The Last Days of Pompeii

  Chapter V

  THE POOR TORTOISE. NEW CHANGES FOR NYDIA.

  THE morning sun shone over the small and odorous garden enclosed withinthe peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He lay reclined, sad andlistlessly, on the smooth grass which intersected the viridarium; and aslight canopy stretched above, broke the fierce rays of the summer sun.

  When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the earth they foundin the garden the shell of a tortoise that had been its inmate. Thatanimal, so strange a link in the creation, to which Nature seems to havedenied all the pleasure of life, save life's passive and dream-likeperception, had been the guest of the place for years before Glaucuspurchased it; for years, indeed which went beyond the memory of man, andto which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The househad been built and rebuilt--its possessors had changed andfluctuated--generations had flourished and decayed--and still thetortoise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing existence. In theearthquake, which sixteen years before had overthrown many of the publicbuildings of the city, and scared away the amazed inhabitants, the housenow inhabited by Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The possessorsdeserted it for many days; on their return they cleared away the ruinswhich encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, unharmedand unconscious of the surrounding destruction. It seemed to bear acharmed life in its languid blood and imperceptible motions; yet it wasnot so inactive as it seemed: it held a regular and monotonous course;inch by inch it traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking monthsto accomplish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, thattortoise!--patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-appointedjourneys, evincing no interest in the things around it--a philosopherconcentrated in itself. There was something grand in its solitaryselfishness!--the sun in which it basked--the waters poured daily overit--the air, which it insensibly inhaled, were its sole and unfailingluxuries. The mild changes of the season, in that lovely clime,affected it not. It covered itself with its shell--as the saint in hispiety--as the sage in his wisdom--as the lover in his hope.

  It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time--it was an emblemof time itself: slow, regular, perpetual; unwitting of the passions thatfret themselves around--of the wear and tear of mortality. The poortortoise! nothing less than the bursting of volcanoes, the convulsionsof the riven world, could have quenched its sluggish spark! Theinexorable Death, that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly bya thing to which death could bring so insignificant a change.

  For this animal the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all the wonder andaffection of contrast. He could spend hours in surveying its creepingprogress, in moralizing over its mechanism. He despised it in joy--heenvied it in sorrow.

  Regarding it now as he lay along the sward--its dull mass moving whileit seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured to himself:

  'The eagle dropped a stone from his talons, thinking to break thy shell:the stone crushed the head of a poet. This is the allegory of Fate!Dull thing! Thou hadst a father and a mother; perhaps, ages ago, thouthyself hadst a mate. Did thy parents love, or didst thou? Did thyslow blood circulate more gladly when thou didst creep to the side ofthy wedded one? Wert thou capable of affection? Could it distress theeif she were away from thy side? Couldst thou feel when she was present?What would I not give to know the history of thy mailed breast--to gazeupon the mechanism of thy faint desires--to mark what hair--breadthdifference separates thy sorrow from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thouwouldst know if Ione were present! Thou wouldst feel her coming like ahappier air--like a gladder sun. I envy thee now, for thou knowest notthat she is absent; and I--would I could be like thee--between theintervals of seeing her! What doubt, what presentiment, haunts me! whywill she not admit me? Days have passed since I heard her voice. Forthe first time, life grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone ata banquet, the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah! Ione, couldstthou dream how I adore thee!'

  From these enamoured reveries, Glaucus was interrupted by the entranceof Nydia. She came with her light, though cautious step, along themarble tablinum. She passed the portico, and paused at the flowerswhich bordered the garden. She had her water-vase in her hand, and shesprinkled the thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at herapproach. She bent to inhale their odor. She touched them timidly andcaressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf orcreeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered from flower toflower, with her earnest and youthful countenance and graceful motions,you could not have imagined a fitter handmaid for the goddess of thegarden.

  'Nydia, my child!' said Glaucus.

  At the sound of his voice she paused at once--listening, blushing,breathless; with her lips parted, her face upturned to catch thedirection of the sound, she laid down the vase--she hastened to him; andwonderful it was to see how unerringly she threaded her dark way throughthe flowers, and came by the shortest path to the side of her new lord.

  'Nydia,' said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long and beautifulhair, 'it is now three days since thou hast been under the protection ofmy household gods. Have they smiled on thee? Art thou happy?'

  'Ah! so happy!' sighed the slave.

