preparation for a brief existence on this island. In Olympus the
sentiment of yesterday was forgotten, and we realised the passion
of to-day as little as the caprice of to-morrow. Perhaps this
fragmentary tenderness was the real chastisement of our implacable
prosperity.
ARES [_in a very low voice_].
Can we not resume in this our exile, and with more prospect of
continuity, the emotions which were so agreeable in our former
state? So agreeable--although, as you justly say, too ephemeral
[_coming a little closer_]. Can you not teach us to moderate and
to prolong the rapture?
APHRODITE [_rising to her feet_].
It may be. We shall see, Ares. But one thing I have already
perceived. In this mortal sphere, the heart needs solitude, it
needs silence. It must have its questionings and its despairs. The
triumphant supremacy of the old emotions cannot be repeated here.
For we have a new enemy to contend with. Even if love should
prosecute its conquests here in all the serenity of success, it
will not be able to escape from an infliction worse than any which
we dreamed of when we were immortals.
ARES.
And what is that, Aphrodite?
APHRODITE.
The blight of indifference.
VI
[APHRODITE _and_ CIRCE _are seated on the grass in a little dell
surrounded by beechwoods. Far away a bell is heard._]
CIRCE.
What is that curious distant sound? Is it a bird?
APHRODITE.
Cydippe tells me that there is a temple on the hill beyond these
woods. I wonder to whom amongst us it is dedicated?
CIRCE.
I think it must be to you, Aphrodite, for now it is explained that
on coming hither I met a throng of men and maidens, sauntering
slowly along in twos, exactly as they used to do at Paphos.
APHRODITE.
Were they walking apart, or wound together by garlands?
CIRCE.
They were wound together by the arm of the boy coiled about the
waist of the girl, or resting upon it, a symbol, no doubt, of your
cestus.
APHRODITE [_eagerly_].
With any animation of gesture, Circe?
CIRCE.
With absolutely none. The maidens were dressed--but not all of
them--in robes of that very distressing electric blue that bites
into the eye, that blue which never was on sky or sea, and which
was absolutely banished from every colour-combination in Olympus.
It was employed in Hades as a form of punishment, if you recollect.
APHRODITE.
No doubt, then, this procession was a penitential one, and its
object to appease my offended deity. But what a mistake, poor
things! No one ever regained my favour by making a frump of herself.
CIRCE.
After these couples, came, in a very slow but formless moving
group, figures of a sombre and spectral kind, draped, both males
and females, in dull black, with little ornaments of gold in their
hands. It was with the utmost amazement that, on their coming
closer, I recognised some of the faces as those of the ruddy,
gentle barbarians to whom we owe our existence here. You cannot
think how painful it was to see them thus travestied. In their
well-fitting daily dress they look very attractive in a rustic
mode; there is one large one that labours in the barn, who
reminds me, when his sleeves are turned up, of Ulysses. But, oh!
Aphrodite, you must contrive to let them know that you pardon
their shortcomings, and relieve them from the horrors of this
remorseful costume. I know not which is more depressing to
the heart, the blue of the young or the black of the aged.
APHRODITE.
I expect that at this distance from the centre of things, all
manner of misconception has crept into my ritual. Of course, I
cannot now demand any rites, and that the dear good people should
pay them at all is very touching.
CIRCE.
Don't you think that it would be delightful to introduce here a
purer form of liturgy? It is very sad to see your spirit so little
understood.
APHRODITE.
Well, I hardly know. It is kind of you, Circe, to suggest such a
thing. No doubt it would be very pleasant. But I feel, of course,
the hollowness of the whole concern. We must be careful not to
deceive the barbarians.
CIRCE.
Certainly ... oh! yes, certainly. But ... I am sure it would be so
good for them to have a ritual to follow. We should not absolutely
assert to them that you still exist as an immortal, but I do not
see why we should insist on tearing every illusion away from them.
Suppose I could persuade them that you were no longer displeased
with them, and that you were quite willing to let them wear pink
and white robes again, and plenty of flowers in their hair; and
suppose I encouraged them to sacrifice turtle-doves on your altar,
and arrange garlands of wild roses in the proper way, don't you
think you could bring yourself to make a concession?
APHRODITE.
What do you mean by a "concession"?
CIRCE.
Well, for instance, when they were all assembled in the temple, and
had sung a hymn, and the priest had gone up to the altar, could you
not suddenly make an appearance, voluminous and splendid, and smile
upon them? Could you not shower a few champak-blossoms over the
congregation?
