‘Do not think me vain if I tell the story,’ said the actor. ‘I do not tell it in my own honour, but only for the glory of my art. Demetrius had been railing and snarling at us poor pantomimes, and said that the only pleasure of the spectators was derived, not from our dancing, but from the flutes and songs. I asked him to let me show him a specimen of what I could do.’
‘Happy Demetrius!’ said Lucan.
‘He was fair-minded enough to consent, and I danced to him the story of Mars and Venus. I tried to bring before him their love, their betrayal by Helios, the rage and jealousy of Vulcan, their capture in the golden net, their confusion, the entreaties of Venus, the intercession of the gods. Demetrius was fairly conquered, and he said to me, “Fellow!” (you observe that he was anything but civil!), “I don’t merely see but I hear your acting, and you seem to me to speak with your very hands.”’
‘Well done, Demetrius!’ said Otho. ‘And perhaps you don’t know, Paris, that a Greek writer, Lesbonax, calls you, not philosophers, but cheirosophers—hand-wise.’
‘I can cap your story, Paris,’ said Nero. ‘The other day a barbarian nobleman from Pontus came to me on some foreign business and brought me some splendid presents. When he left I asked him if I could do anything for him. “Yes,” he said. “Will you make me a present of the beautiful dancer whom I saw in the theatre?” That was you, Paris; and of course I told him that you were much too precious to be given away, and that, if I did, we should have Rome in an uproar. “But,” I said, “of what possible use would he be to you?” “He can interpret things without words,” he replied; “and I want some one to explain my wishes to my barbarous neighbours”!’
‘Nobody has said any of these fine things about me,’ remarked Aliturus, ruefully.
‘Well, I will tell you a compliment paid to you, Aliturus,’ said Petronius. ‘Another barbarian, who came to me with a letter of introduction from the Proconsul of Africa, saw you act a scene which involved five impersonations. He was amazed at your versatility. “That man,” he observed, “has but one body, but he has many minds.”’
‘Thank you, kind Petronius!’ said Aliturus.
‘But now tell us,’ asked Nero, ‘whether in acting you really feel the emotions you express.’
‘When the character is new to us we feel them intensely,’ said the Jewish pantomime. ‘Have you never heard, Cæsar, what happened to Pylades, when he played the part of the mad hero of “Ajax”? It seemed as if he really went mad with the hero whom he personated. He sprang on one of the attendants who was beating time to the music, and rent off his robe. The actor who represented the victorious Ulysses stood by him in triumph, and Pylades, tearing a heavy flute from the hands of one of the choraulæ, dealt Ulysses so violent a blow on the head that he broke the flute and would have broken the head too, if the actor had not been protected by his helmet. He even hurled javelins at Augustus himself. The audience in the theatre was so powerfully affected by the passion of the scene that they went mad too, and leapt up from their seats and shouted, and flung off their garments. Finally, Pylades, unconscious of what he was doing, walked down from the stage to the orchestra and took his seat between two Consulars, who were rather alarmed lest Ajax should flagellate them with his scourge as he had been flagellating the cattle which in his madness he took for Greeks.’