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BRITANNICUS AND HIS SONG 177
tintinnabulations which were in modern vogue. The taste
the knowledge, the readiness, shown in the selection of sucK
a strain were remarkable. And was this Britannicus who
sang ? Nero was always displaying and boasting of his
divine voice, but it was harsh as a crow's in- comparison with
the ringing notes of his modest brother. And then the meaning
of the song Was ? it not aimed at Nero and his usurpation
? Did it not show decisively the thoughts which were
filling the soul of the dispossessed prince, and his clear consciousness
that he had been robbed of his hereditary rights ?
But there was something worse than this. For by the
time that Britannicus had ended his song, the brief winter
twilight had nearly ended, and the banqueting-room lay
deep in shadow. It was too dark to distinguish individual
faces, and this fact, together with the liberty of the jocund
season, made those present less careful to conceal their
thoughts. No sooner had the voice of Britaunicus ceased
than a murmur of spontaneous applause arose on every side,
and not only of applause, but of pity and favour. Nero had
meant to humiliate his brother :
but, on the contrary, his
brother had so behaved under trying circumstances as to
win all hearts !
Jealousy, rage, hatred, swept in turbulent gusts across the
Emperor's soul. He would have liked to strike Britanuicus,
to scourge those insolent guests. But he did not dare to take
any overt step, for there had been no overt offence. Britannicus
had been bidden to obey the festive order of the King
of the Feast, and he had accomplished the behest as the
others had done, in a way which kindled admiration. To act
as if the chorus from Ennius had been aimed at himself
would have been to betray uneasiness and confess wrono--
j
doing.
He could not, however, conceal, and took no pains to conceal,
his petulant spleen. Praise of another was poison to
Nero. That the merit of any one else should be admitted
'
seemed like a reflection on himself. They call Britannicus
as good as me '
! was a thought which filled his little soul
with spite and wrath.
'This is
poor stuff,' he said, in high dudgeon, pretending to
yawn in the most '
insulting way he could. Who would have
'
expected mock heroics at the Saturnalia ? Then he rose, and
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