annr.pandora-第8部分

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man　Senate。　We　believed　in　public　virtue　and　character；　we　held　to　a　way　of　life　which　did　not　involve　rituals；　prayers；　magic；　except　superficially。　Virtue　was　embedded　in　character。　That　was　the　inheritance　of　the　Roman　Republic；　which　Marius　and　I　shared。
　Of　course；　our　house　was　overcrowded　with　slaves。　There　were　brilliant　Greeks　and　grunting　laborers　and　a　fleet　of　women　to　rush　about　polishing　busts　and　vases；　and　the　city　itself　was　choked　with　manumitted　slaves　…　freedmen　…　some　of　whom　were　very　rich。
　They　were　all　our　people；　our　slaves。
　My　Father　and　I　sat　up　all　night　when　my　old　Greek　teacher　was　dying。　We　held　his　hands　until　the　body　was　cold。　Nobody　was　flogged　on　our　estate　in　Rome　unless　my　Father　himself　gave　the　order。　Our　country　slaves　loafed　under　the　fruit　trees。　Our　stewards　were　rich；　and　showed　off　their　wealth　in　their　clothes。
　I　remember　a　time　when　there　were　so　many　old　Greek　slaves　in　the　garden　that　I　could　sit　day　after　day　and　listen　to　them　argue。　They　had　nothing　else　to　do。　I　learned　much　from　this。
　I　grew　up　more　than　happy。　If　you　think　I　exaggerate　the　extent　of　my　education；　consult　the　letters　of　Pliny　or　other　actual　memoirs　and　correspondence　of　the　times。　Highborn　young　girls　were　well　educated；　modern　Roman　women　went　about　unhampered　for　the　most　part　by　male　interference。　We　partook　of　life　as　did　men。
　For　example；　I　was　scarcely　eight　years　old　when　I　was　first　taken　to　the　arena　with　several　of　my　brothers'　wives；　to　have　the　dubious　pleasure　of　seeing　exotic　creatures；　such　as　giraffes；　tear　madly　around　before　being　shot　to　death　with　arrows；　this　display　then　followed　by　a　small　group　of　gladiators　who　would　hack　other　gladiators　to　death；　and　then　after　that　came　the　flock　of　criminals　to　be　fed　to　the　hungry　lions。
　David；　I　can　hear　the　sound　of　those　lions　as　if　it　were　now。　There's　nothing　between　me　and　the　moment　that　I　sat　in　the　wooden　benches；　perhaps　two　rows　up　…　the　premium　seats　…　and　I　watched　these　beasts　devour　living　beings；　as　I　was　supposed　to　do；　with　a　pleasure　meant　to　demonstrate　a　strength　of　heart；　a　fearlessness　in　the　face　of　death；　rather　than　simple　and　utter　monstrousness。
　The　audience　screamed　and　laughed　as　men　and　women　ran　from　the　beasts。　Some　victims　would　give　the　crowd　no　such　satisfaction。　They　merely　stood　there　as　the　hungry　lion　attacked；　those　who　were　being　devoured　alive　almost　invariably　lay　in　a　stupor　as　though　their　souls　had　already　taken　flight；　though　the　lion　had　not　reached　the　throat。
　I　remember　the　smell　of　it。　But　more　than　anything；　I　remember　the　noise　of　the　crowd。
　I　passed　the　test　of　character；　I　could　look　at　all　of　it。　I　could　watch　the　champion　gladiator　finally　meet　his　end；　lying　there　bloody　in　the　sand；　as　the　sword　went　through　his　chest。
　But　I　can　certainly　remember　my　Father　declaring　under　his　breath　that　the　whole　affair　was　disgusting。　In　fact；　everybody　I　knew　thought　it　was　all　disgusting。　My　Father　believed；　as　did　others；　that　the　mon　man　needed　all　this　blood。　We；　the　highborn；　had　to　preside　over　it　for　the　mon　man。　It　had　a　religious　quality　to　it；　all　this　spectacular　viciousness。
　The　making　of　these　appalling　spectacles　was　considered　something　of　a　social　responsibility。
　Also　Roman　life　was　a　life　of　being　outdoors；　involved　in　things；　attending　ceremonies　and　spectacles；　being　seen；　taking　an　interest；　ing　together　with　others。
　You　came　together　with　all　the　other　highborn　and　lowborn　of　the　city　and　you　joined　in　one　mass　to　witness　a　triumphant　procession；　a　great　offering　at　the　altar　of　Augustus；　an　ancient　ceremony；　a　game；　a　chariot　race。
　Now　in　the　Twentieth　Century；　when　I　watch　the　endless　intrigue　and　slaughter　in　motion　pictures　and　on　television　throughout　our　Western　world；　I　wonder　if　people　do　not　need　it；　do　not　need　to　see　murder；　slaughter；　death　in　all　forms。　Television　at　times　seems　an　unbroken　series　of　gladiatorial　fights　or　massacres。　And　look　at　the　traffic　now　in　video　recordings　of　actual　war。
　Records　of　war　have　bee　art　and　entertainment。
