Darkness and Dawn; Or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An Historic Tale

by F. W. Farrar

  CHAPTER XXII

  _BRITANNICUS AND HIS SONG_

  ‘Even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture.’

  SHAKESPEARE, _Cymbeline_, iii. 3.

  Nero was chary of showing his bruised face. He daily smeared it withthe juice of an herb called _thapsia_ from the island of Thapsoswhere it was found, and with a mixture of wax and frankincense,but it retained for some days the marks of the buffet which he hadreceived from the arm of Pudens. From Octavia he did not care toconceal either that or any other disgrace. He had reduced his unhappygirl-bride to such a condition that she dared ask him no question.From Agrippina he would gladly have concealed it, but he had beenunable as yet to break the habit of paying her a daily visit.Intensely miserable was that visit to them both, and, except whenNero chose to bring his friends and attendants with him, thesalutations often ended with the stormiest scenes.

  They did on this occasion.

  The Augusta at once noticed the bruise on Nero’s cheek, and shewas perfectly aware of the cause of it; for she had not sunk socompletely out of the old habits of power as not to have spies inher pay who kept her well informed of the Emperor’s proceedings.

  Supremely wretched, but even in her wretchedness agitated by thefuries of pride and passion, she had scarcely received his cold kisswhen she began to taunt her son.

  ‘Cæsar looks gallantly to-day,’ she said; ‘for all the world likesome clumsy gladiator who has been hit while practising with woodenfoils.’

  Nero maintained a sulky silence.

  She added: ‘No doubt it is as worthy of a Roman Emperor to roam aboutat night and join in street brawls with slaves as it is for him tosing, and write verses, and dance on the stage.’

  ‘How do you know that I have roamed the streets?’

  Unwittingly she had betrayed herself, but in an instant she recoveredfrom her confusion.

  ‘What Otho and your other boon companions do--such as they are--isnotorious; and when Cæsar has a black eye the event is hard toaccount for in any ordinary way.’

  ‘Say rather that your spies have told you about it,’ said Nero.

  ‘And if they have,’ she said defiantly--‘what then?’

  ‘Why this,’ he answered; ‘that, as I have told you before, I amEmperor, and mean to be Emperor; and if you do not choose to betaught it by fair means, by all the gods, you shall be taught it byfoul.’

  ‘By all the gods?’ said Agrippina, repeating his oath. ‘Are you notafraid of their wrath?’

  Nero smiled a peculiar smile. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Why should Ifear gods when I can make them myself?’[53]

  Agrippina was stung by the sense of her impotence, and maddened bythe shipwreck of her ambition; but she was too proud and fierce toabandon the contest.

  ‘If you do not fear any gods,’ she said, ‘you shall fear me.Britannicus has nearly arrived at the age of manhood. He is the sonof Claudius; you are not. But for me he would have been Emperor; bymy aid he may yet sit upon his father’s throne. Then once more Romeshall see a man ruling her, and not a singer and a dandy.’

  Nero, filled with fury, clenched his fist, and strode forward asthough he would strike her.

  She sprang up with flashing eyes. ‘Would you dare to strike me?’ sheshrieked. ‘By heavens, if you did, I would that moment stab you tothe heart.’

  At the word she drew from her robe a dagger which she always carriedthere, and raised it in her right hand, while her bosom heaved withpassion.

  Nero sprang back, but Agrippina, as though in the revulsion ofdisdain, dropped the dagger at her feet.

  ‘You would make a fine tragedian, mother,’ said Nero, with a bittersneer.

  The excess of Agrippina’s rage seemed to stifle her. ‘One hope, atleast, the gods have left me,’ she gasped forth, as soon as she couldfind voice to speak. ‘Britannicus yet lives; I will take him with meto the Prætorian camp. I will see whether the soldiers will listen tothe daughter of Germanicus, or to Burrus with his mutilated hand andSeneca with his professorial tongue.’

  ‘I am tired of all this,’ answered Nero. ‘Only remember that someday you may provoke me too far. There are such persons as informers;there is such a law as that of _læsa majestas_.’

