Andrea Mantegna, working at the end of the fifteenth century, for a society full of antiquarian fervour at the sight of the earthy relics of the old Roman people, day by day returning to light out of the clay — childish still, moreover, and with no more suspicion of pasteboard than the old Romans themselves, in its unabashed love of open-air pageantries, has invested this, the greatest, and alas! the most characteristic, of the splendours of imperial Rome, with a reality livelier than any description.  The homely sentiments for which he has found place in his learned paintings are hardly more lifelike than the great public incidents of the show, there depicted.  And then, with all that vivid realism, how refined, how dignified, how select in type, is this reflection of the old Roman world! — now especially, in its time-mellowed red and gold, for the modern visitor to the old English palace.

Yet if, as he passed by, almost filling the quaint old circular chariot with his magnificent golden-flowered attire, he presented himself to Marius, chiefly as one who had made the great mistake; to the multitude he came as a more than magnanimous conqueror.  That he had “forgiven” the innocent wife and children of the dashing and almost successful rebel Avidius Cassius, now no more, was a recent circumstance still in memory.  As the children went past — not among those who, ere the emperor ascended the steps of the Capitol, would be detached from the great progress for execution, happy rather, and radiant, as adopted members of the imperial family — the crowd actually enjoyed an exhibition of the moral order, such as might become perhaps the fashion.  And it was in consideration of some possible touch of a heroism herein that might really have cost him something, that Marius resolved to seek the emperor once more, with an appeal for common-sense, for reason and justice.

He had set out at last to revisit his old home; and knowing that Aurelius was then in retreat at a favourite villa, which lay almost on his way thither, determined there to present himself.  Although the great plain was dying steadily, a new race of wild birds establishing itself there, as he knew enough of their habits to understand, and the idle contadino, with his never-ending ditty of decay and death, replacing the lusty Roman labourer, never had that poetic region between Rome and the sea more deeply impressed him than on this sunless day of early autumn, under which all that fell within the immense horizon was presented in one uniform tone of a clear, penitential blue.  Stimulating to the fancy as was that range of low hills to the northwards, already troubled with the upbreaking of the Apennines, yet a want of quiet in their outline, the record of wild fracture there, of sudden upheaval and depression, marked them as but the ruins of nature; while at every little descent and ascent of the road might be noted traces of the abandoned work of man.  From time to time, the way was still redolent of the floral relics of summer, daphné and myrtle-blossom, sheltered in the little hollows and ravines.  At last, amid rocks here and there piercing the soil, as those descents became steeper, and the main line of the Apennines, now visible, gave a higher accent to the scene, he espied over the plateau, almost like one of those broken hills, cutting the horizon towards the sea, the old brown villa itself, rich in memories of one after another of the family of the Antonines.  As he approached it, such reminiscences crowded upon him, above all of the life there of the aged Antoninus Pius, in its wonderful mansuetude and calm.  Death had overtaken him here at the precise moment when the tribune of the watch had received from his lips the word Aequanimitas! as the watchword of the night.  To see their emperor living there like one of his simplest subjects, his hands red at vintage-time with the juice of the grapes, hunting, teaching his children, starting betimes, with all who cared to join him, for long days of antiquarian research in the country around: — this, and the like of this, had seemed to mean the peace of mankind.

Upon that had come — like a stain! it seemed to Marius just then — the more intimate life of Faustina, the life of Faustina at home.  Surely, that marvellous but malign beauty must still haunt those rooms, like an unquiet, dead goddess, who might have perhaps, after all, something reassuring to tell surviving mortals about her ambiguous self.  When, two years since, the news had reached Rome that those eyes, always so persistently turned to vanity, had suddenly closed for ever, a strong desire to pray had come over Marius, as he followed in fancy on its wild way the soul of one he had spoken with now and again, and whose presence in it for a time the world of art could so ill have spared.  Certainly, the honours freely accorded to embalm her memory were poetic enough — the rich temple left among those wild villagers at the spot, now it was hoped sacred for ever, where she had breathed her last; the golden image, in her old place at the amphitheatre; the altar at which the newly married might make their sacrifice; above all, the great foundation for orphan girls, to be called after her name.

