DIALOGUES OF THE GODS
I
Prometheus. Zeus
Prom. Release me, Zeus; I have suffered enough.
Zeus. Release you? you? Why, by rights your irons should be heavier,
you should have the whole weight of Caucasus upon you, and instead of
one, a dozen vultures, not just pecking at your liver, but scratching
out your eyes. You made these abominable human creatures to vex us, you
stole our fire, you invented women. I need not remind you how you
overreached me about the meat-offerings; my portion, bones disguised in
fat: yours, all the good.
Prom. And have I not been punished enough—riveted to the Caucasus all
these years, feeding your bird (on which all worst curses light!) with
my liver?
Zeus. 'Tis not a tithe of your deserts.
Prom. Consider, I do not ask you to release me for nothing. I offer
you information which is invaluable.
Zeus. Promethean wiles!
Prom. Wiles? to what end? you can find the Caucasus another time; and
there are chains to be had, if you catch me cheating.
Zeus. Tell me first the nature of your 'invaluable' offer.
Prom. If I tell you your present errand right, will that convince you
that I can prophesy too?
Zeus. Of course it will.
Prom. You are bound on a little visit to Thetis.
Zeus. Right so far. And the sequel? I trust you now.
Prom. Have no dealings with her, Zeus. As sure as Nereus's daughter
conceives by you, your child shall mete you the measure you meted to—
Zeus. I shall lose my kingdom, you would say?
Prom. Avert it, Fate! I say only, that union portends this issue.
Zeus. Thetis, farewell! and for this Hephaestus shall set you free.
H.
II
Eros. Zeus
Eros. You might let me off, Zeus! I suppose it was rather too bad
of me; but there!—I am but a child; a wayward child.
Zeus. A child, and born before Iapetus was ever thought of? You bad
old man! Just because you have no beard, and no white hairs, are you
going to pass yourself off for a child?
Eros. Well, and what such mighty harm has the old man ever done you,
that you should talk of chains?
Zeus. Ask your own guilty conscience, what harm. The pranks you have
played me! Satyr, bull, swan, eagle, shower of gold,—I have been
everything in my time; and I have you to thank for it. You never by any
chance make the women in love with me; no one is ever smitten with
my charms, that I have noticed. No, there must be magic in it always;
I must be kept well out of sight. They like the bull or the swan well
enough: but once let them set eyes on me, and they are frightened out
of their lives.
Eros. Well, of course. They are but mortals; the sight of Zeus is too
much for them.
Zeus. Then why are Branchus and Hyacinth so fond of Apollo?
Eros. Daphne ran away from him, anyhow; in spite of his beautiful
hair and his smooth chin. Now, shall I tell you the way to win hearts?
Keep that aegis of yours quiet, and leave the thunderbolt at home; make
yourself as smart as you can; curl your hair and tie it up with a bit
of ribbon, get a purple cloak, and gold-bespangled shoes, and march
forth to the music of flute and drum;—and see if you don't get a finer
following than Dionysus, for all his Maenads.
Zeus. Pooh! I'll win no hearts on such terms.
Eros. Oh, in that case, don't fall in love. Nothing could be simpler.
Zeus. I dare say; but I like being in love, only I don't like all
this fuss. Now mind; if I let you off, it is on this understanding.
F.
III
Zeus. Hermes
Zeus. Hermes, you know Inachus's beautiful daughter?
Her. I do. Io, you mean?
Zeus. Yes; she is not a girl now, but a heifer.
Her. Magic at work! how did that come about?
Zeus. Hera had a jealous fit, and transformed her. But that is not
all; she has thought of a new punishment for the poor thing. She has
put a cowherd in charge, who is all over eyes; this Argus, as he is
called, pastures the heifer, and never goes to sleep.
Her. Well, what am I to do?
Zeus. Fly down to Nemea, where the pasture is, kill Argus, take Io
across the sea to Egypt, and convert her into Isis. She shall be
henceforth an Egyptian Goddess, flood the Nile, regulate the winds, and
rescue mariners.
H.
VI
Hera. Zeus
Hera. Zeus! What is your opinion of this man Ixion?
Zeus. Why, my dear, I think he is a very good sort of man; and the
best of company. Indeed, if he were unworthy of our company, he would
not be here.
Hera. He is unworthy! He is a villain! Discard him!
Zeus. Eh? What has he been after? I must know about this.
Hera. Certainly you must; though I scarce know how to tell you. The
wretch!
Zeus. Oh, oh; if he is a 'wretch,' you must certainly tell me all
about it. I know what 'wretch' means, on your discreet tongue. What, he
has been making love?
Hera. And to me! to me of all people! It has been going on for a long
time. At first, when he would keep looking at me, I had no idea—. And
then he would sigh and groan; and when I handed my cup to Ganymede
after drinking, he would insist on having it, and would stop drinking
to kiss it, and lift it up to his eyes; and then he would look at me
again. And then of course I knew. For a long time I didn't like to say
anything to you; I thought his mad fit would pass. But when he actually
dared to speak to me, I left him weeping and groveling about, and
stopped my ears, so that I might not hear his impertinences, and came
to tell you. It is for you to consider what steps you will take.
Zeus. Whew! I have a rival, I find; and with my own lawful wife. Here
is a rascal who has tippled nectar to some purpose. Well, we have no
one but ourselves to blame for it: we make too much of these mortals,
admitting them to our table like this. When they drink of our nectar,
and behold the beauties of Heaven (so different from those of Earth!),
'tis no wonder if they fall in love, and form ambitious schemes! Yes,
Love is all-powerful; and not with mortals only: we Gods have sometimes
fallen beneath his sway.
Hera. He has made himself master of you; no doubt of that. He does
what he likes with you;—leads you by the nose. You follow him whither
he chooses, and assume every shape at his command; you are his chattel,
his toy. I know how it will be: you are going to let Ixion off, because
you have had relations with his wife; she is the mother of Pirithous.
Zeus. Why, what a memory you have for these little outings of
mine!—Now, my idea about Ixion is this. It would never do to punish
him, or to exclude him from our table; that would not look well. No; as
he is so fond of you, so hard hit—even to weeping point, you tell me,—
Hera. Zeus! What are you going to say?
Zeus. Don't be alarmed. Let us make a cloud-phantom in your likeness,
and after dinner, as he lies awake (which of course he will do, being
in love), let us take it and lay it by his side. 'Twill put him out of
his pain: he will fancy he has attained his desire.
Hera. Never! The presumptuous villain!
Zeus. Yes, I know. But what harm can it do to you, if Ixion makes a
conquest of a cloud?
Hera. But he will think that I am the cloud; he will be working his
wicked will upon me for all he can tell.
Zeus. Now you are talking nonsense. The cloud is not Hera, and Hera
is not the cloud. Ixion will be deceived; that is all.
Hera. Yes, but these men are all alike—they have no delicacy. I
suppose, when he goes home, he will boast to every one of how he has
enjoyed the embraces of Hera, the wife of Zeus! Why, he may tell them
that I am in love with him! And they will believe it; they will
know nothing about the cloud.
Zeus. If he says anything of the kind he shall soon find himself in
Hades, spinning round on a wheel for all eternity. That will keep him
busy! And serve him right; not for falling in love—I see no great harm
in that—but for letting his tongue wag.
F.
VII
Hephaestus. Apollo
Heph. Have you seen Maia's baby, Apollo? such a pretty little thing,
with a smile for everybody; you can see it is going to be a treasure.
Ap. That baby a treasure? well, in mischief, Iapetus is young beside
it.
Heph. Why, what harm can it do, only just born?
Ap. Ask Posidon; it stole his trident. Ask Ares; he was surprised to
find his sword gone out of the scabbard. Not to mention myself,
disarmed of bow and arrows.
Heph. Never! that infant? he has hardly found his legs yet; he is not
out of his baby-linen.
Ap. Ah, you will find out, Hephaestus, if he gets within reach of
you.
Heph. He has been.
Ap. Well? all your tools safe? none missing?
