Reclined on stuffed and cushioned sofas, leaning on the left elbow, the neck and right arm bare and his sandals removed, the Roman abandoned himself, after the exhaustion of the palæstra and the bath, to all the luxury of languor. His slaves relieved him from every effort, however trifling; they carved for him,[40] filled his cup for him, supplied every dish for him with such fragmentary viands as he could raise to his mouth with his fingers only, and poured water upon his hands at every remove. Men of genius and learning might amuse themselves with conversation alone; those for whom this resource was insufficient had many other means of entertainment to resort to. Music and dancing were performed before them; actors and clowns exhibited in their presence; dwarfs and hunchbacks were introduced to make sport for them; Augustus himself sometimes escaped from these miserable vulgarities by playing at dice between the courses; but the stale wit and practical humour, with which in many houses the banquet seems to have been seasoned, give us a lower idea of the manners of the Roman gentlemen than any perhaps of these trifling pastimes. The vulgarity, however, of the revellers of Rome was far less shocking than their indecency, and nothing perhaps contributed more to break down the sense of dignity and self-respect, the last safeguard of pagan virtue, than the easy familiarity engendered by their attitude at meals.
Some persons, indeed, men no doubt of peculiar assurance and conceit, ventured to startle the voluptuous languor of the supper-table by repeating their own compositions to the captive guests. But for the most part the last sentiments of expiring liberty revolted against this intolerable oppression. The Romans compounded for the inviolate sanctity of their convivial hours by surrendering to the inevitable enemy a solid portion of the day. They resigned themselves to the task of listening as part of the business of the morning.[c]
Banquets of a more pretentious order played a very important part in the life of the Romans of all classes. Anniversaries, religious festivals, the necessity also that those who belonged to the same college should treat common affairs together, or simply the desire of spending life more enjoyably, had multiplied them during the empire to an unlimited degree. Men of distinction especially sought at them the pleasure of conversing freely with their friends. During the endless and capricious conversations politics were not forgotten. What was said after dinner, when the heat of festivity had animated the guests and loosened their tongues was not always favourable to the imperial government. It was during one of these repasts that the prætor Antistius read those insulting verses concerning Nero which led to his banishment. As has just been said, however, the banquet-hall was not the place usually chosen for reading verses or other compositions. Freer scope for this and for the public promulgation of serious ideas in general was found in the so-called “circles.”
THE CIRCLES
It is not so easy to know what was meant by the circles. To form an exact idea of them, the habits of the ancient nations must be taken into account. In those delightful climates people do not remain shut up all day at home; on the contrary, the day is generally spent out of doors. The inhabitants of Rome when they were not at the theatre or the circus walked about looking at the perpetual sights the Eternal City offered to the curious of all nations. They went about the streets, they stopped in the public squares, seated themselves when they were tired, on the benches and exedræ, with which the public places were supplied. These groups of idlers, gathered together to look at something or to talk, were called circuli. They collected especially in the Campus Martius and in the Forum, around the quacks selling their remedies, the showmen with their rare or performing animals and those who performed feats of strength. Sometimes a miserable poet, unhappy at having no readers, took advantage of these groups to venture to spout his verses to the assembly. Very often they were gathered together only to listen to those people who posed as persons of importance, and professed to be well informed. There were a great number of such in Rome, and at times of crisis, in those moments of anxiety and expectation when men are anxious to hear what they tremble to know, they acquired much credit. After having listened to them, everybody gave his opinion. Blame or praise was gravely meted out to the generals, plans of campaign were made, and treaties of peace discussed. Towards the end of the republic and during the beginning of the empire these street politicians assembled together at the foot of the tribune reserved for speeches, which won them the name of subrostrani. Thence were spread gloomy rumours which alarmed Rome. It was said that the Parthians had invaded Armenia, that the Germani had crossed the Rhine, and the crowd that listened to this sinister news did not always spare the emperor and his ministers, who were not taking strong enough measures for the protection of the frontiers. The emperor had consequently taken steps to have these bold speakers watched. He sent disguised soldiers who mingled in these groups, and reported to their chiefs what they had heard.