APHRODITE.
It is very ingenious of you to think of these things. But I suppose
it would not be right to attempt to do it. In the first place it
would encourage them to believe in my immortality----
CIRCE.
Oh! but to _believe_ is such a salutary discipline to the lower
classes. That is the whole principle of religion, surely,
Aphrodite? It is not for people like ourselves. You know how
indolent Dionysus is, but he always attended the temple when he
was hunting upon Nysa.
APHRODITE.
There is a great deal in that argument, no doubt. Only, what will
be the result when they discover that it is all a mistake, and
that I am a mortal like themselves?
CIRCE.
You never can be a mortal like the barbarians, for you have been a
force ruling the sea, and the flowers, and the winds, and twisting
the blood of man and woman in your fingers like a living skein of
soft red silk. They will always worship you. It may not be in
temples any longer, not with a studied liturgy, but wherever the
sap rises in a flower, or the joy of life swims up in the morning
through the broken film of dreams, or a young man perceives for
the first time that the girl he meets is comely, you will be
worshipped, Aphrodite, for the essence of your immortality is the
cumulative glow of its recurrent mortality.
HERMES [_entering abruptly_].
You will be disappointed----
CIRCE.
Ah! you followed the youths and maidens to the little temple of
our friend. Is it not beautiful?
HERMES.
It is hideous.
CIRCE.
Are you sure that it is a temple at all?
HERMES.
I confess that I was for a long time uncertain, but on the whole
I believe that it is.
APHRODITE.
But is it dedicated to me?
HERMES.
That is the disappointment.... It is best to tell you at once
that I see no evidence whatever that it is.
CIRCE.
I am very much disappointed.
APHRODITE.
I am very much relieved. But could you not gather from the
decoration of the interior to whom of us it is inscribed?
HERMES.
It is not decorated at all: whitewashed walls, wooden benches,
naked floors.
CIRCE.
But what is the nature of the sculpture?
HERMES.
I could see no sculpture, except a sort of black tablet, with
names upon it, and at the sides two of the youthful attendants of
Eros--those that have wings, indeed, but cannot rest. These were
exceedingly ill-carven in a kind of limestone. And I hardly like
to tell you what I found behind the altar----
APHRODITE.
I am not easily shocked. My poor worshippers sometimes demand a
very considerable indulgence.
CIRCE.
Nothing very ugly, I hope?
HERMES.
Yes; very ugly, and still more incomprehensible. But nothing that
could spring out of any misconception of the ritual of our friend.
No; I hardly like to tell you. Well, a gaunt painted figure, with
spines about the bleeding forehead----
APHRODITE.
Was it fastened to any symbol? Did you notice anything that
explained the horror of it?
HERMES.
No. I did not observe it very closely. As I was glancing at it,
the celebration or ritual, or whatever we are to call it, began,
and I withdrew to the door, not knowing what frenzy might seize
upon the worshippers.
APHRODITE.
There was a cannibal altar in Arcadia to Phoebus, so I have
heard. He instantly destroyed it, and scattered the ignorant
savages who had raised it.
HERMES.
There was a touch of desolate majesty about this figure. I fear
that it portrays some blighting Power of suffering or of grief.
[_He shudders._]
APHRODITE.
There are certainly deities of whom we knew nothing in Olympus.
Perhaps this is the temple of some Unknown God.
HERMES.
I admit that I thought, with this picture, and with their sinister
garments of black and of blue, and with the bareness and harshness
of the temple, that something might be combined which it would
give me no satisfaction to witness. I placed myself near the door,
where, in a moment, I could have regained the exquisite forest, and
the odour of this carpet of woodruff, and your enchanting society.
But nothing occurred to disconcert me. After genuflexions and
liftings of the voice----
APHRODITE.
What was the object of these?
HERMES.
I absolutely failed to determine. Well, the priest--if I can so
describe a man without apparent dedication, robed without charm,
and exalted by no visible act of sacrifice--ascended a species of
open box, and spoke to the audience from the upturned lid of it.
CIRCE.
What did he say? Did he explain the religion of his people?
HERMES.
To tell you the truth, Circe, although I listened with what
attention I could, and although the actual language was perfectly
clear to me--you know I am rather an accomplished linguist--I
formed no idea of what he said. I could not find the starting-point
of his experience.
CIRCE.