  He left her, as he almost always left her now, in angry displeasure,but he did not seriously fear her threats. He had been trained tothink himself incomparably superior to Britannicus. Agrippina herselfhad encouraged the widespread scandal that it was one thing to be ason of Messalina, and quite another to be a son of Claudius. Besides,he traced no steady ambition in the boy. So long as he was left toamuse himself with Titus, he gave hardly any trouble, nor had he, sofar as Nero knew, a single partisan who could for a moment withstandthe combined authority and popularity of such men as Seneca and thePrætorian Præfect. Still he disliked being threatened so constantlywith the claims of the son of Claudius. Tigellinus was always hissinghis name in his ears, and Agrippina blazoning him as a resourcewherewith to secure her vengeance. If Britannicus were not soinsignificant, it might be well to put him out of the way.

  A few days afterwards, when his face had nearly resumed its ordinaryhue, he determined to celebrate the Saturnalia with a party mainlycomposed of youthful nobles.

  Otho of course was there, and the guests whom he had invited to thevilla in the Apennines. Among the others were Nerva, now a youngman of twenty-three, and Vespasian, with his two sons, Titus andDomitian, who, with a few other boys, were asked to meet Britannicus.Piso Licinianus, a youth of seventeen, of high lineage and blamelessmanners, was of a very different stamp from Nero’s favouritecompanions, but Nero chose to pay him the compliment of commandinghis presence. Among the elder guests of the miscellaneous party wereinvited Galba, a man in the prime of life, who since his return fromAfrica had been living in retirement, and Vitellius, who, though onlyforty, had been already infamous under four emperors, and who rose tothe highest position in spite of the fact that he was notorious forgluttony alone.

  A curious incident occurred at the beginning of the banquet. Amongthe crowded slaves who waited on the guests was a Christian who,like Agabus and the daughters of Philip, possessed in a high degreethat peculiar gift of prophecy which is known as second sight. Hisname was Herodion; and Apelles, one of his fellow-slaves in Cæsar’shousehold, in pointing out the guests, mentioned the rumour thatNerva’s horoscope had been cast by an astrologer, who had predictedthat he should succeed to the Empire; and that Augustus had laid hishands on the head of Galba when he was a boy, and had said to him,‘Thou too, my child, shalt have a taste of empire.’

  ‘I do not believe in horoscopes,’ said Herodion.

  ‘Not believe in the Chaldæans?’ replied the other. ‘Ah, I remember,thou art one of those Christians, who worship--well, never mind. Butcanst thou deny that the prognostications of our augurs, and theanswers of our oracles, often come true?’

  ‘They do,’ said Herodion. ‘We believe that the demons have such powersometimes permitted them. There was, for instance, a maid with thespirit of Python at Philippi, whose fame has even reached to Rome.But--’ and here he paused long, and gazed with earnest and troubledcountenance on the assembled guests.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Apelles.

  ‘Apelles,’ answered Herodion, ‘thou art honest, and lovest me. DareI tell thee that as I gaze on these guests I seem to see them asthrough a mist of blood?’

  ‘Thou art safe with me,’ answered Apelles. ‘Should I be likely tobetray the kind sharer of my cell, who nursed me last year throughthat long and terrible fever?’

  But Herodion sank into silence, though his glance grew more and moretroubled as he looked around him. Whatever it may have been grantedhim to see or to divine, he spoke no more. But among those gueststhere were no less than eight future emperors--Galba, Otho, Vitellius,Vespasian, Titus, Domitian, Nerva, and Trajan, then a little child,who was led in by a slav
e; and six of these, as well as Nero andBritannicus, and Piso Licinianus, were destined to violent deaths.Apelles recalled the scene years afterwards, when he too had becomea convert to Christianity.

  The joyous licence of the Saturnalia put an end to all stiffness ofceremonial. The banquet was gay and mirthful, and as so many youthsand boys were present the amusements were purposely kept free fromsuch scenes as disgraced the suppers at Subiaco and the palace ofOtho. It was agreed that the younger guests should cast lots whichshould be the king of the feast. Nero threw the Venus-throw of foursixes, and was accordingly elected with acclamation to the mirthfuloffice. The _rex_ ruled with undisputed sway, and all were obliged toobey his bidding. Good taste and natural kindness usually preventedhim from any flagrant abuse of his office.

  While the staid elders looked on with smiles, Nero and the youngerpart of the company amused themselves with various games.

  ‘And now,’ said the Emperor, ‘you must all obey your symposiarch, andI am going to tell you each in turn what to do.’

  Otho was bidden to take off his garland, and place it on the head ofthe person whom he loved best; and of course he placed it on the headof Nero.

  Lucan, as he was fond of stories, was bidden to tell a complete storyin one minute; and with surprising readiness he quoted the two Greeklines--

  ‘A, finding some gold, left a rope on the ground; B, missing his gold, used the rope which he found.’[54]

  ‘Piso Licinianus, you are to pay me the highest compliment you can.’

