A Course From Trimalchio's Dinner.

By GAIUS PETRONIUS.

Translated from the Latin by HARRY THURSTON PECK, Professor of Latin, Columbia University.

The first realistic novel of which any portion has been preserved to modern times is the so-called "Satyricon" of Gaius Petronius, who lived at Rome in the early part of the first century a.d. Petronius was the favorite courtier of the Emperor Nero. Men knew him as one who set the fashions in dress and manners, so that he had been compared to Beau Brummel. He was, however, under all his foppishness, a person of much intellect, which he showed both as an administrator in high political office and as an author. Enemies who were jealous of him accused him to the emperor of treason; and, knowing that his condemnation was certain, he resolved to die by his own hands. He therefore opened a vein and slowly bled to death, checking, however, the flow of blood from time to time, and down to the very last chatting and joking with his friends. A very interesting and probably accurate pen-picture of him is given by Henryk Sienkiewicz in his famous novel "Quo Vadis."

The "Satyricon" of Petronius was originally a lengthy novel of which there remains to us only about a hundred pages. The book related the adventures of two disreputable sharpers who lived by their wits; and the portion which we still have gives many glimpses of vagabond existence in ancient Italy. The selection here reprinted contains part of the account of a lavish dinner given by a vulgar old millionaire named Trimalchio, and the guests are mainly ignorant and boastful friends of the host, who talk and brag after their own fashion. This passage is remarkable because it contains the only continuous specimen of Latin slang which we now possess, and which differs decidedly from the elegant Latin of literature. It bears many resemblances to the English and American slang of the present day, and makes the ancient Romans appear almost modern. The translation is that of Professor Harry Thurston Peck in his "Trimalchio's Dinner," and is reprinted here by the courteous permission of Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co.

Copyright, 1898, by Dodd, Mead & Co., New York.

We had already taken our places, all except Trimalchio himself, for whom the seat of honor was reserved. Among the objects placed before us was a young ass made of Corinthian bronze and fitted with a sort of pack-saddle which contained on one side pale-green olives and on the other side dark ones. Two dishes flanked this; and on the margin of them Trimalchio's name was engraved and the weight of the silver. Then there were little bridge-like structures of iron which held dormice seasoned with honey and poppy-seed; and smoking sausages were arranged on a silver grill which had underneath it dark Syrian plums to represent black coals, and scarlet pomegranate seeds to represent red-hot ones.

In the midst of all this magnificence Trimalchio was brought in to the sound of music and propped up on a pile of well-stuffed cushions. The very sight of him almost made us laugh in spite of ourselves; for his shaven pate was thrust out of a scarlet robe, and around his neck he had tucked a long fringed napkin with a broad purple stripe running down the middle of it. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a huge gilt ring, and on the last joint of the next finger a ring that appeared to be of solid gold, but having little iron stars upon it. Moreover, lest we should fail to take in all his magnificence, he had bared his right arm, which was adorned with a golden bracelet and an ivory circle fastened by a glittering clasp.

As he sat there picking his teeth with a silver toothpick, he remarked:

"Well, friends, it was just a bit inconvenient for me to dine now; but, so as not to delay you by my absence, I have denied myself a considerable amount of pleasure."

While we were still eating the hors d'œuvres, a tray was brought in with a basket on which a wooden fowl was placed with its wings spread out in a circle after the fashion of setting hens. Immediately two slaves approached and amid a burst of music began to poke around in the straw, and having presently discovered there some pea-hens' eggs, they distributed them among the guests.

Trimalchio looked up during this operation and said:

"Gentlemen, I had the hens' eggs placed under this fowl; but I'm rather afraid they have young chickens in them. Let's see whether they're still fit to suck."

So we took our spoons, which weighed not less than half a pound each, and broke the egg-shells, which were made of flour paste. As I did so, I was almost tempted to throw my egg on the floor, for it looked as though a chicken had just been formed inside; but when I heard an old diner-out by my side saying:

"There's bound to be something good here," I thrust my finger through the shell and drew out a plump reed-bird, surrounded by yolk of egg, well seasoned with pepper.

I was unable to eat another mouthful; and so, turning to my companion, I tried to draw as much information out of him as possible, and to get the run of the gossip of the house, asking, in the first place, who the woman was who was darting here and there about the room.

