nnerving effect
on Ovid. The preparations for a wild and dangerous country seemed
to bring him face to face with despair. He rushed to the fire and
threw upon it the thick manuscript of his _Metamorphoses_. Looking
sullenly at the smouldering parchment he began to talk wildly,
protesting first that no one should see any of his work unfinished
and then passing to a paroxysm of rage against all his poetry, to
which he attributed his ruin. He began to walk up and down the room,
pushed his wife aside, and declared that he was going to end his life.
In the long nightmare Fabia found this hour the most terrifying. She
could never express her gratitude to Celsus who had come after
Pompeius left and who now alone proved able to influence Ovid. By
a patient reasonableness he made headway against his hysterical mood,
bringing him back, step by step, to saner thoughts.

The servants, stimulated to their duties by Rufus, brought in food.
Fabia made Ovid eat some bread and fruit. The evening wore on. The
December moon was mounting the sky. Voices and footsteps of
passers-by were vaguely heard. In the distance a dog barked
incessantly. Lights were lit, but the usual decorum of the house was
broken. The fire died dully upon the hearth. The children were
brought into the room, looking pale and worn with the unwonted hour.
Midnight came and went. All sounds of the city died away. Even the
dog ceased his howling. They were alone with disaster. Ovid went to
the window and drew aside the heavy curtain. The moon rode high over
the Capitol. Suddenly he stretched out his arms and they heard him
praying to the great gods of his country. In this moment Fabia's
self-control, like a dam too long under pressure, gave way. Except
on ceremonial occasions she had never heard her husband pray. Now,
he who had had the heart of a child for Rome and for her was cast
out by Rome and was beyond her help. From her breast he must turn
to the indifferent gods in heaven. She broke into hard, terrible sobs
and threw herself down before the hearth, kissing the grey ashes.
Unregardful of those about her, she prayed wildly to the lesser gods
of home, her gods. From the temple on the Capitoline, from the Penates
came no answer.

His friends began to urge Ovid to start. His carriage was ready, he
must run no risk of not clearing Rome by daylight. Why should he go,
he asked with a flicker of his old vivacity, when to go meant leaving
Rome and turning toward Scythi