  Piso was no flatterer, and did not like the command, but after amoment’s hesitation he quoted Horace’s lines--

  ‘How great thy debt to Nero’s race, O Rome, let red Metaurus say, Slain Hasdrubal, and Victory’s grace, First granted on that glorious day.’

  ‘That is a compliment to my ancestors, not to me,’ said Nero; ‘butI will let you off, for, though I am Rex, I am not Tyrannus.’

  ‘Now, Petronius, you are a poet, so I am going to give you a hardcommand. I will give you five minutes, and you are to produce a linewhich shall read the same backwards and forwards.’

  ‘Impossible, Cæsar,’ said Petronius.

  ‘Nevertheless, I require the impossibility, or you will have to drinkby way of fine at least nine cyathi of neat Falernian.’

  With humble apologies, Petronius seized his tablets, and before thefive minutes had expired he read the line--

  ‘Roma tibi subito motibus ibit Amor.’

  ‘Your line is not Latin, and does not make sense,’ said Nero. ‘Ishould have told you to make me a compliment instead of our graveLicinianus. But now, Senecio, I order you to quote the epitaph whichbest expresses your view of life.’

  Senecio obeyed, and his selection was very characteristic.

  It was--

  ‘Eat, drink, enjoy thyself: the rest is nothing.’[55]

  ‘What would our small Epictetus say to that?’ whispered Titus in theear of Britannicus.

  Other guests achieved the tasks appointed them with more or lesssuccess, and they awaited with some curiosity the injunction whichNero would lay on Britannicus. Britannicus did not feel much anxietyabout it, for he supposed it would be of the same playful andfrivolous character as the rest. He did not imagine that his brotherwould single him out at a genial gathering to put upon him a publicinsult by ordering him to do anything which would cause a blush. Hewas therefore struck with amazement when Nero said:

  ‘And now, Britannicus, get up, walk into the middle of the room, andthere sing us a song.’

  A low and scarcely audible murmur of disapproval ran round theroom. As it was the Saturnalitian festival, the slaves were not onlypresent as spectators of these social games, but were allowed bycustom to indulge in an almost unlimited licence of satire evenagainst their masters. But that a prince of the blood should becalled upon to sing--to sing in public, before a number of nobleRomans, and even in the presence of slaves, was regarded as anindignity of the deadliest description. It was a violation ofimmemorial custom. It was a demand entirely outrageous. The hotblood rushed to the cheeks of Britannicus, and suffused his brow andneck. An indignant refusal sprang to his lips. If Pudens had beennear he would at least have glanced at him to see what he wouldadvise; but, to his deep grief, Pudens had been removed to a postin the camp, and his place had been taken by a tribune named JuliusPollio, whom Britannicus distrusted at a glance. The pause wasbecoming seriously awkward, and many of the guests betrayeduneasiness, when Britannicus heard Titus, who sat next to him,whisper in a low voice, ‘It is a shame; but you had better try,for fear worse should happen.’

  Then Britannicus summoned up all his courage and all his dignity. Herose and walked with a firm step into the middle of the triclinium,asked the harpist Terpnos, whom he saw standing near with his harpin his hand, to give him a note, and in a voice sweet and clear beganto sing one of the finest choruses from the ‘Andromache’ of the oldRoman poet, Ennius. It described the ruin of the House of Priam. ‘Ihave seen,’ says Andromache, the captive wife of Hector, ‘the palacewith its roof embossed and fretted with gold and ivory, and all itslofty portals, wrapped in conflagration. I have seen Priam slainwith violence, and the altar of Jove incarnadined with blood. Whatprotection shall I seek? Whither shall I fly? What shall be my placeof exile? Robbed of citadel and city, whither shall I fare? Shatteredand scattered are the altars of my home and native land! The shrinesare calcined by flame; scorched are their lofty walls, and warpedtheir beams of fir by the strong heat.’[56]

  Nero listened in astonishment and alarm. The strain which the boyhad chosen for his song was conceived in the grandest and mostheroic style of the old Roman poetry, and was incomparably noblerand manlier than the conceits and tintinnabulations which were inmodern vogue. The taste, the knowledge, the readiness, shown in theselection of such a strain were remarkable. And was this Britannicuswho sang? Nero was always displaying and boasting of his divinevoice, but it was harsh as a crow’s in comparison with the ringingnotes of his modest brother. And then the meaning of the song? Wasit not aimed at Nero and his usurpation? Did it not show decisivelythe thoughts which were filling the soul of the dispossessed prince,and his clear consciousness that he had been robbed of his hereditaryrights?

