The Nine Muses Minus One
I — Clio’s Story: Charles Marius
On a beautiful summer night of last long vacation a cloud sailed slowly out of the west. The sun was going down; the honest worker had fallen asleep over his books, and in his dream was standing before a booking office in the Bay of Tarentum and asking for a second aorist return to Clapham; the jubilant whist player, holding the situation in his hand, had exhausted the trumps, and was bringing in the rest of a long suit; the mere conversationalist had worked in that epigram again, and the mere athlete, who did not believe in that fancy kind of talk, had gone away to drink a little good beer; the fiery bedmaker had just gone round to the kitchens, to tell the men precisely what she thought about them: in fact, everything—except the cloud—was much as usual. But the cloud was extraordinary.
It was granted to me to see that cloud close at hand, to stand in its midst, to hear what was spoken there, while I remained unseen and unheard. I do not wish to speak of myself much, because it seems to me vain and immodest; but I must say that I believe the real reason why I was permitted to behold the Muses, and to hear the stories which they told to one another to while away the summer night, is that my nature is singularly pure, and good, and spiritual, and free from grossness, and beautiful. So, I feel sure, is your nature, my dear reader, although in a less degree.
In the front of the cloud hung a rosy curtain of some delicate tissue, and behind this curtain was the rose-lit room in which the Muses were grouped. Clio was standing erect. She wore a long and ample robe; her figure was stately; her look was the look of a handsome, learned woman, who is on the brink of her thirtieth year. In one hand was an open roll of paper, on which gilt letters were blazoned. She was looking down upon the towers, and steeples, and house-tops of Cambridge, and on the slow river winding like a reluctant silver corkscrew through the beautiful meadows of Grantchester.
Behind her, seven of her sisters, picturesquely grouped, reclined on a low divan at the farther end of the room. They all were beautiful in different ways. Their robes, snow-white and pearly-grey, golden and crimson and deep-sea blue, made a poem of colour.
And on the mosaic floor, kneeling on one knee, bending over a little tripod that supported a brazier, was one who wore no robe, but the long night of her beautiful hair. Mockery was on her lips, but dreams were in her eyes. She seemed a young girl of seventeen. She was Erato, who sings to us of love. The picture of her in the classical dictionaries is absurdly wrong. Beside her on the floor lay her lyre and a curious golden casket. From the brazier a thin, wandering line of fragrant smoke came up, and hovered in the room.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Clio turned round to her sisters. “We will stay here,” she said, “for a little while. This is Granta; and here are gathered young men who are truly gymnasts and yet follow the Muses. For they do all of them seek after culture, and love naught but the reading of many learned books, and the hearing of the wisdom of their teachers; and they all strive to lead the higher life.”
Terpsichore gave a curious little cough. I have no certain idea what it meant; but it seemed to imply in some way that she had been there before. The grave and stately Clio never noticed it.
“Yes, we will stay, and tell to one another improving stories,” she went on. “Cupid! Cupid!” she called.
A curtain at the side of the room was flung aside, and in came a little winged boy, with laughing eyes, naked but for the quiver that hung from the shoulders. He does a good deal for the Muses, but not in a menial way. They all smiled when he came in. He stood by the side of Erato, who evidently petted him a good deal, drawing one strand of her dark hair through his little rosy fingers—but he was looking at Clio.
“Cupid,” said the grave Muse, “we would stay here: let the wind blow our cloud no farther.” He nodded his head, turned to go, and then lingered, still playing with Erato’s hair.
“Erato,” he whispered in her ear, “my bow-string is frayed. Let me make a bow-string of your hair.”
“No—perhaps—not now. You wicked little boy!” she said, looking up in his face and laughing.
“Then soon,” he whispered again, and passed once more behind the curtain. I do not know what he did, but the wind ceased, and the cloud remained still. Clio took her place on the divan. “Who shall begin?” she asked.
“Oh, you!” they all cried together.
“You’re the eldest, you know,” added Erato, a little maliciously. Erato had taken a cushion from the divan, and stretched herself very lazily on the floor. I am afraid the other Muses were all anxious to get Clio’s story over as soon as possible. History was her province, and she was so exceedingly historical as to be sometimes almost dull.
