But of that he was incapable. Had he known what
the future held, possibly he might have imitated that apotheosis
of vulgarity in which Sardanapalus eclipsed himself, but never
could he have died with the good breeding and philosophy of Cato,
for neither good breeding nor philosophy was in him. Nero killed
himself like a coward, yet that he did kill himself, in no matter
what fashion, is one of the few things that can be said in his
favor.
Those days differed from ours. There were circumstances in which
suicide was regarded as the simplest of duties. Nero did his duty,
but not until he was forced to it, and even then not until he had
been asked several times whether it was so hard to die. The empire
had wearied of him. In Neropolis his popularity had gone as
popularity ever does; the conflagration had killed it.
Even as he wandered, lyre in hand, a train of Lesbians and
pederasts at his heels, through those halls which had risen on the
ruins, and which inexhaustible Greece had furnished with a fresh
crop of white immortals, the world rebelled. Afar on the outskirts
of civilization a vassal, ashamed of his vassalage, declared war,
not against Rome, but against an emperor that played the flute. In
Spain, in Gaul, the legions were choosing other chiefs. The
provinces, depleted by imperial exactions, outwearied by the
increasing number of accusers, whose accusations impoverishing
them served only to multiply the prodigalities of their Caesar,
revolted.
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