hen he had finished and the
shouts of rapture had ended, Petronius, interrogated by a glance from
Caesar, replied,--

"Common verses, fit for the fire."

The hearts of those present stopped beating from terror. Since the years
of his childhood Nero had never heard such a sentence from any man. The
face of Tigellinus was radiant with delight. But Vinicius grew pale,
thinking that Petronius, who thus far had never been drunk, was drunk
this time.

Nero, however, inquired in a honeyed voice, in which more or less deeply
wounded vanity was quivering,--

"What defect dost thou find in them?"

"Do not believe them," said Petronius, attacking him, and pointing to
those present; "they understand nothing. Thou hast asked what defect
there is in thy verses. If thou desire truth, I will tell thee. Thy
verses would be worthy of Virgil, of Ovid, even of Homer, but they are
not worthy of thee. Thou art not free to write such. The conflagration
described by thee does not blaze enough; thy fire is not hot enough.
Listen not to Lucan's flatteries. Had he written those verses, I should
acknowledge him a genius, but thy case is different. And knowest thou
why? Thou art greater than they. From him who is gifted of the gods as
thou art, more is demanded. But thou art slothful,--thou wouldst rather
sleep after dinner than sit to wrinkles. Thou canst create a work such
as the world has not heard of to this day; hence I tell thee to thy
eyes, write better!"

And he said this carelessly, as if bantering and also chiding; but
Caesar's eyes were mist-covered from delight.

"The gods have given me a little talent," said he, "but they have given
me something greater, a true judge and friend, the only man able to
speak the truth to my eyes."

Then he stretched his fat hand, grown over with reddish hair, to a
golden candelabrum plundered from Delphi, to burn the verses. But
Petronius seized them before the flame touched the paper.

"No, no!" said he; "even thus they belong to mankind. Leave them to me."

"In such case let me send them to thee in a cylinder of my own
invention," answered Nero, embracing Petronius.

"True; thou art right," said he, after a while. "My conflagration of
Troy does not blaze enough; my fire is not hot enough. But I thought
it sufficient to equal Homer. A certain timidity and low estimate of my
power have fettered me always. Thou hast opened my eyes. But knowest
why it is, as thou sayest? When a sculptor makes