To whom can this temple be possibly dedicated?
APHRODITE.
Depend upon it, it is not a temple at all. What Hermes was present
at was unquestionably some gathering of local politicians. Poor
these barbarians may be, but they could not excuse by poverty such
a neglect of the decencies as he describes. No flowers, no bright
robes, no music of stringed instruments, no sacrifice--it is quite
impossible that the meanest of sentient beings should worship in
such a manner. And as for the picture which you saw behind what you
took to be the altar, I question not that it is used to keep in
memory some ancestor who suffered from the tyranny of his masters.
In the belief that he was assisting at a process of rustic worship,
our poor Hermes has doubtless attended a revolutionary meeting.
CIRCE.
Dreadful! But may its conflicts long keep outside the arcades of
this delightful woodland!
HERMES.
And still we know not to which of us the mild barbarians pray!
VII
[_The same scene, but no one present. A butterfly flits across
from the left, makes several pirouettes and exit to the
right._ HERA _enters quickly from the left_.]
HERA.
Could I be mistaken? What is this overpowering perfume? Is it
conceivable that in this new world odours take corporeal shape?
Anything is conceivable, except that I was mistaken in thinking
that I saw it fly across this meadow. It can only have been
beckoning me. [_The butterfly re-enters from the right, and, after
towering upwards, and wheeling in every direction, settles on a
cluster of meadow-sweet. It is followed from the right by_ EROS.
_He and_ HERA _look at one another in silence_.]
HERA.
You are occupied, Eros. I will not detain you.
EROS.
I propose to stay here for a little while. Are you moving on?
[_Each of them fixes eyes on the insect._]
HERA.
I must beg you to leave me, or to remain perfectly motionless. I
am excessively agitated.
EROS.
I followed the being which is hanging downwards from that spray
of blossom. Does it recall some one to you?
HERA.
Not in its present position. But I will not pretend, Eros, that
it is not the source of my agitation. Look at it now, as it flings
itself round the stalk, and opens and waves its fans. Do you still
not comprehend?
EROS.
I see nothing in it now. I am disappointed.
HERA.
But those great coloured eyes, waxing and waning! Those moons of
pearl! The copper that turns to crimson, the turquoise that turns
to violet, the greenish, pointed head that swings and rolls its
yoke of slender plumage! Ah! Eros, is it possible that you do not
perceive that it is a symbol of my peacock, my bird translated
into the language of this narrow and suppressed existence of ours?
What a strange and exquisite messenger! My poor peacock, with a
strident shriek of terror, fled from me on that awful morning, the
flames singeing its dishevelled train, its wings helplessly
flapping in the torrents of conflagration. It bade me no adieu, its
clangour of despair rang forth, an additional note of discord, from
the inner courts of my palace. And out of its agony, of its horror,
it has contrived to send me this adorable renovation of itself, all
its grace and all its splendour reincarnated in this tiny creature.
But alas! how am I to capture, how to communicate with it?
EROS.
I hesitate to disturb your illusion, Hera. But you are singularly
mistaken. I have a far greater interest in this messenger than you
can have; and if you dream its presence to be a tribute to your
pride, I am much more tenderly certain that it is a reproach to my
affections. See, those needlessly gaudy wings,--a mere disguise to
bring it through the multitude of its enemies--are closed now, and
it resumes its pendulous attitude, as aerial as an evening cloud,
as graceful as sorrow itself, sable as the shadow of a leaf in the
moonlight.
HERA.
Whom do you suppose it to represent, Eros?
EROS.
"Represent" is an inadequate word. I know it to be, in some
transubstantiation, the exact nature of which I shall have to
investigate, my adored and injured Psyche. You never appreciated
her, Hera.
HERA.
It was necessary in such a society as ours to preserve the
hierarchical distinctions. She was a charming little creature, and
I never allowed myself to indulge in the violent prejudice of your
mother. When you presented her at last, I do not think that you
had any reason to reproach me with want of civility.
[_The butterfly dances off._]
HERA _and_ EROS _together_.
It is gone.
[_A pause._]
HERA.
We are in a curious dilemma. Unless we are to conceive that two
of the lesser Olympians have been able to combine in adopting a
symbolic disguise, either you or I have been deceived. That
tantalising visitant can scarcely have been at the same time Psyche
and my peacock.
EROS.
I know not why; and for my part am perfectly willing to recognise
its spots and moons to your satisfaction, if you will permit me to
recognise my own favourite in the garb of grief.