Heph. Of course not.
Ap. I advise you to make sure.
Heph. Zeus! where are my pincers?
Ap. Ah, you will find them among the baby-linen.
Heph. So light-fingered? one would swear he had practised petty
larceny in the womb.
Ap. Ah, and you don't know what a glib young chatterbox he is; and,
if he has his way, he is to be our errand-boy! Yesterday he challenged
Eros—tripped up his heels somehow, and had him on his back in a
twinkling; before the applause was over, he had taken the opportunity
of a congratulatory hug from Aphrodite to steal her girdle; Zeus had
not done laughing before—the sceptre was gone. If the thunderbolt had
not been too heavy, and very hot, he would have made away with that
too.
Heph. The child has some spirit in him, by your account.
Ap. Spirit, yes—and some music, moreover, young as he is.
Heph. How can you tell that?
Ap. He picked up a dead tortoise somewhere or other, and contrived an
instrument with it. He fitted horns to it, with a cross-bar, stuck in
pegs, inserted a bridge, and played a sweet tuneful thing that made an
old harper like me quite envious. Even at night, Maia was saying, he
does not stay in Heaven; he goes down poking his nose into Hades—on a
thieves' errand, no doubt. Then he has a pair of wings, and he has made
himself a magic wand, which he uses for marshalling souls—convoying the
dead to their place.
Heph. Ah, I gave him that, for a toy.
Ap. And by way of payment he stole—
Heph. Well thought on; I must go and get them; you may be right about
the baby-linen.
H.
VIII Hephaestus. Zeus
Heph. What are your orders, Zeus? You sent for me, and here I am;
with such an edge to my axe as would cleave a stone at one blow.
Zeus. Ah; that's right, Hephaestus. Just split my head in half, will
you?
Heph. You think I am mad, perhaps?—Seriously, now, what can I do for
you?
Zeus. What I say: crack my skull. Any insubordination, now, and you
shall taste my resentment; it will not be the first time. Come, a good
lusty stroke, and quick about it. I am in the pangs of travail; my
brain is in a whirl.
Heph. Mind you, the consequences may be serious: the axe is sharp,
and will prove but a rough midwife.
Zeus. Hew away, and fear nothing. I know what I am about.
Heph. H'm. I don't like it: however, one must obey orders…. Why, what
have we here? A maiden in full armour! This is no joke, Zeus. You might
well be waspish, with this great girl growing up beneath your pia
mater; in armour, too! You have been carrying a regular barracks on
your shoulders all this time. So active too! See, she is dancing a
war-dance, with shield and spear in full swing. She is like one
inspired; and (what is more to the point) she is extremely pretty, and
has come to marriageable years in these few minutes; those grey eyes,
even, look well beneath a helmet. Zeus, I claim her as the fee for my
midwifery.
Zeus. Impossible! She is determined to remain a maid for ever. Not
that I have any objection, personally.
Heph. That is all I want. You can leave the rest to me. I'll carry
her off this moment.
Zeus. Well, if you think it so easy. But I am sure it is a hopeless
case.
F.
XI
Aphrodite. Selene
Aph. What is this I hear about you, Selene? When your car is over
Caria, you stop it to gaze at Endymion sleeping hunter-fashion in the
open; sometimes, they tell me, you actually get out and go down to him.
Sel. Ah, Aphrodite, ask that son of yours; it is he must answer for
it all.
Aph. Well now, what a naughty boy! he gets his own mother into all
sorts of scrapes; I must go down, now to Ida for Anchises of Troy, now
to Lebanon for my Assyrian stripling;—mine? no, he put Persephone in
love with him too, and so robbed me of half my darling. I have told him
many a time that if he would not behave himself I would break his
artillery for him, and clip his wings; and before now I have smacked
his little behind with my slipper. It is no use; he is frightened and
cries for a minute or two, and then forgets all about it. But tell me,
is Endymion handsome? That is always a comfort in our humiliation.
Sel. Most handsome, I think, my dear; you should see him when he
has spread out his cloak on the rock and is asleep; his javelins in his
left hand, just slipping from his grasp, the right arm bent upwards,
making a bright frame to the face, and he breathing softly in helpless
slumber. Then I come noiselessly down, treading on tiptoe not to wake
and startle him—but there, you know all about it; why tell you the
rest? I am dying of love, that is all.
H.
XII
Aphrodite. Eros
Aph. Child, child, you must think what you are doing. It is bad
enough on earth,—you are always inciting men to do some mischief, to
themselves or to one another;—but I am speaking of the Gods. You change
Zeus into shape after shape as the fancy takes you; you make Selene
come down from the sky; you keep Helius loitering about with Clymene,
till he sometimes forgets to drive out at all. As for the naughty
tricks you play on your own mother, you know you are safe there. But
Rhea! how could you dare to set her on thinking of that young fellow
in Phrygia, an old lady like her, the mother of so many Gods? Why, you
have made her quite mad: she harnesses those lions of hers, and drives
about all over Ida with the Corybantes, who are as mad as herself,
shrieking high and low for Attis; and there they are, slashing their
arms with swords, rushing about over the hills, like wild things, with
dishevelled hair, blowing horns, beating drums, clashing cymbals; all
Ida is one mad tumult. I am quite uneasy about it; yes, you wicked boy,
your poor mother is quite uneasy: some day when Rhea is in one of her
mad fits (or when she is in her senses, more likely), she will send the
Corybantes after you, with orders to tear you to pieces, or throw you
to the lions. You are so venturesome!
Eros. Be under no alarm, mother; I understand lions perfectly by this
time. I get on to their backs every now and then, and take hold of
their manes, and ride them about; and when I put my hand into their
mouths, they only lick it, and let me take it out again. Besides, how
is Rhea going to have time to attend to me? She is too busy with Attis.
And I see no harm in just pointing out beautiful things to people; they
can leave them alone;—it is nothing to do with me. And how would you
like it if Ares were not in love with you, or you with him?
Aph. Masterful boy! always the last word! But you will remember this
some day.
F.
XIII
Zeus. Asclepius. Heracles
Zeus. Now, Asclepius and Heracles, stop that quarrelling; you might
as well be men; such behaviour is very improper and out of place at the
table of the Gods.
Her. Is this druggist fellow to have a place above me, Zeus?
Asc. Of course I am; I am your better.
Her. Why, you numskull? because it was Zeus's bolt that cracked your
skull, for your unholy doings, and now you have been allowed your
immortality again out of sheer pity?
Asc. You twit me with my fiery end; you seem to have forgotten that
you too were burnt to death, on Oeta.
Her. Was there no difference between your life and mine, then? I am
Zeus's son, and it is well known how I toiled, cleansing the earth,
conquering monsters, and chastising men of violence. Whereas you are a
root-grubber and a quack; I dare say you have your use for doctoring
sick men, but you never did a bold deed in your life.
Asc. That comes well from you, whose burns I healed, when you came up
all singed not so long ago; between the tunic and the flames, your body
was half consumed. Anyhow, it would be enough to mention that I was
never a slave like you, never combed wool in Lydia, masquerading in a
purple shawl and being slippered by an Omphale, never killed my wife
and children in a fit of the spleen.
Her. If you don't stop being rude, I shall soon show you that
immortality is not much good. I will take you up and pitch you head
over heels out of Heaven, and Apollo himself shall never mend your
broken crown.
Zeus. Cease, I say, and let us hear ourselves speak, or I will send
you both away from table. Heracles, Asclepius died before you, and has
the right to a better place.
H.
XIV
Hermes. Apollo
Her. Why so sad, Apollo?
Ap. Alas, Hermes,—my love!
Her. Oh; that's bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair of
Daphne?
Ap. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.
Her. Hyacinth? he is not dead?
Ap. Dead.
Her. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!
Ap. It was the work of my own hand.
Her. You must have been mad!
Ap. Not mad; it was an accident.
Her. Oh? and how did it happen?
Ap. He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him.