"Oh," said he, "that's Trimalchio's wife. Her name is Fortunata. She has money to burn now, but a little while ago what do you suppose she was? Your honor will excuse me for saying so, but really in those days you wouldn't have taken a piece of bread from her hand. And now, without any why or wherefore, she's at the top notch and is all the world to Trimalchio—in fact, if she should say it was night at noonday, he'd believe her. As for Trimalchio himself, he's so rich that he doesn't know how much money he's got; but this jade has an eye to everything, even the things that you wouldn't think about yourself. She doesn't drink, she's as straight as a string—in fact, a really smart woman; but she has an awfully sharp tongue, a regular magpie on a perch. If she likes any one, she likes him way down to the ground, and if she doesn't like him, she just hates him! Trimalchio's estates are so large that it would tire a bird to fly over them, and he has heaps on heaps of cash. Take his silver plate, for instance. Why, there's more of it in his janitor's office than most persons have in their entire outfit; and his slaves—well, sir, they're so numerous that I don't think a tenth part of them would recognize their own master. In fact, when it comes to money, he can buy up any of these chumps here ten times over; and there's no reason for his paying out money for anything at all, because he produces everything on his own place—wool and cedar wood and pepper—why, if you were to ask for hens' milk, you'd get it. To give you an instance: He found that he wasn't getting very good wool, so he bought some rams at Tarentum and changed the breed of his sheep. Again, because he wanted to have Athenian honey right here on his estate, he imported bees from Athens, and incidentally these improved the breed of the native bees also. Only a few days ago he wrote and ordered mushroom-seed to be sent him from India. He hasn't a single mule on his place that wasn't sired by a wild ass. Just see how many cushions he has here. Every single one of them has either purple or scarlet stuffing. That's what I call being rich. But you're not to suppose that his associates here are to be sneezed at, for they've got plenty of rocks too. Just look at that man who has the last place at the table. Even he has to-day his little eight hundred thousand, and yet he started out with nothing. It wasn't very long ago that he was a porter carrying wood on his back through the street. But, as the saying goes, he found a fairy wishing-cup. I never grudge a man his good luck. It only means that he knows how to look out for himself; and this chap over here not long ago put up his shanty for sale with this sort of an advertisement:

"'Gaius Pompeius Diogenes will let this lodging from July first, having just bought a large house for himself.'

"Now, take the case of that other man over there who has the freedman's place at the table. How well off do you suppose he is? I don't know anything against him, but he's seen the time when he had his little million; only, somehow or other, he went wrong. To-day I don't imagine he has a hair on his head that isn't mortgaged, and it isn't his own fault either, for there's no better man in the world; but it's the fault of his confounded freedmen who made way with everything that he had. You know the saying, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth,' and the other saying that 'He who loses money loses friends.' And what a fine profession he had, too, just as you see him now! He was an undertaker. He used to dine like a king on wild boar with pastry and birds, and he had cooks and bakers by the score. They used to spill more wine under his table than most men have in their wine-cellars. In fact, he was a fairy vision rather than a man. When his affairs got into Queer Street and he was afraid his creditors would think that things were in a bad way, he wanted to raise some money on his goods and chattels; so he advertised an auction of them in this fashion: 'Julius Proculus will hold an auction for the sale of his superfluous property.'"

After this course, Trimalchio left the room for a few minutes, so that, feeling a certain freedom in the absence of our master, we began to draw each other into conversation. Dama, first of all, calling for a goblet, remarked:

"A day is nothing. Night comes before you can turn around. That's why I think there's nothing better than to go from your bed straight to the dining-room. It's a cold climate we have here. Even a bath scarcely warms me up. In fact, a hot drink is my wardrobe. I've had several stiff drinks already, so that I'm loaded for bear; for the wine has gone to my head."

At this point Seleucus interrupted him, remarking:

"Well, for my part, I don't take a bath every day. The cold water nips you so that when you bathe every day your courage all oozes out of you. But after I've swigged a toby of booze, I tell the cold to go to the devil. But I couldn't take a bath to-day, anyhow, for I was to a funeral. Chrysanthus, a fine man and such a good fellow, kicked the bucket. I saw him only the other day—in fact, I can hear him talking to me now. Dear me! we go around like blown-up bladders. We're of less consequence than even the flies, for flies have some spirit in them, while we are nothing but mere bubbles. But as to Chrysanthus, what if he wasn't a total abstainer? Anyhow, for five days before he died, he never threw a drink in his face nor ate a crumb of bread. Well, well, he's joined the majority. It was the doctors that really killed him, or perhaps just his bad luck; for a doctor is nothing after all but a sort of consolation to your mind. He was laid out in great style on his best bed, with his best bedclothes on, and he had a splendid wake, though his wife wasn't sincere in her mourning for him. But I say, what if he didn't treat her very well? A woman, so far as she is a woman, is a regular bird of prey. It isn't worth while to do a favor for a woman, because it's just as if you'd chucked it down a well. But love in time becomes a regular ball-and-chain on a man."