“Very well, then. I will begin,” said Clio. “The number of temporal lords summoned by writ to the parliaments of the House of Plantagenet was exceedingly various.”
Clio paused. There was a sly, mischievous look on Erato’s face; she stretched out one hand to the golden casket, and took from it a little powder, which she dropped into the brazier. A strange, pungent odour came up from it. I do not know what it was, but it had a curious effect.
“I think I will begin again,” said Clio. “That’s the wrong story.”
Then she told the story which follows. I am afraid the powder had a little to do with it.
With the battle of Waterloo the last hope of Charles was humbled in the dust. Three years afterwards he was found by the lictors seated in a poor third-class compartment in the railway junction which was erected on the site of that scene of carnage, and still retains the name of Waterloo. Charles surveyed them from the window, calmly and unflinchingly. “Go,” he said, “and tell the Carthaginians that you have seen Marius seated in the South-Eastern Express for Charing Cross.”
His request was never carried out. It was almost impossible to book through to Carthage, and it was too far to walk. With tears in their eyes, the lictors walked sorrowfully away to the refreshment-room. The train steamed out of the station and arrived a week later at Charing Cross, a little tired, but in fairly good condition. Charles Marius levied two benevolences on the arrival platform, and conferred a monopoly on the bookstall; but he was not looking at all well. The marshes of Minturnæ, and a rooted dislike to being called a man of blood, had preyed on his mind, and made him appear haggard and anxious. He was met under the clock by the aged Menenius Agrippa, Socrates, John Bradshaw, the Spanish Ambassador, and others. John Bradshaw was naturally the first to speak.
“As Serjeant-at-Law and President of the High Court of Justice, it is my painful duty to——”
“Stay,” interrupted Menenius Agrippa. “I once told a fable to the Plebeians, and it did good. It is not generally known, and it may be of service in the present critical juncture. Charles Marius, you man of blood, listen. Once upon a time the members refused to work any longer for the Belly, which led a lazy life, and grew fat upon——”
“Don’t, my dear friend, don’t,” said the Spanish Ambassador piteously. “We know it by heart. It’s all in little Smith.”
“But it may do good,” said the aged Menenius. “How far had I got? Oh yes—and grew fat upon their toils. But receiving no longer any nourishment from the Belly, they soon began to——”
At this moment a cheerful porter, with a merry cry of “Now then, stoopid!” ran a heavy truckful of luggage into the aged Menenius and bowled him over. This gave John Bradshaw an opportunity to resume his remarks:
“It seemeth to me that the time hath now gone by when the telling of fables might serve the body politick; and seeing what grave charges have been exhibited against you, Charles Marius, you man of blood, and duly proven before me, it behoveth us rather to inquire into the method which shall be deemed most suitable for your execution.”
He went on to point out that there were many methods of execution, but that it was most agreeable to the sense of the nation that Charles Marius should be taken to a very small, very cheap, very dirty, very Italian restaurant; and that he should drink there one bottle of that sound dinner-wine Raisonola at eleven shillings the dozen.
“We hereby give our royal word,” said Charles Marius; but he was sternly checked by the Serjeant-at-Law.
“We need nothing of your royal word, having in former times had too much of it. I myself will walk first, accompanied by the Spanish Ambassador and Menenius Agrippa. You, Socrates, will accompany that man of blood, Charles Marius, and administer to him the consolations of your philosophy. You others will remain.”
The sad procession filed out of Charing Cross Station. Menenius Agrippa looked a little angry, and was brushing the dust from his toga; but the Spanish Ambassador and John Bradshaw were intensely stately and dignified. Behind them walked Socrates and Charles Marius. Socrates began at once:
“Seeing, my friend, that you are about to be executed, let us speak of execution. For it is well to speak always of the thing which is the present thing. So, setting aside your misconduct under H. Metellus Stanleius in Africa, let us discuss this execution. Now, I have often wondered why to the many it always seems an evil to be executed. For if a will be duly executed, it takes force therefrom. Now, to acquire force is plainly to be reckoned among the good things. Therefore to be executed must be good and desirable. Or shall we say rather that words have no meaning?”
“Go to the deuce!” said Charles Marius sulkily. “We offered John Bradshaw our royal word, and he refused to take it. So we won’t talk at all.”