  But there was something worse than this. For by the time thatBritannicus had ended his song, the brief winter twilight hadnearly ended, and the banqueting-room lay deep in shadow. It was toodark to distinguish individual faces, and this fact, together withthe liberty of the jocund season, made those present less careful toconceal their thoughts. No sooner had the voice of Britannicus ceasedthan a murmur of spontaneous applause arose on every side, and notonly of applause, but of pity and favour. Nero had meant to humiliatehis brother: but, on the contrary, his brother had so behaved undertrying circumstances as to win all hearts!

  Jealousy, rage, hatred, swept in turbulent gusts across the Emperor’ssoul. He would have liked to strike Britannicus, to scourge thoseinsolent guests. But he did not dare to take any overt step, forthere had been no overt offence. Britannicus had been bidden to obeythe festive order of the King of the Feast, and he had accomplishedthe behest as the others had done, in a way which kindled admiration.To act as if the chorus from Ennius had been aimed at himself wouldhave been to betray uneasiness and confess wrongdoing.

  He could not, however, conceal, and took no pains to conceal, hispetulant spleen. Praise of another was poison to Nero. That themerit of any one else should be admitted seemed like a reflection onhimself. ‘They call Britannicus as good as me!’ was a thought whichfilled his little soul with spite and wrath.

  ‘This is poor stuff,’ he said, in high dudgeon, pretending to yawnin the most insulting way he could. ‘Who would have expected mockheroics at the Saturnalia?’ Then he rose, and said, with a slightwave of the hand, ‘I am tired of this. I bid farewell to the guests.You may go without ceremony.’

  Every one felt that the Emperor’s ill-humour had thrown a deadlychill over the gladdest night o
f the year. With mutual glancings,and slight shrugs of the shoulder, and almost imperceptible liftingsof the eyebrow, they departed. Only Tigellinus remained.

  ‘What does Cæsar think of Britannicus now?’ he asked in malignanttriumph.

  ‘I think,’ said Nero, savagely, ‘that swans sing sweetest before theydie.’

  ‘Ah-h!’ said the base plotter; and he knew that now the first step inthe Sejanus-course of his ambition was accomplished.

  But Britannicus went straight from the supper to the rooms of hissister. Octavia sat there in the old Roman fashion of matronlysimplicity. She was spinning wool at her distaff, and with kind heartshe often gave what she spun to the children of her slaves. And whileshe spun, a maiden was reading to her.

  It was the Christian girl Tryphæna. Usually she read from the Romanpoets, and Octavia was never tired of hearing the finer odes ofHorace, or the Æneid and Bucolics of Virgil. Sometimes she listenedto the history of Livy, and to the treatises of Seneca, which sheliked better than their author. But this evening Tryphæna--betweenwhom and her young mistress there was a confidence akin to affection--had timidly asked ‘whether she might read a Christian writing.’ Sheknew that the Empress had been interested in the Christians by theconversation of Pomponia, and she was anxious to show how shamefullyher brethren and sisters in the faith were misrepresented andslandered.

  She drew forth from her bosom a manuscript, which had been lent heras a precious favour by the Christian Presbyter Cletus. It was acopy of a general letter of the Apostle Peter, which had been writtento encourage the struggling Christian communities. It was not theletter which we now know as the First Epistle of St. Peter, whichwas written perhaps ten years later, but one of those circularaddresses which touched, as did so many of the Epistles, upon thesame universal duties, and used in many passages the same formof words. She had read the beautiful passage about obeying theordinances of man for the Lord’s sake, and putting to silence bywell-doing the ignorance of foolish men. And pausing there, sheasked ‘whether Octavia was interested in it, and whether she shouldcontinue.’

  ‘Yes, Tryphæna,’ she said, ‘continue this strange letter. Howdifferent it is from the treatise of Seneca which you were readingto me the other day! There rings through it I know not what accentof elevation and sincerity.’

  The girl then read the noble advice to slaves, and Octavia nolonger wondered that Christian slaves so invariably deservedthe comprehensive epithet of _frugi_. How well would it be ifthe worthless multitude of the slave population--the cunning_veteratores_, the impudent _vernæ_, the abject _copreæ_, thepampered minions of luxury, the frivolous Greeklings--could actin the spirit of such exhortations!