I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr
(damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth,
though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him)—Zephyr came
blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child's
head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all was
over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in Zephyr, and
pursued his flight to the mountain. As for the child, I buried him at
Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have caused a flower
to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed with letters of
woe.—Is my grief unreasonable?
Her. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a
mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.
F.
XV
Hermes. Apollo
Her. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry
two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!
Ap. Luck, Hermes—that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up
with his company; they see him running with sweat, bent over the forge,
all sooty-faced; and yet they cuddle and kiss him, and sleep with him!
Her. Yes, it makes me angry too; how I envy him! Ah, Apollo, you may
let your locks grow, and play your harp, and be proud of your looks; I
am a healthy fellow, and can touch the lyre; but, when it comes to
bedtime, we lie alone.
Ap. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great
passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more
attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me of
them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.
Her. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite—but no; no boasting.
Ap. I know; that is how Hermaphroditus is accounted for. But perhaps
you can tell me how it is that Aphrodite and Charis are not jealous of
one another.
Her. Because one is his wife in Lemnus and the other in Heaven.
Besides, Aphrodite cares most about Ares; he is her real love; so she
does not trouble her head about the blacksmith.
Ap. Do you think Hephaestus sees?
Her. Oh, he sees, yes; but what can he do? he knows what a martial
young fellow it is; so he holds his tongue. He talks of inventing a
net, though, to take them in the act with.
Ap. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that act.
H.
XVI
Hera. Leto
Hera. I must congratulate you, madam, on the children with whom you
have presented Zeus.
Leto. Ah, madam; we cannot all be the proud mothers of Hephaestuses.
Hera. My boy may be a cripple, but at least he is of some use. He is
a wonderful smith, and has made Heaven look another place; and
Aphrodite thought him worth marrying, and dotes on him still. But those
two of yours !—that girl is wild and mannish to a degree; and now she
has gone off to Scythia, and her doings there are no secret; she is
as bad as any Scythian herself,—butchering strangers and eating them!
Apollo, too, who pretends to be so clever, with his bow and his lyre
and his medicine and his prophecies; those oracle-shops that he has
opened at Delphi, and Clarus, and Dindyma, are a cheat; he takes good
care to be on the safe side by giving ambiguous answers that no one can
understand, and makes money out of it, for there are plenty of fools
who like being imposed upon,—but sensible people know well enough that
most of it is clap-trap. The prophet did not know that he was to kill
his favourite with a quoit; he never foresaw that Daphne would run away
from him, so handsome as he is, too, such beautiful hair! I am not
sure, after all, that there is much to choose between your children and
Niobe's.
Leto. Oh, of course; my children are butchers and impostors. I know
how you hate the sight of them. You cannot bear to hear my girl
complimented on her looks, or my boy's playing admired by the company.
Hera. His playing, madam!—excuse a smile;—why, if the Muses had not
favoured him, his contest with Marsyas would have cost him his skin;
poor Marsyas was shamefully used on that occasion; 'twas a judicial
murder.—As for your charming daughter, when Actaeon once caught sight
of her charms, she had to set the dogs upon him, for fear he should
tell all he knew: I forbear to ask where the innocent child picked up
her knowledge of obstetrics.
Leto. You set no small value on yourself, madam, because you are the
wife of Zeus, and share his throne; you may insult whom you please. But
there will be tears presently, when the next bull or swan sets out on
his travels, and you are left neglected.
F.
XVIII
Hera. Zeus
Hera. Well, Zeus, I should be ashamed if I had such a son; so
effeminate, and so given to drinking; tying up his hair in a ribbon,
indeed! and spending most of his time among mad women, himself as much
a woman as any of them; dancing to flute and drum and cymbal! He
resembles any one rather than his father.
Zeus. Anyhow, my dear, this wearer of ribbons, this woman among
women, not content with conquering Lydia, subduing Thrace, and
enthralling the people of Tmolus, has been on an expedition all the way
to India with his womanish host, captured elephants, taken possession
of the country, and led their king captive after a brief resistance.
And he never stopped dancing all the time, never relinquished the
thyrsus and the ivy; always drunk (as you say) and always inspired! If
any scoffer presumes to make light of his ceremonial, he does not go
unpunished; he is bound with vine-twigs; or his own mother mistakes him
for a fawn, and tears him limb from limb. Are not these manful doings,
worthy of a son of Zeus? No doubt he is fond of his comforts, too, and
his amusements; we need not complain of that: you may judge from his
drunken achievements, what a handful the fellow would be if he were
sober.
Hera. I suppose you will tell me next, that the invention of wine is
very much to his credit; though you see for yourself how drunken men
stagger about and misbehave themselves; one would think the liquor had
made them mad. Look at Icarius, the first to whom he gave the vine:
beaten to death with mattocks by his own boon companions!
Zeus. Pooh, nonsense. That is not Dionysus's fault, nor the wine's
fault; it comes of the immoderate use of it. Men will drink their
wine neat, and drink too much of it. Taken in moderation, it engenders
cheerfulness and benevolence. Dionysus is not likely to treat any of
his guests as Icarius was treated.—No; I see what it is:—you are
jealous, my love; you can't forget about Semele, and so you must
disparage the noble achievements of her son.
F.
XIX
Aphrodite. Eros
Aph. Eros, dear, you have had your victories over most of the
Gods—Zeus, Posidon, Rhea, Apollo, nay, your own mother; how is it you
make an exception for Athene? against her your torch has no fire, your
quiver no arrows, your right hand no cunning.
Eros. I am afraid of her, mother; those awful flashing eyes! she is
like a man, only worse. When I go against her with my arrow on the
string, a toss of her plume frightens me; my hand shakes so that it
drops the bow.
Aph. I should have thought Ares was more terrible still; but you
disarmed and conquered him.
Eros. Ah, he is only too glad to have me; he calls me to him. Athene
always eyes me so! once when I flew close past her, quite by accident,
with my torch, 'If you come near me,' she called out, 'I swear by my
father, I will run you through with my spear, or take you by the foot
and drop you into Tartarus, or tear you in pieces with my own
hands'—and more such dreadful things. And she has such a sour look; and
then on her breast she wears that horrid face with the snaky hair; that
frightens me worst of all; the nasty bogy—I run away directly I see it.
Aph. Well, well, you are afraid of Athene and the Gorgon; at least so
you say, though you do not mind Zeus's thunderbolt a bit. But why do
you let the Muses go scot free? do they toss their plumes and hold
out Gorgons' heads?
Eros. Ah, mother, they make me bashful; they are so grand, always
studying and composing; I love to stand there listening to their music.
Aph. Let them pass too, because they are grand. And why do you never
take a shot at Artemis?
Eros. Why, the great thing is that I cannot catch her; she is always
over the hills and far away. But besides that, her heart is engaged
already.
Aph. Where, child?
Eros. In hunting stags and fawns; she is so fleet, she catches them
up, or else shoots them; she can think of nothing else. Her brother,
now, though he is an archer too, and draws a good arrow—
Aph. I know, child, you have hit him often enough.
H.
XX.
THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS
Zeus. Hermes. Hera. Athene. Aphrodite. Paris
Zeus. Hermes, take this apple, and go with it to Phrygia; on the
Gargaran peak of Ida you will find Priam's son, the herdsman. Give him
this message: 'Paris, because you are handsome, and wise in the things
of love, Zeus commands you to judge between the Goddesses, and say
which is the most beautiful. And the prize shall be this apple.'—Now,
you three, there is no time to be lost: away with you to your judge. I
will have nothing to do with the matter: I love you all exactly alike,
and I only wish you could all three win. If I were to give the prize to
one of you, the other two would hate me, of course. In these
circumstances, I am ill qualified to be your judge. But this young
Phrygian to whom you are going is of the royal blood—a relation of
Ganymede's,—and at the same time a simple countryman; so that we need
have no hesitation in trusting his eyes.
Aph. As far as I am concerned, Zeus, Momus himself might be our
judge; I should not be afraid to show myself. What fault could he
find with me? But the others must agree too.