And he never said another word until they were all five seated at one table in the Italian restaurant. A melancholy waiter of no nationality brought a soiled bill of fare; he also added two forks and a mustard-pot as a kind of after-thought.
“Bring,” said John Bradshaw, “one bottle of Raisonola and one glass.”
“Ver’ well,” said the waiter sadly, flicking a dead fly off the table with one end of his napkin. “It will be a shilling, if you please.”
“Pay afterwards,” said John Bradshaw sharply.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders. “I am ver’ sorry, but we mos’ always ask for ze monny before we bring ze Raisonola. We haf our orders. You see we haf often had a trouble to get ze monny afterwards from ze heirs. Tree weeks ago two gemmens kom in and order ze Raisonola. They trink it, and die all over ze floor.” (An expressive shrug of shoulders came in again here.) “We sweep ’em up, and throw ’em away, and they pay us nossin—nossin at all. It is all so moch loss.” His hands were turned outward, deprecatingly.
“Look here, my man,” said Menenius Agrippa quickly. “Once upon a time the members refused to work any longer for the Belly, which——”
“Dry up,” thundered John Bradshaw. “We must pay,” he added. “And it so befalleth that I have not my purse, but the Spanish Ambassador——”
The Ambassador explained that he had only Spanish coins with him, which would not be accepted. Socrates hastily added the information that he always took his money straight home to Xantippe, and that if he was short that night there would be unpleasantness.
Menenius said that he had no money, but would be glad to continue his fable. “Let’s see. Where was I? Oh, I know—any longer for the Belly, which——”
“Do drop it,” sighed the Spanish Ambassador pathetically.
“Silence,” said John Bradshaw. “Charles, be a man, and pay for your own execution.”
Charles offered his note-of-hand and his royal word.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene.
But the waiter refused them. And the five were compelled to leave the restaurant. There was a crowd round the door. When they had got clear of the crowd, one of their number was missing. It was Charles Marius.
The rest of the story is well known. Charles Marius escaped to St. Helena, and spent the rest of his life in collaborating with Dr. Gauden on a novel called “Eikon Basilike.” The failure of the execution preyed upon John Bradshaw’s mind, and in a fit of madness he wrote the time-tables which bear his name. Menenius Agrippa became a diner-out, and acquired the surname of “History,” because he always repeated himself. The Ambassador still lives in his castle in Spain.
Clio had finished. “Thank you so much,” said the other Muses.
II — Euterpe’s Story: The Girl and the Minstrel
There was silence for a few moments. Erato, stretched lazily on the floor, looking up at the dim-lit roof of the cloud-chamber, let her pretty lips curve half-way to a smile, when she checked herself suddenly; she never could keep her thoughts still for a moment,—they flew from poor Clio’s story to a story of her own. She was thinking now of a hot summer night in Sicily, and of one who walked across the low hills, with flocks pattering softly after him, and seen but indistinctly in those fragrant moments when the evening touches the darkness. She thought of him. As he went, he piped a melody—a simple strain enough, but with one of those quaint refrains that nestle down in the memory of a man. Ah—and afterwards!
“Clio,” she said, drawing a long breath, “I have a story, sweet and fit for a summer night, a story of the joyousness, and rapture, and sorrow of Love. Will you hear it?”
“Ah, yes, Clio!” said Terpsichore. “Erato once told me a story, and it was so lovely and dreamy. It had the temper of soft valse music. One’s heart throbbed to it: one lived to it, as it were. Let us hear Erato’s story.”
“Not just yet, I think,” answered Clio. “We must not forget that Granta lies beneath us. Far down below our feet, one sits—a young man with red hair—amid many dictionaries. He is turning into Latin elegiacs those beautiful lines—I quote from memory—
His head was bare, his matted hair
Was shaved to keep him cool.
Already he has seven feet in his hexameter, and knows it not, because the gods do not like him. If we let thoughts of love stray forth from our cloud-chamber, and flutter down into that young man’s red head, I fear that he would never get the pentameter at all. No, Erato, to these young men love is a disturbing influence; they avoid the maidens, and care only for a surer knowledge of Greek accentuation. When they have all gone to bed, you shall tell your story; great personages in history have fallen in love; I myself have no prejudice against it. But you may choose which of us shall tell the next story.”
