Domitia. Baring-Gould Sabine

would you have, but Push?”

      “But, sweetest mother, that surely cannot give what I ask.”

      “Indeed, my child, it does. It occupies all one’s energies, it exerts all one’s faculties, and it fills the heart.”

      “But – what do you gain?”

      “Gain, child? – everything. The satisfaction of having got further up the ladder; of exciting the envy of your late companions, the admiration of the vulgar, the mistrust of those above you.”

      “Is that worth having?”

      “Of course it is. It is – that very thing you desire, Happiness. It engages all your thoughts, stimulates your abilities. You dress for it; you prepare your table for it, accumulate servants for it, walk, smile, talk, acquire furniture, statuary, bronzes, and so on – for it. It is charming, ravishing. I live for it. I desire nothing better.”

      “But I do, mother. I do not care for this.”

      The girl spoke with her eyes on a painting on the wall of the atrium that represented a young maiden running in pursuit of a butterfly. Beneath it were the words “Ubi Felicitas?”

      “Because you are young and silly, Domitia. When older and wiser, you will understand the value of Push, and appreciate Position. My dear, properly considered, everything can be made use of for the purpose – even widowhood, dexterously dealt with, becomes a vehicle for Push. It really is vexatious that in Rome there should just now be such broils and effervescence of minds, proclamation of emperors, cutting of throats, that I, poor thing, here in Gabii run a chance of being forgotten. It is too provoking. I really wish that this upsetting of Nero, and setting up of Galba, and defection of Otho, and so on, had been postponed till my year of widowhood were at an end. One gets no chance, and it might have been so effective.”

      “And when you have obtained that at which you have aimed?”

      “Then make that the start for another push.”

      “And if you fail?”

      “Then, my dear, you have the gratification of being able to lay the blame on some one else. You have done your utmost.”

      “When you have gained what you aimed at, you are not content.”

      “That is just the beauty of Push. No, always go on to what is beyond.”

      “Look at that running girl, mother, she chases a butterfly, and when she has caught the lovely insect she crushes it in her hand. The glory of its wings is gone, its life is at an end. What then?”

      “She runs after another butterfly.”

      “And despises and rejects each to which she has attained?”

      “Certainly!”

      After a pause Longa Duilia said, as she signed to Lucilla the slave to fan her, “That was the one defect in your dear father’s character, he had no Push.”

      “Mother! can you say that after his splendid victories, over the Chauci, over the Parthians, over – ”

      “I know all about them. They should have served as means, child, not as ends.”

      “I do not understand.”

      “Poor simple man, he fought the enemies of Rome and defeated them, because it was, as he said, his duty to his country, to Rome, to do so. But, by Ops and Portumna! that was talking like a child. What might he not have been with those victories? But he couldn’t see it. He had it not in him. Some men are born to squint; some have club feet; and your poor dear father had no ambition.”

      After a pause the lady added: “When I come to consider what he might have done for me, had he possessed Push, it makes my spleen swell. Just consider! What is Galba compared with him? What any of these fellows who have been popping up their heads like carp or trout when the May flies are about? My dear, had your dear father been as complete a man as I am a woman, at this moment I might be Empress.”

      “That would have contented you.”

      “It would have been a step in that direction.”

      “What more could you desire?”

      “Why, to be a goddess. Did not the Senate pronounce Poppæa divine, and to be worshipped and invoked, after Nero had kicked her and she died? And that baby of his – it died of fits in teething – that became a goddess also. Nasty little thing! I saw it, it did nothing but dribble and squall, but is a god for all that. My dear Domitia, think! the Divine Duilia! Salus Italiæ, with my temples, my altars, my statues. By the Immortal Twelve, I think I should have tried to cut out Aphrodite, and have been represented rising from the foam. Oh! it would have been too, too lovely. But there! it makes me mad – all that might have been, and would have been to a certainty, had your dear father listened to me at Antioch. But he had a head.” She touched her brow. “Something wrong there – no Push.”

      “But, dearest mother, this may be an approved motive for such as you and for all nobles. But then – for the artisan, the herdsman, the slave, Push can’t be a principle of life to such as they.”

      “My child, how odd you are! What need we consider them? They may have their own motives, I can’t tell; I never was a herdsman nor a slave – never did any useful work in my life. As to a slave, of course Push is a motive – he pushes to gain his freedom.”

      “And when he has got that?”

      “Then he strives to accumulate a fortune.”

      “And then?”

      “Then he will have a statue or a bust of himself sculptured, and when he gets old, erect a splendid mausoleum.”

      “And so all ends in a handful of dust.”

      “Of course. What else would you have? – Remember, a splendid mausoleum.”

      “Yes, enclosing a pot of ashes. That picture teaches a sad truth. Pursue your butterfly: when you have caught it, you find only dust between your fingers.”

      “Domitia! as the Gods love me! I wish you would refrain from this talk. It is objectionable. It is prematurely oldening you, and what ages you reflects on me – it advances my years. I will listen to no more of this. If you relish it, I do not; go, chatter to the Philosopher Claudius Senecio, he is paid to talk this stuff.”

      “I will not speak to him. I know beforehand what he will say.”

      “He will give you excellent advice, he is hired to do it.”

      “O yes – to bear everything with equanimity. That is the sum and substance of his doctrine. Then not to be too wise about the Gods; to aim to sit on the fulcrum of a see-saw, when I prefer an end of the plank.”

      “Equanimity! I desire it with my whole soul.”

      “But why so, mother? It is not running thought, but stagnation.”

      “Because, my dear, it keeps off wrinkles.”

      “Mother, you and I will never understand each other.”

      “As the Gods love me, I sincerely hope not. Send me Plancus, Lucilla. I must scold him so as to soothe my ruffled spirits.”

      “And, Euphrosyne, go, send the Chaldæan to me in the garden,” said the girl.

      The slave obeyed and departed.

      “Ubi Felicitas? Running, pursuing and finding nothing,” said Domitia as she went forth.

      The sun was hot. She passed under an arched trellis with vines trained over it; the swelling bunches hung down within.

      At intervals in the arcade were openings through which could be seen the still lake, and beyond the beautiful ridges of the limestone Sabine Mountains. The air was musical with the hum of bees.

      Domitia paced up and down this walk for some while.

      Presently the Magus appeared at the end, under the guidance of the girl Euphrosyne.

      He approached, bowing at intervals, till he reached Domitia, when he stood still.

      “Ubi