These open-air discussions which the spies of the prince could hear, were thus not without danger. Those who did not care to run the risk of being ruined took care to say nothing there; they only spoke out in company in which they thought themselves safe. Besides, opportunities for speaking were not wanting. I do not doubt that there existed in Rome at that time something similar to what is nowadays called society, that is to say, meetings of people, usually unknown to each other, of different origin and fortune, who have no affairs to discuss, no common interests to debate, and who in collecting only seek the pleasure of being together. What is for us the peculiar characteristic of society, that the women freely associate with the men, was often found at Rome also. It was not forbidden to the women to appear at the banquets, even when strangers to the family were invited, and Cornelius Nepos tells us that nobody was astonished to see a Roman taking his wife with him when he went to dine out, a thing which would have greatly shocked the Greeks. Thus repasts were already social assemblies, but it may be safely asserted that there were many others although accounts of them have not reached us. I even believe that as early as the first century, the habit of living together had sometimes given rise to a certain gallantry between the two sexes, hitherto unknown in ancient society, and which at moments might resemble the customs of our seventeenth century. Here is the portrait which Martial sketches, of a dandy of his time: “A dandy is a man whose hair is nicely parted, who breathes perfumes, who hums between his teeth songs from Spain and Egypt, and knows how to beat time with his hairless arms; he does not leave the chairs of the ladies during the whole day, he has always something to whisper in their ears, knows all the scandal of Rome, will tell you the name of the woman with whom so-and-so is in love, whose society another person frequents, and knows by heart the genealogy of the horse Hirpinus.” It seems to me this dandy is not very different from Molière’s marquis, and like him he has the habit of not “leaving the chairs of the ladies.” There were some people at Rome whose assiduity took them far; and Tacitus tells us of a consul, a clever man, and a terrible banterer as well, who owed his political rank to the influence of women.
When men are alone together they discuss and discourse; in presence of ladies they are forced to converse. Seneca described wonderfully well these society conversations where everything was treated and nothing thoroughly discussed, and where one subject followed another so easily. In a few hours the conversation of these clever people wandered far from the starting-point. They talked doubtless much of themselves and other people. The habit of living together encouraged a taste for studying each other, and everyone’s passions and characteristics became thoroughly known. In that immense town, which might easily, as Lucan says, have contained the whole world, where so many bitter battles were waged daily to conquer power and wealth, subjects of study were not wanting to these worldly moralists. They collected amusing anecdotes of well-known people and came in the evening to relate them to their friends. Literature was also an absorbing topic. The whole of Roman society liked and cultivated it. As a rule Romans were orators by occupation; poets simply as a means of distraction. A little poetry flourished in those days which has not lived until our time; it did not deserve to live, being merely written to charm the elegant society of those days. As in the time of the Abbé Delille, games of dice or chess, fishing and swimming, dancing and music, the art of ordering a dinner or receiving guests, were all sung in verse. However agreeable this poetry might be, it could not always charm, and new subjects had constantly to be thought of to animate the conversation. It was thus that, when literature and scandal had been thoroughly exhausted, politics followed in the natural course.
It is quite conceivable that much raillery was indulged in by these clever people who above everything did not wish to appear fools, and would not take seriously all the comedies that were being played in the senate. Reserved and sharp lookers-on, little disposed towards any kind of enthusiasm, they must have smiled at the excessive flattery with which the prince was overwhelmed, and the deification of the dead or living emperor must have left them quite unmoved. Society generally develops a leaning towards irony; to know how to lash a neighbour agreeably is doubtless a very estimable quality, and probably it was valued still more when this neighbour was an emperor. A dangerous game it must have been, and raillery aimed so high might have cost dear, but danger was not a sufficient reason for stopping a joke when it was clever and appreciated. “I cannot be sorry,” said Seneca, “for those people who would rather lose their heads than a clever saying.” In this charming but frivolous society, nobody would miss uttering a clever repartee, even at the risk of losing his head. All had to compensate themselves for the restraint they had gone through in the senate, where they were forced to have smiling faces and to second the praises which were showered upon the prince by his friends. They always left dissatisfied with themselves and with others, their hearts filled with rage that must find vent. They expressed themselves freely directly they were sure of being amongst friends whom they could trust. In these secret meetings they above all liked to communicate news “which could not be spoken of or listened to without danger.”
Rome was then overrun by those bearers of news which newspapers and telegraphy have done away with. We met some just now in the clubs; they were still more numerous in society gatherings. They knew everything that was being talked of in the army and in the provinces, and gave the most precise information on whatever happened. When an important personage died, they related all the circumstances of his death, they said without hesitation who had held the dagger or poured out the poison. Such a number of wicked rumours had never circulated in Rome as since the right of free speech had been denied the people. The authorities in trying to find those who spread the rumours only gave them more credit than they deserved. Besides it is in nature with difficulty to believe what is openly told and to accept without a word what is whispered in the ear. Thus all measures taken by the government were used against itself. Everything became known; everything was believed; reasons were found for everything; and the most natural reasons were not those most readily believed; to be listened to it was necessary to imagine strange and improbable explanations for everything.