  'And now,' continued Glaucus, 'that thou hast recovered somewhat fromthe hateful recollections of thy former state,--and now that they havefitted thee (touching her broidered tunic) with garments more meet forthy delicate shape--and now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomedthyself to a happiness, which may the gods grant thee ever! I am aboutto pray at thy hands a boon.'

  'Oh! what can I do for thee?' said Nydia, clasping her hands.

  'Listen,' said Glaucus, 'and young as thou art, thou shalt be myconfidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of Ione?'

  The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one of the statueswhich shone upon them from the peristyle, she answered with an effort,and after a moment's pause:

  'Yes! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.'

  'Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day! Neapolis! nay, sheis Greek by origin; Greece only could furnish forth such shapes. Nydia,I love her!'

  'I thought so,' replied Nydia, calmly.

  'I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send thee to her.Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber--thou wilt drink the music ofher voice--thou wilt bask in the sunny air of her presence!'

  'What! what! wilt thou send me from thee?'

  'Thou wilt go to Ione,' answered Glaucus, in a tone that said, 'Whatmore canst thou desire?'

  Nydia burst into tears.

  Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the soothingcaresses of a brother.

  'My child, my Nydia, thou weepest in ignorance of the happiness I bestowon thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft as the breeze of spring. Shewill be a sister to thy youth--she will appreciate thy winningtalents--she will love thy simple graces as none other could, for theyare like her own. Weepest thou still, fond fool? I will not force thee,sweet. Wilt thou not do for me this kindness?'

  'Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer--I am calm.'

  'That is my own Nydia,' continued Glaucus, kissing her hand. 'Go, then,to her: if thou art disappointed in her kindness--if I have deceivedthee, return when thou wilt. I do not give thee to another; I but lend.My home ever be thy refuge, sweet one. Ah! would it could shelter allthe friendless and distressed! But if my heart whispers truly, I shallclaim thee again soon, my child. My home and Ione's will become thesame, and thou shalt dwell with both.'

  A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, but she weptno more--she was resigned.

  'Go, then, my Nydia, to Ione's house--they shall show thee the way. Takeher the fairest flowers thou canst pluck; the vase which contains them Iwill give thee: thou must excuse its unworthiness. Thou shalt take,too, with thee the lute that I gave thee yesterday, and from which thouknowest so well to awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt give her,also, this letter, i
n which, after a hundred efforts, I have embodiedsomething of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent, everymodulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, if its musicshould flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, some days since Ihave been admitted to Ione; there is something mysterious in thisexclusion. I am distracted with doubts and fears; learn--for thou artquick, and thy care for me will sharpen tenfold thy acuteness--learn thecause of this unkindness; speak of me as often as thou canst; let myname come ever to thy lips: insinuate how I love rather than proclaimit; watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if she answer thee; or, ifshe reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be my friend, plead for me:and oh! how vastly wilt thou overpay the little I have done for thee!Thou comprehendest, Nydia; thou art yet a child--have I said more thanthou canst understand?'

  'No.'

  'And thou wilt serve me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I will give theethe vase I speak of; seek me in the chamber of Leda. Pretty one, thoudost not grieve now?'

  'Glaucus, I am a slave; what business have I with grief or joy?'

  'Sayest thou so? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee freedom; enjoy it asthou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on thy desire to serve me.'

  'You are offended. Oh! I would not, for that which no freedom can give,offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my saviour, my protector, forgive thepoor blind girl! She does not grieve even in leaving thee, if she cancontribute to thy happiness.'

  'May the gods bless this grateful heart!' said Glaucus, greatly moved;and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he repeatedly kissed herforehead.

  'Thou forgivest me,' said she, 'and thou wilt talk no more of freedom;my happiness is to be thy slave: thou hast promised thou wilt not giveme to another...'

  'I have promised.'

  'And now, then, I will gather the flowers.'

  Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus the costly and jewelledvase, in which the flowers vied with each other in hue and fragrance;tearlessly she received his parting admonition. She paused for a momentwhen his voice ceased--she did not trust herself to reply--she soughthis hand--she raised it to her lips, dropped her veil over her face, andpassed at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached thethreshold; she stretched her hands towards it, and murmured:

  'Three happy days--days of unspeakable delight, have I known since Ipassed thee--blessed threshold! may peace dwell ever with thee when I amgone! And now, my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound itutters bids me--die!'