Erato sighed, and glanced round the room. When her eyes fell on Euterpe her face brightened. And truly Euterpe was good to see: she had a wonderful grace of body, and fresh gladness in her eyes; yet there was a depth in the look of her; it was the look of one not easily understood, of one who could feel a sorrow.
“I choose Euterpe, because she is so beautiful.”
A little flush came into Euterpe’s cheeks; her lips parted, showing her small white teeth. She was ever shy and quiet.
“I would sooner sing to you,” she said. “I am more used to singing.”
“No, dear, it must be a story,” said Clio firmly.
“And perhaps a song will come into it,” added Erato sweetly.
Then Euterpe told this story. And all the time that she was telling it Erato sat gazing upward into Euterpe’s eyes.
The child came through the forest. The big trees grew close together, and creeping plants hung like heavy serpents from their boughs. The sun found its way through, here and there, among the broad, smooth leaves, and made splashes of light on the red gold of the child’s hair. One bird called to another; every now and then there was a flutter among the leaves, or the quick rustle of some small live thing in the tall grasses and brushwood below, and a scented wind kept singing of a land of rest where the good winds go when they die. From far away one could hear the low roar of a lion, as he stood by the margin of the distant morass, looking over stretches of sand and spaces of still water to the line of grey hills that seemed to be the end of the world.
The child was very fair. Her hair was glorious; her eyes were blue; her young limbs were white, and strong, and graceful. Yet one might see a fierce look in the blue eyes, and splashes of crimson here and there on the white limbs, and her breath came quickly; for it was in her nature to torture and to kill, and she knew no better thing. In one hand she dragged along the body of a young wild cat, scarcely more than a kitten. She lived ever in the open air, and she was fleet and fearless. All the morning she had chased it, until it was weary; yet, although it was young, it had fought long and fiercely. On the hand that dragged it along were the marks of its claws and teeth; thick drops of blood fell slowly on to its body, and its fur was wet and stained. The child wore a living, tortured, fluttering necklace. She had caught the butterflies one by one, choosing those which were brightest in colour, and had threaded a spiked tendril through the soft bodies to make herself the necklace. She liked the tickling fuss and flutter that the butterflies made against her smooth skin, as they hung there and died slowly.
A great purple flower, that grew low down on the ground, lifted its brightness towards her as she passed: “And, oh!” sighed the flower, “she is fair, and sweet would it be if she would take me and wear me gently at her breast.” The child did not know the voice of flowers; but she stooped down and tore off the purple petals one by one. From the cup of the flower rolled a big golden bee: he had been sleeping there. For one second he buzzed on the ground, trying to remember where he was and to understand what had happened. In that second the child had swiftly seized a stone, and so she crushed most of the bee, leaving it enough life to let it feel the agony of death. She flung down the body of the wild cat, and ran on for a few steps, with a laugh on her red mouth. Then she stopped again where a nest was built in a bush with very dark leaves and little white globes of flowers. In the nest were three young birds: two of these she cast to the ground and killed at once: she held the third in her small hot hands for a second, and a kind of frenzy came on her, and she made her firm teeth meet in its neck. For a little while she stood shuddering, and then she passed onwards, but more slowly. Slowly she came through the forest in her fairness and cruelty, caring nothing for her own beauty, and knowing nothing better than her cruelty.
And it chanced that she came to the place where the minstrel sat in pleasant shade on a mossy curve of a tree’s root. In his hands was his lyre, and music came from it like falling water. The child crept into the brushwood, and hid herself, and listened. And the minstrel sang:
Far away is the land where all things go,
The rest of the winds that have ceased to blow,
The peace of the rose whose leaves lie low,
Scattered and dead, where roses grow.
Far away! far away!
There the dead bird takes a song again,
And the steed has rest from the spur and rein,
And the dead man learns that all were vain—
All the old struggles, and joys, and pain.
Far away! far away!
And the light on their eyes is a wondrous light,
Where there is not day and there is not night,
Where the fallen star once more grows bright
That fell into darkness out of the height—
Far away! far away!
Let me win there ere the break of day,
Ere the first faint light o’er the hills grows grey,
I am tired of my work and tired of my play,
And I’ll make better songs in the land far away,—
Far away! far away!