  Then she read the duty of husbands towards their wives, and of wivestowards their husbands. Octavia bowed her head. She thought of allthe numberless divorces; of the ladies who reckoned their years bythe number of their husbands; of the scandals caused by the womenwho stooped to court gladiators and charioteers; of the fires of hellwhich Nero’s unfaithfulness had kindled on her own hearth. She couldthink of the home of Pætus Thrasea as happy; but scarcely of anotherexcept that of Pomponia--and Pomponia was a Christian.

  Tryphæna had just begun the following passage:--

  ‘Finally, be ye all like-minded--’

  when Britannicus entered. He did not know what was being read, andOctavia put her finger on her lip, and made a sign to him to sit downand listen.

  The slave-girl continued--

  ‘Finally, be ye all like-minded, compassionate, loving as brethren, tender-hearted, humble-minded; not rendering evil for evil, or reviling for reviling; but contrariwise blessing; for hereunto were ye called, that ye should inherit a blessing. For,

  He that would love life, And see good days, Let him refrain his tongue from evil, And his lips that they speak no guile: And let him turn away from evil, and do good; Let him seek peace, and pursue it.’

  Britannicus listened in astonishment. ‘Who wrote those noble words?’he asked. ‘It cannot be Chrysippus; the Greek is too modern, and toounpolished. Is this some new philosopher? Has something been recentlypublished by Cornutus or Musonius?’

  ‘Perhaps you will see, if Tryphæna reads a little further,’ said theEmpress.

  The slave-girl continued--

  ‘And who is he that will harm you, if ye be zealous of that which is good? But if ye suffer for the sake of righteousness, blessed are ye: and fear not their fear, neither be troubled; but sanctify in your hearts Christ as Lord--’

  ‘It is a Christian writing!’ exclaimed the boy, in a low voice; andwhen he again caught the thread of the exhortation, Tryphæna wasreading--

  ‘For it is better, if the will of God be so, that ye suffer for well-doing rather than for evil-doing; because Christ also suffered for sins once, the righteous for the unrighteous, that He might bring us to God.’

  ‘Go, Tryphæna,’ said Octavia, deeply moved. ‘I would talk with mybrother alone.’

  ‘A Christian writing!’ said Britannicus again, as the slave-girlquietly glided out of the room. ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘Tryphæna says it is part of a letter written to Christians, whoare scattered everywhere, by a fisherman, Peter of Galilee, who,she says, was one of the apostles of Christus.’

  ‘Octavia,’ said Britannicus, ‘I feel as if voices out of heavenwere calling me. I feel as if this unknown Christus were drawing meirresistibly to Himself. It is a message to me--and a message beforemy death.’

  ‘Your death, Britannicus?’ said the Empress, starting, and turningpale. ‘Oh, withdraw those ill-omened words.’

  ‘Do not fear omens, Octavia. But you must hear what has happened tome.’

  ‘You have been at the Saturnalitian feast, and you are soon tolay aside the golden ball and the embroidered toga,’ said Octavia,proudly; ‘and very well you will look in your new manly toga and thepurple tunic underneath it.’

  ‘Yes, but it reminds me of Homer. It is a “purple death,” asAlexander the Great called it.’

  ‘Why are your thoughts so full of gloom?’ asked his sister, pushingback the hair from his forehead, and looking into his face.

  He told her all that had happened that night. She saw the fatalsignificance of what had occurred.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, sobbing, ‘the gods are too cruel. What have wedone that they should thus afflict our innocence? I lift up my handsagainst them.’

  ‘Hush, Octavia! All these ridiculous and polluted deities--whobelieves in them any longer? But they represent the Divine, and whatthe Divine does must be for some good end, and we must breast thestorm like Romans and like rulers, if we cannot reach the peace ofwhich this poor Christian fisherman has written.’

  ‘Our mother disgraced and slain; our father murdered; ourselvessurrounded with perils; Nero on the throne. Oh, Britannicus! whereinhave we offended?’

  ‘We have not offended, my Octavia. The good suffer as well as thebad. The good are often made better by their sufferings.’

  ‘Oh, my brother! my brother!’ sobbed Octavia. ‘I will not spare you.I cannot part from you. I have no one left but you. You shall not,you must not, die.’

  He gently disengaged the arms of his sister from his neck, and kissedher cheek.