HERA.
My bird was ever a masquerader--it may be so.
EROS.
Psyche, also, was not unaccustomed to disguises.
HERA.
You take the recollection coolly, Eros.
EROS.
Would you have me shriek and moan? Would you have me throw myself
in convulsive ecstasy upon that ambiguous insect? You are not the
first, Hera, who has gravely misunderstood my character. I am
not, I have never been, a victim of the impulsive passions. The
only serious misunderstandings which I have ever had with my
illustrious mother have resulted from her lack of comprehension
of this fact. _She_ is impulsive, if you will! Her existence has
been a succession of centrifugal adventures, in which her sole
idea has been to hurl herself outward from the solitude of her
individuality. I, on the other hand, leave very rarely, and with
peculiar reluctance, the rock-crystal tower from which I watch
the world, myself unavoidable and unattainable. My arrows
penetrate every disguise, every species of physical and spiritual
armour, but they are not turned against my own heart. I have
always been graceful and inconspicuous in my attitudes. The image
of Eros, with contorted shoulders and projected elbows, aiming a
shaft at himself, is one which the Muse of Sculpture would
shudder to contemplate.
HERA.
Then what was the meaning of your apparent infatuation for Psyche?
EROS.
O do not call it "apparent." It was genuine and it was
all-absorbing. But it was absolutely exceptional. Looking back, it
seems to me that I must have been gazing at myself in a mirror, and
have dismissed an arrow before I realised who was the quarry. It is
not necessary to remind you of the circumstances----
HERA.
You would, I suppose, describe them as exceptional?
EROS.
As wholly exceptional. And could I be expected to prolong an
ardour so foreign to my nature? The victim of passion cannot be
a contemplator at the same moment, and I may frankly admit to you,
Hera, that during the period of my infatuation for Psyche, there
were complaints from every province of the universe. It was said
that unless my attention could be in a measure diverted from that
admirable girl, there would be something like a stagnation of
general vitality. Phoebus remarked one day, that if the ploughman
became the plough the cessation of harvests would be inevitable.
HERA.
It was at that moment, I suppose, that you besought Zeus so
passionately to confer upon Psyche the rank of a goddess?
EROS.
You took that, no doubt, for an evidence of my intenser
infatuation. An error; it was a proof that the arguments of the
family were beginning to produce their effect upon me. I perceived
my responsibility, and I recognised that it was not the place of
the immortal organiser of languishment to be sighing himself. To
deify my lovely Psyche was to recognise her claim, and--and----
HERA.
To give you a convenient excuse for neglecting her?
EROS.
It is that crudity of yours, Hera, which has before now made your
position in Olympus so untenable. You lack the art of elegant
insinuation.
HERA.
Am I then to believe that you were playing a part when you seemed
a little while ago so anxious to recognise Psyche in the drooping
butterfly?
EROS.
Oh! far from it. The sentiment of recognition was wholly genuine
and almost rapturously pleasurable. It is true that in the
confusion of our flight I had not been able to give a thought to
our friend, who was, unless I am much mistaken, absent from her
palace. Nor will I be so absurd as to pretend that I have, for a
long while past, felt at all keenly the desire for her company. She
has very little conversation. There are certain peculiarities of
manner, which----
HERA.
I know exactly what you mean. My peacock has a very peculiar voice,
and----
EROS [_impatiently_].
You must permit me to protest against any comparison between Psyche
and your worthy bird. But I was going to say that the moment I
saw the brilliant little discrepancy which led us both to this
spot--and to which I hesitate to give a more definite name--I
was instantly and most pleasantly reminded of certain delightful
episodes, of a really charming interlude, if I may so call it.
I cannot be perfectly certain what connection our ebullient
high-flyer has with the goddess whose adorer I was and whose
friend I shall ever be. But the symbol--if it be no more than a
symbol--has been sufficient to awaken in me all that was most
enjoyable in our relations. I shall often wander in these woods,
among the cloud-like masses of odorous blossom, in this windless
harbour of sunlight and the murmur of leaves, in the hope of
finding the little visitant here. She will never fail to remind me,
but without disturbance, of all that was happiest in a series of
relations which grew at last not so wholly felicitous as they once
had been. One of the pleasures this condition of mortality offers
us, I foresee, is the perpetual recollection of what was delightful
in the one serious liaison of my life, and of nothing else.
