“And do you complain of my carefulness?” retorted Lucilia. “Punctuality is the first virtue of a house mistress.”
“Aha! and since Lucilia’s ambitions aim at that high dignity....”
“Laugh away! A well-ordered home is very desirable for you; and it will be a real mercy when you get married. Since you have lived alone, you have got into all sorts of mischief. But what is it that you want here, you ugly Satyr? Do you not see that you are dreadfully in the way? There, now you are treading on the travelling-cloaks! I entreat you leave the room to the household gods!”
“What! I am in your way? That is your view of the matter; but it is you who are really the spoil-peace, the eternally restless storm who have so often come sweeping down on our idyllic calm. Of all the things, which remind us here of Rome, you are the most Roman. You have nothing but your little snub-nose to redeem you a little. But, by Hercules! when I see you bustling around here, I can picture to myself all the fevered turmoil of the great city[115] with its two million inhabitants. Well, I will taste the sea-breezes once more—once more, for a brief space, enjoy peace and quietness.”
“How?”
“I will wait for sunrise at the top of the hill, where the road turns down to Cumae. In Rome it rises through smoke and mist; while here—oh! how grandly and gloriously it mounts from behind the cone of Vesuvius....”
“And rises there through smoke and mist!” laughed Lucilia. “Well, make haste and come back again, or we shall set off without you.”
She turned once more to the slaves. Quintus wrapped himself in his ample lacerna,[116] waved his hand to her, and went out.
The high-road was absolutely deserted; he drew a deep breath. It was a delicious morning. His wish to bid farewell, as it were, to the sun and air of Baiae was not affected; like all Romans he raved about the sea.[117] Its shore was to him the one real Museion—as Pliny the younger[118] had once expressed it—the true abode of the Muses, where the celestial powers seemed nearest to him; here, if anywhere, while watching the waves, he found time and opportunity for self-study and reflection. He had now been living with his family in their quiet villa ever since the end of April, and had spent many hours in serious meditation, in congenial literary pleasures and diligent study. He had once more learned the real value of retirement, which in Rome was so unattainable. A long winter of dissipation had left him satiated, and Baiae’s aromatic air, a simple existence in the bosom of his family, and the spirit of Greek poetry had combined to restore his palled senses and overexcited nerves. And now, as the moment of return approached, he was seized more and more with the old spirit of unrest. He felt that the omnipotent sway of that demon called Rome would drag him back again into the vortex of aimless tragi-comedy, and now a last glance at the smiling and slumbering sea was a positive craving of his heart.
He slowly climbed the hill. At about a hundred paces up, there was a spot whence he could see over the roofs of the tallest villas and down into the valley. His eye, though his purpose was to look far away and across the sea, was irresistibly riveted by an object that was quite close at hand. To his right a by-path led down towards the palace of the Empress, and the huge portico, with its Corinthian columns, gleamed pale and visionary in the doubtful light. But what attracted the young man’s attention was a little side-door, which slowly turned on its pivot[119] with a slight noise, letting a female figure in Greek dress pass out into the road. Quintus recognized Euterpe, the flute-player. Limp and weary she climbed the steep slope, her eyes fixed on the ground, and as she came closer, Quintus could see that she had been weeping bitterly.