Hera. Oh, we are under no alarm, thank you,—though your admirer Ares
should be appointed. But Paris will do; whoever Paris is.
Zeus. And my little Athene; have we her approval? Nay, never blush,
nor hide your face. Well, well, maidens will be coy; 'tis a delicate
subject. But there, she nods consent. Now, off with you; and mind, the
beaten ones must not be cross with the judge; I will not have the poor
lad harmed. The prize of beauty can be but one.
Herm. Now for Phrygia. I will show the way; keep close behind me,
ladies, and don't be nervous. I know Paris well: he is a charming young
man; a great gallant, and an admirable judge of beauty. Depend on it,
he will make a good award.
Aph. I am glad to hear that; I ask for nothing better than a just
judge.—Has he a wife, Hermes, or is he a bachelor?
Herm. Not exactly a bachelor.
Aph. What do you mean?
Herm. I believe there is a wife, as it were; a good enough sort of
girl—a native of those parts—but sadly countrified! I fancy he does not
care very much about her.—Why do you ask?
Aph. I just wanted to know.
Ath. Now, Hermes, that is not fair. No whispering with Aphrodite.
Herm. It was nothing, Athene; nothing about you. She only asked me
whether Paris was a bachelor.
Ath. What business is that of hers?
Herm. None that I know of. She meant nothing by the question; she
just wanted to know.
Ath. Well, and is he?
Herm. Why, no.
Ath. And does he care for military glory? has he ambition? Or is he a
mere neatherd?
Herm. I couldn't say for certain. But he is a young man, so it is to
be presumed that distinction on the field of battle is among his
desires.
Aph. There, you see; I don't complain; I say nothing when you
whisper with her. Aphrodite is not so particular as some people.
Herm. Athene asked me almost exactly the same as you did; so don't be
cross. It will do you no harm, my answering a plain
question.—Meanwhile, we have left the stars far behind us, and are
almost over Phrygia. There is Ida: I can make out the peak of Gargarum
quite plainly; and if I am not mistaken, there is Paris himself.
Hera. Where is he? I don't see him.
Herm. Look over there to the left, Hera: not on the top, but down the
side, by that cave where you see the herd.
Hera. But I don't see the herd.
Herm. What, don't you see them coming out from between the
rocks,—where I am pointing, look—and the man running down from the
crag, and keeping them together with his staff?
Hera. I see him now; if he it is.
Herm. Oh, that is Paris. But we are getting near; it is time to
alight and walk. He might be frightened, if we were to descend upon him
so suddenly.
Hera. Yes; very well. And now that we are on the earth, you might go
on ahead, Aphrodite, and show us the way. You know the country, of
course, having been here so often to see Anchises; or so I have heard.
Aph. Your sneers are thrown away on me, Hera.
Herm. Come; I'll lead the way myself. I spent some time on Ida, while
Zeus was courting Ganymede. Many is the time that I have been sent here
to keep watch over the boy; and when at last the eagle came, I flew by
his side, and helped him with his lovely burden. This is the very rock,
if I remember; yes, Ganymede was piping to his sheep, when down swooped
the eagle behind him, and tenderly, oh, so tenderly, caught him up in
those talons, and with the turban in his beak bore him off, the
frightened boy straining his neck the while to see his captor. I picked
up his pipes—he had dropped them in his fright and—ah! here is our
umpire, close at hand. Let us accost him.—Good-morrow, herdsman!
Par. Good-morrow, youngster. And who may you be, who come thus far
afield? And these dames? They are over comely, to be wandering on the
mountain-side.
Herm. 'These dames,' good Paris, are Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite; and
I am Hermes, with a message from Zeus. Why so pale and tremulous?
Compose yourself; there is nothing the matter. Zeus appoints you the
judge of their beauty. 'Because you are handsome, and wise in the
things of love' (so runs the message), 'I leave the decision to you;
and for the prize,—read the inscription on the apple.'
Par. Let me see what it is about. FOR THE FAIR, it says. But, my lord
Hermes, how shall a mortal and a rustic like myself be judge of such
unparalleled beauty? This is no sight for a herdsman's eyes; let the
fine city folk decide on such matters. As for me, I can tell you which
of two goats is the fairer beast; or I can judge betwixt heifer and
heifer;—'tis my trade. But here, where all are beautiful alike, I know
not how a man may leave looking at one, to look upon another. Where my
eyes fall, there they fasten,—for there is beauty: I move them, and
what do I find? more loveliness! I am fixed again, yet distracted by
neighbouring charms. I bathe in beauty: I am enthralled: ah, why am I
not all eyes like Argus? Methinks it were a fair award, to give the
apple to all three. Then again: one is the wife and sister of Zeus; the
others are his daughters. Take it where you will, 'tis a hard matter to
judge.
Herm. So it is, Paris. At the same time—Zeus's orders! There is no
way out of it.
Par. Well, please point out to them, Hermes, that the losers must not
be angry with me; the fault will be in my eyes only.
Herm. That is quite understood. And now to work.
Par. I must do what I can; there is no help for it. But first let me
ask,—am I just to look at them as they are, or must I go into the
matter thoroughly?
Herm. That is for you to decide, in virtue of your office. You have
only to give your orders; it is as you think best.
Par. As I think best? Then I will be thorough.
Herm. Get ready, ladies. Now, Mr. Umpire.—I will look the other way.
Hera. I approve your decision, Paris. I will be the first to submit
myself to your inspection. You shall see that I have more to boast of
than white arms and large eyes: nought of me but is beautiful.
Par. Aphrodite, will you also prepare?
Ath. Oh, Paris,—make her take off that girdle, first; there is magic
in it; she will bewitch you. For that matter, she has no right to come
thus tricked out and painted,—just like a courtesan! She ought to show
herself unadorned.
Par. They are right about the girdle, madam; it must go.
Aph. Oh, very well, Athene: then take off that helmet, and show your
head bare, instead of trying to intimidate the judge with that waving
plume. I suppose you are afraid the colour of your eyes may be noticed,
without their formidable surroundings.
Ath. Oh, here is my helmet.
Aph. And here is my girdle.
Hera. Now then.
Par. God of wonders! What loveliness is here! Oh, rapture! How
exquisite these maiden charms! How dazzling the majesty of Heaven's
true queen! And oh, how sweet, how enthralling is Aphrodite's smile!
'Tis too much, too much of happiness.—But perhaps it would be well for
me to view each in detail; for as yet I doubt, and know not where to
look; my eyes are drawn all ways at once.
Aph. Yes, that will be best.
Par. Withdraw then, you and Athene; and let Hera remain.
Hera. So be it; and when you have finished your scrutiny, you have
next to consider, how you would like the present which I offer you.
Paris, give me the prize of beauty, and you shall be lord of all Asia.
Par. I will take no presents. Withdraw. I shall judge as I think
right. Approach, Athene.
Ath. Behold. And, Paris, if you will say that I am the fairest, I
will make you a great warrior and conqueror, and you shall always win,
in every one of your battles.
Par. But I have nothing to do with fighting, Athene. As you see,
there is peace throughout all Lydia and Phrygia, and my father's
dominion is uncontested. But never mind; I am not going to take your
present, but you shall have fair play. You can robe again and put on
your helmet; I have seen. And now for Aphrodite.
Aph. Here I am; take your time, and examine carefully; let nothing
escape your vigilance. And I have something else to say to you,
handsome Paris. Yes, you handsome boy, I have long had an eye on you; I
think you must be the handsomest young fellow in all Phrygia. But it is
such a pity that you don't leave these rocks and crags, and live in a
town; you will lose all your beauty in this desert. What have you to do
with mountains? What satisfaction can your beauty give to a lot of
cows? You ought to have been married long ago; not to any of these
dowdy women hereabouts, but to some Greek girl; an Argive, perhaps, or
a Corinthian, or a Spartan; Helen, now, is a Spartan, and such a pretty
girl—quite as pretty as I am—and so susceptible! Why, if she once
caught sight of you, she would give up everything, I am sure, to go
with you, and a most devoted wife she would be. But you have heard of
Helen, of course?