He was getting to be rather boresome when Phileros chimed in:

"Oh, let's think of the living. Your friend has got whatever was his due. He lived an honorable life and he died an honorable death. What has he to complain of? From having nothing, he made a fortune, for he was always ready to pull a piece of money out of a muck-heap with his teeth; and so he grew as rich as a honey-comb. By Jove! I believe the fellow left a cool hundred thousand, and he had it all in cash. I'm giving you this straight, for I have a rough tongue. He was a man of unlimited cheek, a tonguey fellow, and he always had a chip on his shoulder. His brother was a good sort of chap, a friend to a friend, a man with an open hand, a generous table. At the start he had a hard row to hoe, but his first vintage set him on his legs again, for he sold his wine at his own price. But what especially kept his head above water was this, that he got hold of a legacy, and waltzed into a good deal more of it than had been really left him. But this friend of yours, because he had quarreled with his brother, left his fortune to some outsider. I tell you a man has to go mighty far to get away from his relatives! Unfortunately he had slaves who blabbed all his secrets and harmed him. A man makes a mistake who trusts others too readily, especially if he's a business man. Nevertheless, while he lived, he enjoyed what he had."

After Phileros had finished, Ganymedes started in:

"All this talk of yours isn't the least bit to the point. No one here seems to care about the high price of grain. By Jove, I couldn't get a mouthful of bread to-day! And how the drought keeps on! We've had a sort of famine for a year. Confound the officials anyhow, who are standing in with the bakers! 'Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours,' as the saying goes. So the public has to suffer for it and their jaws get a long vacation. Oh, if we only had those roaring blades that I found here when I first arrived from Asia! I tell you, that was life! If the flour sold wasn't equal to the very best, they used to go for those poor devil officials as if Jupiter himself was angry with them. I remember Safinius. In those days he used to live down by the old archway, when I was a boy. He was hot stuff! Wherever he went he used to make the ground smoke! But he was perfectly straight, a man to rely on, a friend to a friend, a chap with whom you could safely throw dice with your eyes shut. In the court-room, too, how he used to make things hum! And he didn't talk in figures either, but straight to the point, and when he was arguing his voice used to swell like a trumpet. How affable he was. In those days, I tell you, grain was as cheap as dirt. If you bought a loaf of bread for a penny, you couldn't eat it up, even if you hired another man to help you; whereas nowadays, I've seen bulls'-eyes that were bigger than the loaves. Dear, dear, every day things are getting worse! The town is growing backward like a calf's tail. And why do we have a mayor who's no good and who thinks more of a penny piece than of the lives of all of us? He has a soft snap in private, for he takes in more money in a day than most of us have in our whole fortunes. I know one source from which he got a thousand gold pieces. If we had any spunk he wouldn't be so stuck on himself. But our people are lions in private and foxes in public. As far as I'm concerned, I've already eaten up my wardrobe, and if this sort of a harvest keeps on I'll have to sell my shanties."

The thing had gone to a disgusting extreme when Trimalchio, sodden with drink, hit upon a new sort of exhibition, and had hornblowers brought into the dining-room. Then having been propped up on pillows, he sprawled himself out upon the lowest couch and said:

"Imagine that I am dead. Play a nice tune over me."

The hornblowers blew a funeral march; and one of them, the slave of the undertaker, who was really the most respectable man in the crowd, blew such a tremendous blast that he roused up the whole neighborhood. The police who were on duty in the vicinity, thinking that Trimalchio's house was on fire, suddenly broke down the door and rushed in with axes and water, as was their right. Seizing this very favorable opportunity, we gave Agamemnon the slip, and made our escape as hastily as though we were really fleeing from a conflagration.

The thoughts that come often unsought, and, as it were, drop into the mind, are commonly the most valuable of any we have, and therefore should be secured, because they seldom return again.—Locke. (1632-1704.)