POMPEII AND THE FORTY
VIRGINS
In
1592 an architect, who had been digging a canal in the area, found the ruins of
buildings with decorated walls. The find was documented and forgotten until
1748 when excavations began in earnest. The sensational discoveries that
followed made a deep impression on contemporary observers and inspired a whole
aesthetic which flowered during the French revolution and the Napoleonic Empire
that followed it.
Pompeii is a place where
time has stood still and everything seems in suspended animation. Everything is just as it was when it was buried under
ash. The most graphic reminder of this is when the visitor chances upon the
remains of Pompeii’s
inhabitants. Their deaths were so swift that they did not have time to expire;
the ghostly shapes that have been unearthed are caught in the act of dying.
Enter the houses and establishments and one almost expects its residents to
come out and greet the visitor. Walk along its unevenly paved streets and raised
pedestrian flagstones and one may almost imagine seeing a slave twist his ankle from the corner
of one’s eye. The roads have been so rutted by the endless number of carts and
chariots which have lumbered through these roads that one can almost feel them
ready to run you down. There are loaves of bread left in the ovens of
commercial bakeries waiting to be sold to passersby. There are even campaign
posters advertising candidates for public office in an impending election. I
half expected to see Pompeiians sitting in the public toilets or naked in the
baths. Or better still, the prostitutes waiting in their cubicles beneath the
frescoes advertising their specialty.
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The temple of Apollo |
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The amphitheatre, a must-have in any Roman city worthy of such an appelation |
Many of the houses in the city were huge even by modern standards. Some
occupy a whole city block. Many have beautiful frescoes adorning their walls,
especially one very famous house, The House of the Mysteries. Others have bronze
statues and fountains, intricate mosaics, porticos, atria and colonnades. Some
even had their own bathing complexes so that the owners would not have to
patronize the public baths and mingle with the riffraff. One homeowner, who can
only be described as a social climber, had a false colonnade to give the
illusion of a large space so he could suitably impress his visitors! One house
even had a mosaic floor at its entrance with the warning “Cave canem” (beware
of the dog)!
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The House of Menander |
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The House of Loreius Tiburtinus |
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The House of the Faun
|
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CAVE CANEM!
|
As I wandered through the town, one thought kept swirling in my mind.
If such a small town in Italy
could boast of such wealth, what would the scale and grandeur of the truly
wealthy and powerful in Rome
have been like? It must have been stupendous. But all this wealth and
luxury had been achieved and maintained by only one thing - slavery. This was the
economic base of the entire Roman Empire. Romans, being the conquerors that they were, had slaves to build and maintain the mansions and
palaces, stoke the fires and cool the waters in the baths, build the roads and
walls of the city, tend to every whim of their masters, and satiate all their
sexual desires and proclivities. Underneath all this power, wealth, and
circumstance was an underpinning of misery which only death could end. And end
it did one fine summer day in August two thousand years ago.
|
Interior of the House of the Vetii
|
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Frescoes of the Dionysiac Mysteries in the House of the Mysteries |
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Fresco in the Dining Room of the House of the Mysteries |
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Fresco in the House of the Tragic Poet |
As we wandered about the town, my wife could not help but reminisce
about her first visit to Pompeii.
She was among a group of 40 young girls (presumably virgins, some no doubt
imagined) who went on a world tour sponsored by their convent school. This
was a time of Transatlantic crossings on great passenger ships; a time of
formal dinners at the Captain’s table; a time of made-to-measure evening
clothes; a time of hats and gloves; a time of chaperoned dates; a time of
formal manners and debutante balls; a time of half-wit uncles tucked away in an
attic or a country house somewhere; a time that, much like Pompeii, no longer
exists.
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A Bacchanalian feast |
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Fresco atop a brothel's room advertising the occupant's specialty, in this case, orgies. |
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Roman outdoor advertising of the licentious kind |
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A priapic satyr going about his business |
They were escorted by the redoubtable head of the school,
she whose dowry was the school's campus. When their group came to visit Pompeii, the nuns literally shielded the
girls from the more sordid aspects of the city, like the many triple x-rated
frescoes found not just in the brothels but also in the respectable homes of Pompeii’s aristocrats. It
went without saying that the virgins that left Manila would still be virgins when they
returned; in dress, in thought and in action. Naturally, when my wife set foot in Pompeii
forty years later, her first impulse was to see everything she was prohibited from
viewing on her first trip. So we went to every brothel and saw every licentious
fresco there was to see until she was curious no longer.
Time and memory are inextricably intertwined. The former is absolute,
the latter is relative. Pompeii
is time that has been stopped dead in its tracks while my wife’s memory of her
trip around the world ebbs and flows with the intensity of her imagination and
is inevitably burnished by the golden glow of nostalgia. Ghosts still roam the deserted streets of Pompeii; there are the ghosts of those
ancient Pompeiians who lost their lives that summer day two thousand years ago
and those 40 virgins searching poignantly for their virginity and the
simplicity of another age, now irretrievably lost.