HERA.
Aphrodite would charge you with cynicism, Eros.
EROS.
It would not be the first time that she has mistaken my philosophy
for petulance.
VIII
[_On the terrace beside the house are seated_ PERSEPHONE, MAIA,
_and_ CHLORIS. _The afternoon is rapidly waning, and lights are
seen to twinkle on the farther shore of the sea. As the twilight
deepens, from just out of sight a man's voice is heard singing
as follows_:]
_As I lay on the grass, with the sun in the west,
A woman went by me, a babe at her breast;
She kissed it and pressed it,
She cooed, she caressed it,
Then rocked it to sleep in her elbow-nest._
_She rocked it to rest with a sad little song,
How the days were grown short, and the nights grown long;
How love was a rover,
How summer was over,
How the winds of winter were shrill and strong._
_We must haste, she sang, while the sky is bright,
While the paths are plain and the town's in sight,
Lest the shadows that watch us
Should creep up and catch us,
For the dead walk here in the grass at night._
[_The voice withdraws farther down the woods, but from a lower
distance, in the clear evening, the last stanza is heard repeated.
The_ GODDESSES _continue silent, until the voice has died away_.]
CHLORIS.
Rude words set to rude music; but they seem to penetrate to the
very core of the heart.
MAIA.
Are you sad to-night, Chloris?
CHLORIS.
Not sad, precisely; but anxious, feverish, a little excited.
PERSEPHONE.
Hark! the song begins again.
[_They listen, and from far away the words come faintly back:_
_For the dead walk here in the grass at night._]
MAIA.
The dead! Shall we see them?
CHLORIS.
Why not? These barbarians appear to avoid them with an invincible
terror, but why should we do so?
MAIA.
I do not feel that it would be possible for the dead to "catch" me,
since I should be instantly and keenly watching for them, and much
more eager to secure their presence than they could be to secure
mine.
CHLORIS.
We do not know of what we speak, for it may very well be that the
barbarians have some experience of these beings. Their influence
may be not merely malign, but disgusting.
MAIA.
How ignorant we are!
CHLORIS.
Surely, Persephone, you must be able to give us some idea of the
dead. Were they not the sole occupants of your pale dominions?
PERSEPHONE.
It is very absurd of me, but really I do not seem to recollect
anything about them.
MAIA.
I suppose you disliked living in Hades very much?
PERSEPHONE.
Well, I spent six months there every year, to please my husband.
But a great deal of my time was taken up in corresponding with my
mother. She was always nervous if she did not hear regularly from
me. I really feel quite ashamed of my inattention.
MAIA.
You don't even recall what the inhabitants of the country were
like?
PERSEPHONE.
I recollect that they seemed dreadfully wanting in vitality. They
came in troops when I held a reception; they swept by.... I cannot
remember what they were like----
CHLORIS.
It must have been dreary for you there, Persephone.
PERSEPHONE.
Well, we had our own interests. I believe I did my duty. It seemed
to me that I must be there if Pluto wished it, and I was pleased
to be with him. But--if you can understand me--there was a sort of
a dimness over everything, and I never entered into the political
life of the place. As to the social life, you can imagine that
they were not people that one cared to know. At the same time,
of course, I feel now how ridiculous it was of me to hold that
position and not take more interest.
MAIA.
Demeter, of course, never encouraged you to make any observation of
the manners and customs of Hades.
PERSEPHONE.
Oh, no! that was just it. She always said: "Pray don't let me hear
the least thing about the horrid place." You remember that she very
strongly disapproved of my going there at all----
CHLORIS.
Yes; I remember that Arethusa, when she brought me back my
daffodils, told me how angry Demeter was----
PERSEPHONE.
And yet she was quite nice to my husband when once Zeus had decided
that I had better go.
[_There is a pause._ MAIA _rises and leans on the parapet, over the
woods, now drowned in twilight, to the sea, which still faintly
glitters. She turns and comes back to the other two, standing
above them._]
MAIA.
I, too, might have observed something as I went sailing over the
purpureal ocean. But I was always talking to my sisters. The fact
is we all of us neglected to learn anything about death.
CHLORIS.
We thought of it as of something happening in that world of Hades
which could never become of the slightest importance to us. Who
could have imagined that we should have to take it into practical
account?
MAIA.
Well, now we shall have to accept it, to be prepared for its
tremendous approach.
CHLORIS [_after a pause_].