"Can it be that here in Rome your masters dedicate you to poesy?" asked the Athenian, laughing.
"I was a poet before I became a slave. My name is Plautus."
Glancing around as if fearing to be surprised by some member of his master's family he continued talking, happy at being able to free himself from the torment of the mill.
"I have written comedies. I tried to establish the theatre in Rome, which is almost a cult among your people. The Romans have little sensibility to poetry. They love farces; a tragedy that would move the Hellenes to tears, leaves them cold; one of Aristophanes' comedies would put them to sleep. They, Athenian, enjoy only the Etruscan buffoons, those grotesque comedians of the farces which they call Atellanæ, and the hideous maskers with sharp teeth and deformed heads who stalk in the triumphal processions growling their obscenities. They would stone the heroes of your tragedies, while on the other hand, they howl with enthusiasm at the entry of a victorious consul when the soldiers pass disguised in rams' skins, wearing tufts of bristling horsehair, and they laugh at seeing them avenge themselves for their humble condition by insulting the conqueror behind his triumphal car. I wrote comedies for these people, and I write them still in moments when my master ceases beating me to make me turn the mill. The patricians, the free citizens, do not enjoy seeing themselves personated in the scene. Here they would rend Aristophanes to pieces, he who represented upon the stage the most prominent men of Athens. My heroes are slaves, foreigners, and mercenaries, and they make the audience laugh. I have finished a comedy there within that den, ridiculing the fanfare of the warriors. I would recite it if I did not fear that my master might return at any moment."
"But how have you fallen into such a wretched situation after having been the entertainer of your people?"
"I committed the madness of founding the first theatre in Rome, in imitation of those in Greece. It was a wooden enclosure on the outskirts of the city. I borrowed money; I contracted debts; the populace came to laugh, but they gave little. I was ruined, and the wise laws of Rome condemn him who cannot pay to become the slave of his creditor. This baker who used to laugh at my comedies, and who gladly loaned me sacks of copper, is now getting even for his former show of admiration by making me turn his mill, because I cost less than an ass. Every peal of laughter in the past is transformed into a blow with a stick dealt across my back. The fate of poets! You Greeks also thanked Æschylus for his verses by pelting him with stones, yet he was ever a freeman."
Plautus became silent, but after a melancholy smile he added:
"I trust in the future. I shall not always have to be a slave; perhaps I shall find someone who will give me back my liberty. The Romans who make war and see new countries return with milder customs and with a love of art. I shall be free, I will found a new theatre, and then,——then——"
Hope shone in his glance, as if he saw the realization of the dreams with which he embellished his gloomy den, while, panting like a beast, he turned the enormous cone of stone.
A noise was heard from within the house, and before his master's children could see him Plautus ran to yoke himself again to the mill-spindle, while the Greek left the place, astounded by this episode.