Par. No, ma'am; but I should like to hear all about her now.
Aph. Well, she is the daughter of Leda, the beautiful woman, you
know, whom Zeus visited in the disguise of a swan.
Par. And what is she like?
Aph. She is fair, as might be expected from the swan, soft as down
(she was hatched from an egg, you know), and such a lithe, graceful
figure; and only think, she is so much admired, that there was a war
because Theseus ran away with her; and she was a mere child then. And
when she grew up, the very first men in Greece were suitors for her
hand, and she was given to Menelaus, who is descended from Pelops.—Now,
if you like, she shall be your wife.
Par. What, when she is married already?
Aph. Tut, child, you are a simpleton: I understand these things.
Par. I should like to understand them too.
Aph. You will set out for Greece on a tour of inspection: and when
you get to Sparta, Helen will see you; and for the rest—her falling in
love, and going back with you—that will be my affair.
Par. But that is what I cannot believe,—that she will forsake her
husband to cross the seas with a stranger, a barbarian.
Aph. Trust me for that. I have two beautiful children, Love and
Desire. They shall be your guides. Love will assail her in all his
might, and compel her to love you: Desire will encompass you about, and
make you desirable and lovely as himself; and I will be there to help.
I can get the Graces to come too, and between us we shall prevail.
Par. How this will end, I know not. All I do know is, that I am in
love with Helen already. I see her before me—I sail for Greece I am in
Sparta—I am on my homeward journey, with her at my side! Ah, why is
none of it true?
Aph. Wait. Do not fall in love yet. You have first to secure my
interest with the bride, by your award. The union must be graced with
my victorious presence: your marriage-feast shall be my feast of
victory. Love, beauty, wedlock; all these you may purchase at the price
of yonder apple.
Par. But perhaps after the award you will forget all about me?
Aph. Shall I swear?
Par. No; but promise once more.
Aph. I promise that you shall have Helen to wife; that she shall
follow you, and make Troy her home; and I will be present with you, and
help you in all.
Par. And bring Love, and Desire, and the Graces?
Aph. Assuredly; and Passion and Hymen as well.
Par. Take the apple: it is yours.
F.
XXI
Ares. Hermes
Ar. Did you hear Zeus's threat, Hermes? most complimentary, wasn't
it, and most practicable? 'If I choose,' says he, 'I could let down a
cord from Heaven, and all of you might hang on to it and do your very
best to pull me down; it would be waste labour; you would never move
me. On the other hand, if I chose to haul up, I should have you all
dangling in mid air, with earth and sea into the bargain and so on; you
heard? Well, I dare say he is too much for any of us individually,
but I will never believe he outweighs the whole of us in a body, or
that, even with the makeweight of earth and sea, we should not get the
better of him.
Her. Mind what you say, Ares; it is not safe to talk like that; we
might get paid out for chattering.
Ar. You don't suppose I should say this to every one; I am not afraid
of you; I know you can keep a quiet tongue. I must tell you what made
me laugh most while he stormed: I remember not so long ago, when
Posidon and Hera and Athene rebelled and made a plot for his capture
and imprisonment, he was frightened out of his wits; well, there were
only three of them, and if Thetis had not taken pity on him and called
in the hundred-handed Briareus to the rescue, he would actually have
been put in chains, with his thunder and his bolt beside him. When I
worked out the sum, I could not help laughing.
Her. Oh, do be quiet; such things are too risky for you to say or me
to listen to.
H.
XXIV
Hermes. Maia
Her. Mother, I am the most miserable god in Heaven.
Ma. Don't say such things, child.
Her. Am I to do all the work of Heaven with my own hands, to be
hurried from one piece of drudgery to another, and never say a word? I
have to get up early, sweep the dining-room, lay the cushions and put
all to rights; then I have to wait on Zeus, and take his messages, up
and down, all day long; and I am no sooner back again (no time for a
wash) than I have to lay the table; and there was the nectar to pour
out, too, till this new cup-bearer was bought. And it really is too
bad, that when every one else is in bed, I should have to go off to
Pluto with the Shades, and play the usher in Rhadamanthus's court. It
is not enough that I must be busy all day in the wrestling-ground and
the Assembly and the schools of rhetoric, the dead must have their
share in me too. Leda's sons take turn and turn about betwixt Heaven
and Hades—I have to be in both every day. And why should the sons of
Alemena and Semele, paltry women, why should they feast at their ease,
and I—the son of Maia, the grandson of Atlas—wait upon them? And now
here am I only just back from Sidon, where he sent me to see after
Europa, and before I am in breath again—off I must go to Argos, in
quest of Danae, 'and you can take Boeotia on your way,' says father,
'and see Antiope.' I am half dead with it all. Mortal slaves are better
off than I am: they have the chance of being sold to a new master; I
wish I had the same!
Ma. Come, come, child. You must do as your father bids you, like a
good boy. Run along now to Argos and Boeotia; don't loiter, or you will
get a whipping. Lovers are apt to be hasty.
F.
XXV
Zeus. Helius
Zeus. What have you been about, you villainous Titan? You have
utterly done for the earth, trusting your car to a silly boy like that;
he has got too near and scorched it in one place, and in another killed
everything with frost by withdrawing the heat too far; there is not a
single thing he has not turned upside down; if I had not seen what was
happening and upset him with the thunderbolt, there would not have been
a remnant of mankind left. A pretty deputy driver!
Hel. I was wrong, Zeus; but do not be angry with me; my boy pressed
me so; how could I tell it would turn out so badly?
Zeus. Oh, of course you didn't know what a delicate business it is,
and how the slightest divergence ruins everything! it never occurred to
you that the horses are spirited, and want a tight hand! oh no! why,
give them their heads a moment, and they are out of control; just what
happened: they carried him now left, now right, now clean round
backwards, and up or down, just at their own sweet will; he was utterly
helpless.
Hel. I knew it all; I held out for a long time and told him he
mustn't drive. But he wept and entreated, and his mother Clymene joined
in, and at last I put him up. I showed him how to stand, and how far he
was to mount upwards, and where to begin descending, and how to hold
the reins, and keep the spirited beasts under control; and I told him
how dangerous it was, if he did not keep the track. But, poor boy, when
he found himself in charge of all that fire, and looking down into
yawning space, he was frightened, and no wonder; and the horses soon
knew I was not behind them, took the child's measure, left the track,
and wrought all this havoc; he let go the reins—I suppose he was afraid
of being thrown out—and held on to the rail. But he has suffered for
it, and my grief is punishment enough for me, Zeus.
Zeus. Punishment enough, indeed! after daring to do such a thing as
that!—Well, I forgive you this time. But if ever you transgress again,
or send another substitute like him, I will show you how much hotter
the thunderbolt is than your fire. Let his sisters bury him by the
Eridanus, where he was upset. They shall weep amber tears and be
changed by their grief into poplars. As for you, repair the car—the
pole is broken, and one of the wheels crushed—, put the horses to and
drive yourself. And let this be a lesson to you.
H.
XXVI
Apollo. Hermes
Ap. Hermes, have you any idea which of those two is Castor, and which
is Pollux? I never can make out.
Her. It was Castor yesterday, and Pollux to-day.
Ap. How do you tell? They are exactly alike.
Her. Why, Pollux's face is scarred with the wounds he got in boxing;
those that Amycus, the Bebrycian, gave him, when he was on that
expedition with Jason, are particularly noticeable. Castor has no
marks; his face is all right.
Ap. Good; I am glad I know that. Everything else is the same for
both. Each has his half egg-shell, with the star on top, each his
javelin and his white horse. I am always calling Pollux Castor, and
Castor Pollux. And, by the way, why are they never both here together?
Why should they be alternately gods and shades?
Her. That is their brotherly way. You see, it was decreed that one of
the sons of Leda must die, and the other be immortal; and by this
arrangement they split the immortality between them.
