on grumbling?”
The hours had been speeding by very rapidly, and presently a cock crew. At a fresh sign from Polyposus, the slaves carried in a great vase, and filled it with choice wine, sweetened with honey and perfumed with nard. A huge crown of fresh roses was then handed to the host, who plunged it into the wine.
“Let us drink roses!” he cried, lifting the vase to his lips, while a flood of music from the flute-playing girls filled the banquet-hall. The vase was then passed round from mouth to mouth. This stirrup-cup, or draught of friendship, having been taken, the guests soon rose. Each in turn approached the host, who was now barely able to articulate.
“May the gods be propitious unto thee!” cried each in turn; Luscus among others adding in his sleeve, “and all poor wretches who have nothing to eat!” But Crotalus, the philosopher, after staggering across the hall, and making several vain attempts to speak, dropped down at Polypsus’ feet, thoroughly stupified with drink. He was committed to the care of certain slaves, who had orders to dip him over the head in the cold bath ere carrying him home.
Lastly, the guests passed forth, escorted by linkmen with torches. The day was dawning damply in the east, and Pompo’s little supper was over. ROBERT BUCHANAN. __________ Next: The Heir or back to Short Stories |
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