The latter, precisely, was the cause why Marius failed in fact to see Aurelius again, and make the chivalrous effort at enlightenment he had proposed to himself.  Entering the villa, he learned from an usher, at the door of the long gallery, famous still for its grand prospect in the memory of many a visitor, and then leading to the imperial apartments, that the emperor was already in audience:  Marius must wait his turn — he knew not how long it might be.  An odd audience it seemed; for at that moment, through the closed door, came shouts of laughter, the laughter of a great crowd of children — the “Faustinian Children” themselves, as he afterwards learned — happy and at their ease, in the imperial presence.  Uncertain, then, of the time for which so pleasant a reception might last, so pleasant that he would hardly have wished to shorten it, Marius finally determined to proceed, as it was necessary that he should accomplish the first stage of his journey on this day.  The thing was not to be — Vale! anima infelicissima! — He might at least carry away that sound of the laughing orphan children, as a not unamiable last impression of kings and their houses.

The place he was now about to visit, especially as the resting-place of his dead, had never been forgotten.  Only, the first eager period of his life in Rome had slipped on rapidly; and, almost on a sudden, that old time had come to seem very long ago.  An almost burdensome solemnity had grown about his memory of the place, so that to revisit it seemed a thing that needed preparation:  it was what he could not have done hastily.  He half feared to lessen, or disturb, its value for himself.  And then, as he travelled leisurely towards it, and so far with quite tranquil mind, interested also in many another place by the way, he discovered a shorter road to the end of his journey, and found himself indeed approaching the spot that was to him like no other.  Dreaming now only of the dead before him, he journeyed on rapidly through the night; the thought of them increasing on him, in the darkness.  It was as if they had been waiting for him there through all those years, and felt his footsteps approaching now, and understood his devotion, quite gratefully, in that lowliness of theirs, in spite of its tardy fulfilment.  As morning came, his late tranquillity of mind had given way to a grief which surprised him by its freshness.  He was moved more than he could have thought possible by so distant a sorrow.  “To-day!” — they seemed to be saying as the hard dawn broke, — “To-day, he will come!” At last, amid all his distractions, they were become the main purpose of what he was then doing.  The world around it, when he actually reached the place later in the day, was in a mood very different from his: — so work-a-day, it seemed, on that fine afternoon, and the villages he passed through so silent; the inhabitants being, for the most part, at their labour in the country.  Then, at length, above the tiled outbuildings, were the walls of the old villa itself, with the tower for the pigeons; and, not among cypresses, but half-hidden by aged poplar-trees, their leaves like golden fruit, the birds floating around it, the conical roof of the tomb itself.  In the presence of an old servant who remembered him, the great seals were broken, the rusty key turned at last in the lock, the door was forced out among the weeds grown thickly about it, and Marius was actually in the place which had been so often in his thoughts.

He was struck, not however without a touch of remorse thereupon, chiefly by an odd air of neglect, the neglect of a place allowed to remain as when it was last used, and left in a hurry, till long years had covered all alike with thick dust — the faded flowers, the burnt-out lamps, the tools and hardened mortar of the workmen who had had something to do there.  A heavy fragment of woodwork had fallen and chipped open one of the oldest of the mortuary urns, many hundreds in number ranged around the walls.  It was not properly an urn, but a minute coffin of stone, and the fracture had revealed a piteous spectacle of the mouldering, unburned remains within; the bones of a child, as he understood, which might have died, in ripe age, three times over, since it slipped away from among his great-grandfathers, so far up in the line.  Yet the protruding baby hand seemed to stir up in him feelings vivid enough, bringing him intimately within the scope of dead people’s grievances.  He noticed, side by side with the urn of his mother, that of a boy of about his own age — one of the serving-boys of the household — who had descended hither, from the lightsome world of childhood, almost at the same time with her.  It seemed as if this boy of his own age had taken filial place beside her there, in his stead.  That hard feeling, again, which had always lingered in his mind with the thought of the father he had scarcely known, melted wholly away, as he read the precise number of his years, and reflected suddenly — He was of my own present age; no hard old man, but with interests, as he looked round him on the world for the last time, even as mine to-day!