Ap. Rather a stupid way of doing it: if one of them is to be in
Heaven, whilst the other is underground, they will never see one
another at all; and I suppose that is just what they wanted to do. Then
again: all the other gods practise some useful profession, either here
or on earth; for instance, I am a prophet, Asclepius is a doctor, you
are a first-rate gymnast and trainer, Artemis ushers children into the
world; now what are these two going to do? surely two such great
fellows are not to have a lazy time of it?
Her. Oh no. Their business is to wait upon Posidon, and ride the
waves; and if they see a ship in distress, they go aboard of her, and
save the crew.
Ap. A most humane profession.
F.
DIALOGUES OF THE SEA-GODS
I
Doris. Galatea.
Dor. A handsome lover, Galatea, this Sicilian shepherd who they say
is so mad for you!
Gal. Don't be sarcastic, Doris; he is Posidon's son, after all.
Dor. Well, and if he were Zeus's, and still such a wild shaggy
creature, with only one eye (there is nothing uglier than to have only
one eye), do you think his birth would improve his beauty?
Gal. Shagginess and wildness, as you call them, are not ugly in a
man; and his eye looks very well in the middle of his forehead, and
sees just as well as if it were two.
Dor. Why, my dear, from your raptures about him one would think it
was you that were in love, not he.
Gal. Oh no, I am not in love; but it is too bad, your all running him
down as you do. It is my belief you are jealous, Do you remember? we
were playing on the shore at the foot of Etna, where the long strip of
beach comes between the mountain and the sea; he was feeding his sheep,
and spied us from above; yes, but he never so much as glanced at the
rest of you; I was the pretty one; he was all eyes—eye, I mean—for me.
That is what makes you spiteful, because it showed I was better than
you, good enough to be loved, while you were taken no notice of.
Dor. Hoity-toity! jealous indeed! because a one-eyed shepherd thinks
you pretty! Why, what could he see in you but your white skin? and he
only cared for that because it reminded him of cheese and milk; he
thinks everything pretty that is like them. If you want to know any
more than that about your looks, sit on a rock when it is calm, and
lean over the water; just a bit of white skin, that is all; and who
cares for that, if it is not picked out with some red?
Gal. Well, if I am all white, I have got a lover of some sort;
there is not a shepherd or a sailor or a boatman to care for any of
you. Besides, Polyphemus is very musical.
Dor. Take care, dear; we heard him singing the other day when he
serenaded you. Heavens! one would have taken him for an ass braying.
And his lyre! what a thing! A stag's skull, with its horns for the
uprights; he put a bar across, and fastened on the strings without any
tuning-pegs! then came the performance, all harsh and out of tune; he
shouted something himself, and the lyre played something else, and the
love ditty sent us into fits of laughter. Why, Echo, chatterbox that
she is, would not answer him; she was ashamed to be caught mimicking
such a rough ridiculous song. Oh, and the pet that your beau brought
you in his arms!—a bear cub nearly as shaggy as himself. Now then,
Galatea, do you still think we envy you your lover?
Gal. Well, Doris, only show us your own; no doubt he is much
handsomer, and sings and plays far better.
Dor. Oh, I have not got one; I do not set up to be lovely. But one
like the Cyclops—faugh, he might be one of his own goats!—he eats raw
meat, they say, and feeds on travellers—one like him, dear, you may
keep; I wish you nothing worse than to return his love.
H.
II
Cyclops. Posidon
Cy. Only look, father, what that cursed stranger has been doing to
me! He made me drunk, and set upon me whilst I was asleep, and blinded
me.
Po. Who has dared to do this?
Cy. He called himself 'Noman' at first: but when he had got safely
out of range, he said his name was Odysseus.
Po. I know—the Ithacan; on his way back from Troy. But how did he
come to do such a thing? He is not distinguished for courage.
Cy. When I got back from the pasture, I caught a lot of the fellows
in my cave. Evidently they had designs upon the sheep: because when I
had blocked up my doorway (I have a great big stone for that), and
kindled a fire, with a tree that I had brought home from the
mountain,—there they were trying to hide themselves. I saw they were
robbers, so I caught a few of them, and ate them of course, and then
that scoundrel of a Noman, or Odysseus, whichever it is, gave me
something to drink, with a drug in it; it tasted and smelt very good,
but it was villanously heady stuff; it made everything spin round; even
the cave seemed to be turning upside down, and I simply didn't know
where I was; and finally I fell off to sleep. And then he sharpened
that stake, and made it hot in the fire, and blinded me in my sleep;
and blind I have been ever since, father.
Po. You must have slept pretty soundly, my boy, or you would have
jumped up in the middle of it. Well, and how did Odysseus get off? He
couldn't move that stone away, I know.
Cy. I took that away myself, so as to catch him as he went out. I sat
down in the doorway, and felt about for him with my hands. I just let
the sheep go out to pasture, and told the ram everything I wanted done.
Po. Ah! and they slipped out under the sheep? But you should have set
the other Cyclopes on to him.
Cy. I did call them, and they came: but when they asked me who it was
that was playing tricks with me, I said 'Noman'; and then they thought
I was mad, and went off home again. The villain! that name of his was
just a trick! And what I minded most was the way in which he made game
of my misfortune: 'Not even Papa can put this right,' he said.
Po. Never mind, my boy; I will be even with him. I may not be able to
cure blindness, but he shall know that I have something to say to
mariners. He is not home yet.
F.
III
Posidon. Alpheus
Pos. What is the meaning of this, Alpheus? unlike others, when you
take your plunge you do not mingle with the brine as a river should;
you do not put an end to your labours by dispersing; you hold together
through the sea, keep your current fresh, and hurry along in all your
original purity; you dive down to strange depths like a gull or a
heron; I suppose you will come to the top again and show yourself
somewhere or other.
Al. Do not press me, Posidon; a love affair; and many is the time you
have been in love yourself.
Pos. Woman, nymph, or Nereid?
Al. All wrong; she is a fountain.
Pos. A fountain? and where does she flow?
Al. She is an islander—in Sicily. Her name is Arethusa.
Pos. Ah, I commend your taste. She is pellucid, and bubbles up in
perfect purity; the water as bright over her pebbles as if it were a
mass of silver.
Al. You know my fountain, Posidon, and no mistake. It is to her that
I go.
Pos. Go, then; and may the course of love run smooth! But pray where
did you meet her? Arcadia and Syracuse, you know!
Al. I am in a hurry; you are detaining me, with these superfluous
questions.
Pos. Ah, so I am. Be off to your beloved, rise from the sea, mingle
your channels and be one water.
H.
IV
Menelaus. Proteus
Me. I can understand your turning into water, you know, Proteus,
because you are a sea-god. I can even pass the tree; and the lion is
not wholly beyond the bounds of belief. But the idea of your being able
to turn into fire, living under water as you do,—this excites my
surprise, not to say my incredulity.
Pro. Don't let it; because I can.
Me. I have seen you do it. But (to be frank with you) I think there
must be some deception; you play tricks with one's eyes; you don't
really turn into anything of the kind?
Pro. Deception? What deception can there possibly be? Everything is
above-board. Your eyes were open, I suppose, and you saw me change into
all these things? If that is not enough for you, if you think it is a
fraud, an optical illusion, I will turn into fire again, and you can
touch me with your hand, my sagacious friend. You will then be able to
conclude whether I am only visible fire, or have the additional
property of burning.
Me. That would be rash.
Pro. I suppose you have never seen such a thing as a polypus, nor
observed the proceedings of that fish?
Me. I have seen them; as to their proceedings, I shall be glad of
your information.
Pro. The polypus, having selected his rock, and attached himself by
means of his suckers, assimilates himself to it, changing his colour to
match that of the rock. By this means he hopes to escape the
observation of fishermen: there is no contrast of colour to betray his
presence; he looks just like stone.
Me. So I have heard. But yours is quite another matter, Proteus.
Pro. I don't know what evidence would satisfy you, if you reject that
of your own eyes.