　The　narrator　speaks　softly　as　the　camera　passes　over　the　heap　of　bodies；　or　the　skeletal　children　sobbing　with　their　starving　mothers。　But　it　is　gripping。　One　can　wallow；　shaking　one's　head；　in　all　this　death。　Nights　of　television　are　devoted　to　old　footage　of　men　dying　with　guns　in　their　hands。
　I　think　we　look　because　we　are　afraid。　But　in　Rome；　you　had　to　look　so　that　you　would　be　hard；　and　that　applied　to　women　as　well　as　men。
　But　the　overall　point　is　…　I　was　not　closeted　away　as　a　Greek　woman　might　have　been　in　some　old　Hellenistic　household。　I　did　not　suer　under　the　earlier　customs　of　the　Roman　Republic。
　I　vividly　remember　the　absolute　beauty　of　that　time；　and　my　Father's　heartfelt　avowal　that　Augustus　was　a　god；　and　that　Rome　had　never　been　more　pleasing　to　her　deities。
　Now　I　want　to　give　you　one　very　important　recollection。　Let　me　set　the　scene。　First；　let's　take　up　the　question　of　Virgil；　and　the　poem　he　wrote；　the　Aeneid；　greatly　amplifying　and　glorifying　the　adventures　of　the　hero　Aeneas；　a　Trojan　fleeing　the　horrors　of　defeat　by　the　Greeks　who　came　out　of　the　famous　Trojan　horse　to　massacre　Helen's　city　of　Troy。
　It's　a　charming　story。　I　always　loved　it；　Aeneas　leaves　dying　Troy；　valiantly　journeys　all　the　way　to　beautiful　Italy　and　there　founds　our　nation。
　But　the　point　is　that　Augustus　loved　and　supported　Virgil　all　of　Virgil's　life；　and　Virgil　was　a　respected　poet；　a　poet　fine　and　decent　to　quote；　an　approved　and　patriotic　poet。　It　was　perfectly　fine　to　like　Virgil。
　Virgil　died　before　I　was　born。　But　by　ten　I'd　read　everything　he'd　written；　and　had　read　Horace　as　well；　and　Lucretius；　much　of　Cicero；　and　all　the　Greek　manuscripts　we　possessed；　and　there　were　plenty。
　My　Father　didn't　erect　his　library　for　show。　It　was　a　place　where　members　of　the　family　spent　hours。　It　was　also　where　he　sat　to　write　his　letters　…　which　he　seemed　endlessly　to　be　doing　…　letters　on　behalf　of　the　Senate；　the　Emperor；　the　courts；　his　friends；　etc。
　Back　to　Virgil。　I　had　also　read　another　Roman　poet；　who　was　alive　still；　and　deeply　and　dangerously　out　of　favor　with　Augustus；　the　god。　This　was　the　poet　Ovid；　the　author　of　the　Metamorphoses；　and　dozens　of　other　earthy；　hilarious　and　bawdy　works。
　Now；　when　I　was　too　young　to　remember；　Augustus　turned　on　Ovid；　whom　Augustus　had　also　loved；　and　Augustus　banished　Ovid　to　some　horrible　place　on　the　Black　Sea。　Maybe　it　wasn't　so　horrible。　But　it　was　the　sort　of　place　cultured　city　Romans　expect　to　be　horrible　…　very　far　away　from　the　capital　and　full　of　barbarians。
　Ovid　lived　there　a　long　time；　and　his　books　were　banned　all　over　Rome。　You　couldn't　find　them　in　the　bookshops　or　the　public　libraries。　Or　at　the　book　stands　all　over　the　marketplace。
　You　know　this　was　a　hot　time　for　popular　reading；　books　were　everywhere　…　both　in　scroll　form　and　in　codex；　that　is；　with　bound　pages　…　and　many　booksellers　had　teams　of　Greek　slaves　spending　all　day　copying　books　for　public　consumption。
　To　continue；　Ovid　had　fallen　out　of　favor　with　Augustus；　and　he　had　been　banned；　but　men　like　my　Father　were　not　about　to　burn　their　copies　of　the　Metamorphoses；　or　any　other　of　Ovid's　work；　and　the　only　reason　they　didn't　plead　for　Ovid's　pardon　was　fear。
　The　whole　scandal　had　something　to　do　with　Augustus's　daughter；　Julia；　who　was　a　notorious　slut　by　anyone's　standards。　How　Ovid　became　involved　in　Julia's　love　affairs　I　don't　know。　Perhaps　his　sensuous　early　poetry；　the　Amores；　was　considered　to　be　a　bad　influence。　There　was　also　a　lot　of　〃reform〃　in　the　air　during　the　reign　of　Augustus；　a　lot　of　talk　of　old　values。
　I　don't　think　anyone　knows　what　really　happened　between　Caesar　Augustus　and　Ovid；　but　Ovid　was　banished　for　the　rest　of　his　life　from　Imperial　Rome。
　But　I　had　read　the　Amores　and　the　Metamorphoses　in　well…worn　copies　by　the　time　of　this　incident　which　I　want　to　recount。　And　many　of　my　Father's　friends　were　always　worried　about　Ovid。
　Now　to　the　specific　recollection。　I　was　ten　years　old；　I　came　in　from　playing；　covered　with　dust　from　head　to　foot；　my　hair　loose；　my　dress　torn；　and　breezed　into　my　Father's　large　rece