Quo Vadis, Henryk Sienkiewicz [e book reader android .TXT] 📗

BUT Chilo did not appear for some time, and Vinicius knew not at last

what to think of his absence. In vain he repeated to himself that

searching, if continued to a certain and successful issue, must be

gradual. His blood and impulsive nature rebelled against the voice of

judgment. To do nothing, to wait, to sit with folded arms, was so

repulsive to him that he could not be reconciled to it in any way. To

search the alleys of the city in the dark garb of a slave, through this

alone, that it was useless, seemed to him merely a mask for his own

inefficiency, and could give no satisfaction. His freedmen, persons of

experience, whom he commanded to search independently, turned out a

hundred times less expert than Chilo. Meanwhile there rose in him,

besides his love for Lygia, the stubbornness of a player resolved to

win. Vinicius had been always a person of this kind. From earliest

youth he had accomplished what he desired with the passionateness of one

who does not understand failure, or the need of yielding something. For

a time military discipline had put his self-will within bounds, but also

it had engrafted into him the conviction that every command of his to

subordinates must be fulfilled; his prolonged stay in the Orient, among

people pliant and inured to slavish obedience, confirmed in him the

faith that for his “I wish” there were no limits. At present his

vanity, too, was wounded painfully. There was, besides, in Lygia’s

opposition and resistance, and in her flight itself, which was to him

incomprehensible, a kind of riddle. In trying to solve this riddle he

racked his head terribly. He felt that Acte had told the truth, and

that Lygia was not indifferent. But if this were true, why had she

preferred wandering and misery to his love, his tenderness, and a

residence in his splendid mansion? To this question he found no answer,

and arrived only at a kind of dim understanding that between him and

Lygia, between their ideas, between the world which belonged to him and

Petronius, and the world of Lygia and Pomponia, there existed some sort

of difference, some kind of misunderstanding as deep as an abyss, which

nothing could fill up or make even. It seemed to him, then, that he

must lose Lygia; and at this thought he lost the remnant of balance

which Petronius wished to preserve in him. There were moments in which

he did not know whether he loved Lygia or hated her; he understood only

that he must find her, and he would rather that the earth swallowed her

than that he should not see and possess her. By the power of

imagination he saw her as clearly at times as if she had been before his

face. He recalled every word which he had spoken to her; every word

which he had heard from her. He felt her near; felt her on his bosom,

in his arms; and then desire embraced him like a flame. He loved her

and called to her.

And when he thought that he was loved, that she might do with

willingness all that he wished of her, sore and endless sorrow seized

him, and a kind of deep tenderness flooded his heart, like a mighty

wave. But there were moments, too, in which he grew pale from rage, and

delighted in thoughts of the humiliation and tortures which he would

inflict on Lygia when he found her. He wanted not only to have her, but

to have her as a trampled slave. At the same time he felt that if the

choice were left him, to be her slave or not to see her in life again,

he would rather be her slave. There were days in which he thought of the

marks which the lash would leave on her rosy body, and at the same time

he wanted to kiss those marks. It came to his head also that he would

be happy if he could kill her.

In this torture, torment, uncertainty, and suffering, he lost health,

and even beauty. He became a cruel and incomprehensible master. His

slaves, and even his freedmen, approached him with trembling; and when

punishments fell on them causelessly,—punishments as merciless as

undeserved,—they began to hate him in secret; while he, feeling this,

and feeling his own isolation, took revenge all the more on them. He

restrained himself with Chilo alone, fearing lest he might cease his

searches; the Greek, noting this, began to gain control of him, and grew

more and more exacting. At first he assured Vinicius at each visit that

the affair would proceed easily and quickly; now he began to discover

difficulties, and without ceasing, it is true, to guarantee the

undoubted success of the searches, he did not hide the fact that they

must continue yet for a good while.

At last he came, after long days of waiting, with a face so gloomy that

the young man grew pale at sight of him, and springing up had barely

strength to ask,—“Is she not among the Christians?” “She is, lord,”

answered Chilo; “but I found Glaucus among them.” “Of what art thou

speaking, and who is Glaucus?” “Thou hast forgotten, lord, it seems,

that old man with whom I journeyed from Naples to Rome, and in whose

defence I lost these two fingers,—a loss which prevents me from

writing. Robbers, who bore away his wife and child, stabbed him with a

knife. I left him dying at an inn in Minturna, and bewailed him long.

Alas! I have convinced myself that he is alive yet, and belongs in Rome

to the Christian community.”

Vinicius, who could not understand what the question was, understood

only that Glaucus was becoming a hindrance to the discovery of Lygia;

hence he suppressed his rising anger, and said,—“If thou didst defend

him, he should be thankful and help thee.”

“Ah! worthy tribune, even gods are not always grateful, and what must

the case be with men? True, he should be thankful. But, unhappily, he

is an old man, of a mind weak and darkened by age and disappointment;

for which reason, not only is he not grateful, but, as I learned from

his co-religionists, he accuses me of having conspired with the robbers,

and says that I am the cause of his misfortunes. That is the recompense

for my fingers!”

“Scoundrel! I am certain that it was as he says,” replied Vinicius.

“Then thou knowest more than he does, lord, for he only surmises that it

was so; which, however, would not prevent him from summoning the

Christians, and from revenging himself on me cruelly. He would have

done that undoubtedly, and others, with equal certainty, would have

helped him; but fortunately he does not know my name, and in the house

of prayer where we met, he did not notice me. I, however, knew him at

once, and at the first moment wished to throw myself on his neck.

Wisdom, however, and the habit of thinking before every step which I

intend to take, restrained me. Therefore, on issuing from the house