Me. I have seen it done, but it is an extraordinary business; fire
and water, one and the same person!
F.
V
Panope. Galene
Pa. Galene, did you see what Eris did yesterday at the Thessalian
banquet, because she had not had an invitation?
Ga, No, I was not with you; Posidon had told me to keep the sea quiet
for the occasion. What did Eris do, then, if she was not there?
Pa. Thetis and Peleus had just gone off to the bridal chamber,
conducted by Amphitrite and Posidon, when Eris came in unnoticed—which
was easy enough; some were drinking, some dancing, or attending to
Apollo's lyre or the Muses' songs—Well, she threw down a lovely apple,
solid gold, my dear; and there was written on it, FOR THE FAIR. It
rolled along as if it knew what it was about, till it came in front of
Hera, Aphrodite, and Athene. Hermes picked it up and read out the
inscription; of course we Nereids kept quiet; what should we do in
such company? But they all made for it, each insisting that it was
hers; and if Zeus had not parted them, there would have been a battle.
He would not decide the matter himself, though they asked him to. 'Go,
all of you, to Ida,' he said, 'to the son of Priam; he is a man of
taste, quite capable of picking out the beauty; he will be no bad
judge.'
Ga. Yes. and the Goddesses, Panope?
Pa. They are going to Ida to-day, I believe; we shall soon have news
of the result.
Ga. Oh, I can tell you that now; if the umpire is not a blind man, no
one else can win, with Aphrodite in for it.
Triton. Posidon. Amymone
Tri. Posidon, there is such a pretty girl coming to Lerna for water
every day; I don't know that I ever saw a prettier.
Pos. What is she, a lady? or a mere water-carrier?
Tri. Oh no; she is one of the fifty daughters of that Egyptian king.
Her name is Amymone; I asked about that and her family. Danaus
understands discipline; he is bringing them up to do everything for
themselves; they have to fetch water, and make themselves generally
useful.
Pos. And does she come all that way by herself, from Argos to Lerna?
Tri. Yes; and Argos, you know, is a thirsty place; she is always
having to get water.
Pos. Triton, this is most exciting. We must go and see her.
Tri. Very well. It is just her time now; I reckon she will be about
half-way to Lerna.
Pos. Bring out the chariot, then. Or no; it takes such a time getting
it ready, and putting the horses to. Just fetch me out a good fast
dolphin; that will be quickest.
Tri. Here is a racer for you.
Pos. Good; now let us be off. You swim alongside.—Here we are at
Lerna. I'll lie in ambush hereabouts; and you keep a look-out. When you
see her coming—
Tri. Here she comes.
Pos. A charming child; the dawn of loveliness. We must carry her off.
Am. Villain! where are you taking me to? You are a kidnapper. I know
who sent you—my uncle Aegyptus. I shall call my father.
Tri. Hush, Amymone; it is Posidon.
Am. Posidon? What do you mean? Unhand me, villain! would you drag me
into the sea? Help, help, I shall sink and be drowned.
Pos. Don't be frightened; no harm shall be done to you. Come, you
shall have a fountain called after you; it shall spring up in this very
place, near the waves; I will strike the rock with my trident.—Think
how nice it will be being dead, and not having to carry water any more,
like all your sisters.
F.
VII
South Wind. West Wind
S. Zephyr, is it true about Zeus and the heifer that Hermes is
convoying across the sea to Egypt?—that he fell in love with it?
W. Certainly. She was not a heifer then, though, but a daughter of
the river Inachus. Hera made her what she is now; Zeus was so deep in
love that Hera was jealous.
S. And is he still in love, now that she is a cow?
W. Oh, yes; that is why he has sent her to Egypt, and told us not to
stir up the sea till she has swum across; she is to be delivered there
of her child, and both of them are to be Gods.
S. The heifer a God?
W. Yes, I tell you. And Hermes said she was to be the patroness of
sailors and our mistress, and send out or confine any of us that she
chooses.
S. So we must regard ourselves as her servants at once?
W. Why, yes; she will be the kinder if we do. Ah, she has got across
and landed. Do you see? she does not go on four legs now; Hermes has
made her stand erect, and turned her back into a beautiful woman.
S. This is most remarkable, Zephyr; no horns, no tail, no cloven
hoofs; instead, a lovely maid. But what is the matter with Hermes? he
has changed his handsome face into a dog's.
W. We had better not meddle; he knows his own business best.
H.
VIII
Posidon. Dolphins
Pos. Well done, Dolphins!—humane as ever. Not content with your
former exploit, when Ino leapt with Melicertes from the Scironian
cliff, and you picked the boy up and conveyed him to the Isthmus, one
of you swims from Methymna to Taenarum with this musician on his back,
mantle and lyre and all. Those sailors had almost had their wicked will
of him; but you were not going to stand that.
Dol. You need not be surprised to find us doing a good turn to a man,
Posidon; we were men before we were fishes.
Pos. Yes; I think it was too bad of Dionysus to celebrate his victory
by such a transformation scene; he might have been content with adding
you to the roll of his subjects.—Well, Dolphin, tell me all about
Arion.
Dol. From what I can gather, Periander was very fond of him, and was
always sending for him to perform; till Arion grew quite rich at his
expense, and thought he would take a trip to Methymna, and show off his
wealth at home. He took ship accordingly; but it was with a crew of
rogues. He had made no secret of the gold and silver he had with him;
and when they were in mid Aegean, the sailors rose against him. As I
was swimming alongside, I heard all that went on. 'Since your minds are
made up,' says Arion, 'at least let me get my mantle on, and sing my
own dirge; and then I will throw myself into the sea of my own
accord.'—The sailors agreed. He threw his minstrel's cloak about him,
and sang a most sweet melody; and then he let himself drop into the
water, never doubting but that his last moment had come. But I caught
him up on my back, and swam to shore with him at Taenarum.
Pos. I am glad to find you a patron of the arts. This was handsome
pay for a song.
F.
IX
Posidon. Amphitrite and other Nereids
Pos. The strait where the child fell shall be called Hellespont after
her. And as for her body, you Nereids shall take it to the Troad to be
buried by the inhabitants.
Amph. Oh no, Posidon. Let her grave be the sea which bears her name.
We are so sorry for her; that step-mother's treatment of her was
shocking.
Pos. No, my dear, that may not be. And indeed it is not desirable
that she should lie here under the sand; her grave shall be in the
Troad, as I said, or in the Chersonese. It will be no small consolation
to her that Ino will have the same fate before long. She will be chased
by Athamas from the top of Cithaeron down the ridge which runs into the
sea, and there plunge in with her son in her arms. But her we must
rescue, to please Dionysus; Ino was his nurse and suckled him, you
know.
Amph. Rescue a wicked creature like her?
Pos. Well, we do not want to disoblige Dionysus.
Nereid. I wonder what made the poor child fall off the ram; her
brother Phrixus held on all right.
Pos. Of course he did; a lusty youth equal to the flight; but it was
all too strange for her; sitting on that queer mount, looking down on
yawning space, terrified, overpowered by the heat, giddy with the
speed, she lost her hold on the ram's horns, and down she came into the
sea.
Nereid. Surely her mother Nephele should have broken her fall.
Pos. I dare say; but Fate is a great deal too strong for Nephele.
H.
X
Iris. Posidon
Ir. Posidon: you know that floating island, that was torn away from
Sicily, and is still drifting about under water; you are to bring it to
the surface, Zeus says, and fix it well in view in the middle of the
Aegean; and mind it is properly secured; he has a use for it.
Pos. Very good. And when I have got it up, and anchored it, what is
he going to do with it?
Ir. Leto is to lie in there; her time is near.
Pos. And is there no room in Heaven? Or is Earth too small to hold
her children?
Ir. Ah, you see, Hera has bound the Earth by a great oath not to give
shelter to Leto in her travail. This island, however, being out of
sight, has not committed itself.