  ‘I must not linger here any longer to-night,’ he said. ‘Farewell;not, I trust, forever, though I see that Nero has dismissed ourfriend Pudens, and put an ill-looking stranger in his place. But,Octavia, something--some voice like that of a god within me--tellsme that it will be happier to die than to live.’

  * * * * *

  That evening, when Tigellinus left him, Nero first realised, with astart of horror, that he was on the eve of a fearful crime. By a rareaccident he was alone. One of the reasons why he knew so little ofhimself was that he scarcely ever endured a moment’s solitude. Fromthe time that he awoke in the morning till the latest hour of hisnightly revels, he was surrounded by f
latterers and favourites,by dissolute young nobles or adoring slaves. It was only for anoccasional hour or two of state business that he saw any person ofdignity or moral worth. This evening he would have been encircledby his usual throng of idlers if he had not broken up the banquetin anger long before the expected time.

  He was alone, and his thoughts naturally reverted to the song ofBritannicus, and to his own fierce mortification. The words ‘=_Heshall die!_=’ broke from his lips. But at that moment, looking up,his glance was arrested by two busts of white marble, standing outfrom the wall on pedestals of porphyry. He remembered the day onwhich they had been placed there by the orders of Claudius, in whoseprivate _tablinum_ he chanced to be sitting. One was a beautifullikeness of Britannicus at the age of six years. The other was a bustof himself in the happy and radiant days of his early boyhood, beforeguilt had clouded his brow and stained his heart.

  He rose and stood before the bust of Britannicus. For some yearsthey had been inmates of the same palace. They had been playmates,and at first, before the development of Agrippina’s darker plots,there had been between them some shadow of affection. Nero had alwaysfelt that there was a winning charm about the character and bearingof his adoptive brother. Anger and jealousy whispered, ‘Kill him;’conscience pleaded, ‘Dip not your young hands in blood. There hasbeen enough of crime already. You know how Claudius died, and who washis murderess, and for whose gain. Let it suffice. Britannicus is noconspirator. It is not too late, even yet, to make him your friend.’

  He turned to his own bust. It represented a face fairer, more joyous,more mobile than that of the son of Claudius. ‘I was a very prettychild,’ said Nero, and then gazed earnestly into the mirror whichhung between the busts. It showed him a face, of which the featureswere the same, but of which the expression was changed, and on whichmany a bad passion, recklessly indulged, had already stamped itsdebasing seal.

  ‘Ye gods! how altered I am!’ he murmured; and he hid his face in hishands, as though to shut out the image in the mirror.

  And then his dark hour came upon him. The paths of virtue which hehad abandoned looked enchantingly beautiful to him. He saw them,and pined his loss. Was amendment hopeless? Might he not dismisshis evil friends, send Tigellinus to an island, banish Poppæa fromhis thoughts, return to the neglected Octavia, abandon his viciouscourses, live like a true Roman? Was he about to develop into aTiberius or a Caligula--he who had hated not long ago to sign thedeath-warrant of a criminal? Should history record of him hereafterthat he had dyed the commencement of his power with the indeliblecrimson of a brother’s blood?

  ‘I am a tyrant and a murderer,’ he cried. ‘I am falling, fallingheadlong. Cannot I check myself in this career? Ye gods! ye gods!’

  Whom had he to help him to choose the difficult course? Who wouldencourage him to turn his back on his past self? The philosophers,he felt, despised him. He could recall the cold, disapproving glancesof Musonius, and Cornutus, and Demetrius the Cynic, on the rareoccasions when he had seen them. And as for Seneca, of what usewould it be to send for _him_? ‘I have learnt to distrust Seneca,’he said to himself. ‘He might have advised me better than he did inthe matter of Acte.’

  But the powers of evil never lightly resign a soul in which theyhave once planted their throne, and they took care to bring back uponNero’s heart a great flood of jealousy, suspicion, and dislike. Andas he gave himself up to these ill-feelings, he began to feel howdisagreeable it would be to grow up year by year with such a youthas Britannicus beside him. It would be impossible to keep him inleading-strings, or to thrust him wholly into the background. Whatif the virtues of Britannicus should only throw into relief the vicesof Nero? ‘No,’ he said; ‘Britannicus must die.’

  So Nero deliberately chose the evil and refused the good, and thenarrow wicket-gate of repentance was closed behind him, and theenemies of his soul flung wide open before him the portals of crime,and the wild steeds of his passions, as they sprang forth on theirdown-hillward path, soon flung from his seat the charioteer who hadseemed inclined for one brief instant to tighten the reins and checktheir headlong speed.