Pos. I see.—Island, be still! Rise once more from the depths; and
this time there must be no sinking. Henceforth you are terra firma;
it will be your happiness to receive my brother's twin children,
fairest of the Gods.—Tritons, you will have to convey Leto across. Let
all be calm.—As to that serpent who is frightening her out of her
senses, wait till these children are born; they will soon avenge their
mother.—You can tell Zeus that all is ready. Delos stands firm: Leto
has only to come.
F.
XI
The Xanthus. The Sea
Xan. O Sea, take me to you; see how horribly I have been treated;
cool my wounds for me.
Sea. What is this, Xanthus? who has burned you?
Xan. Hephaestus. Oh, I am burned to cinders! oh, oh, oh, I boil!
Sea. What made him use his fire upon you?
Xan. Why, it was all that son of your Thetis. He was slaughtering the
Phrygians; I tried entreaties, but he went raging on, damming my stream
with their bodies; I was so sorry for the poor wretches, I poured down
to see if I could make a flood and frighten him off them. But
Hephaestus happened to be about, and he must have collected every
particle of fire he had in Etna or anywhere else; on he came at me,
scorched my elms and tamarisks, baked the poor fishes and eels, made me
boil over, and very nearly dried me up altogether. You see what a state
I am in with the burns.
Sea. Indeed you are thick and hot, Xanthus, and no wonder; the dead
men's blood accounts for one, and the fire for the other, according to
your story. Well, and serve you right; assaulting my grandson, indeed!
paying no more respect to the son of a Nereid than that!
Xan. Was I not to take compassion on the Phrygians? they are my
neighbours.
Sea. And was Hephaestus not to take compassion on Achilles? He is the
son of Thetis.
H.
XII
Doris. Thetis
Dor. Crying, dear?
The. Oh, Doris, I have just seen a lovely girl thrown into a chest by
her father, and her little baby with her; and he gave the chest to some
sailors, and told them, as soon as they were far enough from the shore,
to drop it into the water; he meant them to be drowned, poor things.
Dor. Oh, sister, but why? What was it all about? Did you hear?
The. Her father, Acrisius, wanted to keep her from marrying. And, as
she was so pretty, he shut her up in an iron room. And—I don't know
whether it's true—but they say that Zeus turned himself into gold, and
came showering down through the roof, and she caught the gold in her
lap,—and it was Zeus all the time. And then her father found out about
it—he is a horrid, jealous old man—and he was furious, and thought she
had been receiving a lover; and he put her into the chest, the moment
the child was born.
Dor. And what did she do then?
The. She never said a word against her own sentence; she was ready
to submit: but she pleaded hard for the child's life, and cried, and
held him up for his grandfather to see; and there was the sweet babe,
that thought no harm, smiling at the waves. I am beginning again, at
the mere remembrance of it.
Dor. You make me cry, too. And is it all over?
The. No; the chest has carried them safely so far; it is by Seriphus.
Dor. Then why should we not save them? We can put the chest into
those fishermen's nets, look; and then of course they will be hauled
in, and come safe to shore.
The. The very thing. She shall not die; nor the child, sweet
treasure!
F.
XIV
Triton. Iphianassa. Doris. Nereids
Tri. Well, ladies: so the monster you sent against the daughter of
Cepheus has got killed himself, and never done Andromeda any harm at
all!
Nereid. Who did it? I suppose Cepheus was just using his daughter as
a bait, and had a whole army waiting in ambush to kill him?
Tri. No, no.—Iphianassa, you remember Perseus, Danae's boy?—they were
both thrown into the sea by the boy's grandfather, in that chest, you
know, and you took pity on them.
Iph. I know; why, I suppose he is a fine handsome young fellow by
now?
Tri. It was he who killed your monster.
Iph. But why? This was not the way to show his gratitude.
Tri. I'll tell you all about it. The king had sent him on this
expedition against the Gorgons, and when he got to Libya—
Iph. How did he get there? all by himself? he must have had some one
to help him?—it is a dangerous journey otherwise.
Tri. He flew,—Athene gave him wings.—Well, so when he got to where
the Gorgons were living, he caught them napping, I suppose, cut off
Medusa's head, and flew away.
Iph. How could he see them? The Gorgons are a forbidden sight.
Whoever looks at them will never look at any one else again.
Tri. Athene held up her shield—I heard him telling Andromeda and
Cepheus about it afterwards—Athene showed him the reflection of the
Gorgon in her shield, which is as bright as any mirror; so he took hold
of her hair in his left hand, grasped his scimetar with the right,
still looking at the reflection, cut off her head, and was off before
her sisters woke up. Lowering his flight as he reached the Ethiopian
coast yonder, he caught sight of Andromeda, fettered to a jutting rock,
her hair hanging loose about her shoulders; ye Gods, what loveliness
was there exposed to view! And first pity of her hard fate prompted him
to ask the cause of her doom: but Fate had decreed the maiden's
deliverance, and presently Love stole upon him, and he resolved to save
her. The hideous monster now drew near, and would have swallowed her:
but the youth, hovering above, smote him with the drawn scimetar in his
right hand, and with his left uncovered the petrifying Gorgon's head:
in one moment the monster was lifeless; all of him that had met that
gaze was turned to stone. Then Perseus released the maiden from her
fetters, and supported her, as with timid steps she descended from the
slippery rock.—And now he is to marry her in Cepheus's palace, and take
her home to Argos; so that where she looked for death, she has found an
uncommonly good match.
Iph. I am not sorry to hear it. It is no fault of hers, if her mother
has the vanity to set up for our rival.
Dor. Still, she is Andromeda's mother; and we should have had our
revenge on her through the daughter.
Iph. My dear, let bygones be bygones. What matter if a barbarian
queen's tongue runs away with her? She is sufficiently punished by the
fright. So let us take this marriage in good part.
F.
XV
West Wind. South Wind
W. Such a splendid pageant I never saw on the waves, since the day I
first blew. You were not there, Notus?
S. Pageant, Zephyr? what pageant? and whose?
W. You missed a most ravishing spectacle; such another chance you are
not likely to have.
S. I was busy with the Red Sea; and I gave the Indian coasts a little
airing too. So I don't know what you are talking about.
W. Well, you know Agenor the Sidonian?
S. Europa's father? what of him?
W. Europa it is that I am going to tell you about.
S. You need not tell me that Zeus has been in love with her this long
while; that is stale news.
W. We can pass the love, then, and get on to the sequel.
Europa had come down for a frolic on the beach with her playfellows.
Zeus transformed himself into a bull, and joined the game. A fine sight
he was—spotless white skin, crumpled horns, and gentle eyes. He
gambolled on the shore with them, bellowing most musically, till Europa
took heart of grace and mounted him. No sooner had she done it than,
with her on his back, Zeus made off at a run for the sea, plunged in,
and began swimming; she was dreadfully frightened, but kept her seat by
clinging to one of his horns with her left hand, while the right held
her skirt down against the puffs of wind.
S. A lovely sight indeed, Zephyr, in every sense—Zeus swimming with
his darling on his back.
W. Ay, but what followed was lovelier far.
Every wave fell; the sea donned her robe of peace to speed them on
their way; we winds made holiday and joined the train, all eyes;
fluttering Loves skimmed the waves, just dipping now and again a
heedless toe—in their hands lighted torches, on their lips the nuptial
song; up floated Nereids—few but were prodigal of naked charms—and
clapped their hands, and kept pace on dolphin steeds; the Triton
company, with every sea-creature that frights not the eye, tripped it
around the maid; for Posidon on his car, with Amphitrite by him, led
them in festal mood, ushering his brother through the waves. But,
crowning all, a Triton pair bore Aphrodite, reclined on a shell,
heaping the bride with all flowers that blow.
So went it from Phoenice even to Crete. But, when he set foot on the
isle, behold, the bull was no more; 'twas Zeus that took Europa's hand
and led her to the Dictaean Cave—blushing and downward-eyed; for she
knew now the end of her bringing.
But we plunged this way and that, and roused the still seas anew.
S. Ah me, what sights of bliss! and I was looking at griffins, and
elephants, and blackamoors!
H.