The voice ceased; but the music of the lyre still flowed on, and the minstrel looked upwards towards the sky. No word of cruelty had been in the song; but through the music her first knowledge of gentleness came to the child, and she saw that she had been cruel. She crouched there amid the tall rank grasses; her face had grown whiter and whiter; her eyes were strained and piteous, but there was no tear in them. With trembling fingers she unfastened the living fluttering necklace, and gently killed all the butterflies to spare them torture. Then she flung herself prone on the ground, with her forehead on her linked hands; her red lips quivered a little, but the relief of tears came not. “Ah!” she moaned, “why was I so cruel? Why did I never know?” The wind played with her hair, moving it caressingly.
As the child lay there, and the minstrel played on and on, the sky above grew darker. There was no need now for pleasant shade. Over the line of grey hills that seemed to be the end of the world rested the storm-clouds, black and purple. Suddenly the air became quite still, as if it were waiting for something. Was it the roar of the lion or the voice of the storm that sounded dimly afar off?
Once more the minstrel raised his voice to song, and anger was in his eyes:
The pure white flower grew up in the way
Where the wild cat’s whelp went forth to play.
And the whelp rent the flower for the gold within,
And a child slew the whelp for its soft warm skin.
And the lion slew the child for a draught of blood,
And the river swept the lion away in its flood.
And the gods dried the river in its deep stone bed,
And all from the flower to the stream were dead.
We are things that the gods make sport upon:
We shall have no peace till the gods are gone.
The child had raised herself to watch the minstrel. As he sang the last words the skies seemed to snap overhead; a quick flash shot downwards, like the thrust of ghostly steel. For a moment the child’s eyes were dazzled; then the loud roar of thunder seemed to fill the forest and the sky. When she looked again she saw that the minstrel had fallen forward on his face; by his side was his lyre, with the strings broken and smouldering; from his body, charred by the lightning, delicate strays of smoke curled up. The child came, and knelt by the side of the dead minstrel. She raised his head, and looked piteously upon it, for the beauty had all gone out of it now; then she pressed her little red lips to the blackened lips of the dead man, and went on her way. It was the first kiss she had ever given.
And still she did not weep; but the blood in her veins seemed to be as fire, and strange voices were sounding in her head. When the evening fell she stood by the edge of the swamp. Out of a dim cavern crept an old lion, and looked at her with green, hungry eyes. His lips curled a little backward. The child called to him: “Come, then! I have been seeking for you! Torture me, and then let me die!”
The lion turned swiftly round, and fled with a howl back into the cavern.
The child wandered on. She ate the black poison berries, but they would not hurt her. At last, when the moon was up, she saw a dark, deep pool, and flung herself into it; but the pool cast her back again on to the shore. She was fain to die, and to atone; but the gods knew their business better than to allow it.
And still she walks through the forest, seeking rest and finding it not, and she speaks to none. Only sometimes at night, when the golden moon comes up behind the low grey hills, she sings in a sweet child’s voice a few lines of a remembered song:
Let me win there ere the break of day,
Ere the first faint light o’er the hills grows grey!
I am tired of my work and tired of my play,
And I’ll make better songs in the land far away,—
Far away! far away!
And the gods are immensely amused.
“Thanks,” said Thalia, “though I don’t care much for those fanciful high-toned stories.”
But Erato rose, and seated herself on the divan by Euterpe’s side, and wound one arm round her waist, and kissed her on the lips. I thought they looked rather pretty and poetical; but I don’t go in much for that kind of thing myself.
III — Terpsichore’s Story: The Under-Study
A short pause, and then Erato spoke, addressing Clio:
“Clio, my dear, and reverend sister, do you think these young men below us, in the colleges, have gone to bed yet?”
“My dear child,” said Clio, “you could hardly expect me to——well, as far as I can judge, some of them are still up and at work. The young red-headed man is stamping up and down his room, as if he were angry. He has discovered that his hexameter would not do, for His head was bare, his matted hair, and he has been trying it a different way. Now he moans: ‘“Caput erat nudum”—and the “a” ’s short, and I wish I was dead!”’
“I asked the question,” said Erato, “because a story has just occurred to me, which I should like to tell you. I read it in the French. I don’t think it would hurt the young men, even if they could hear it. I’ll tone it down a little, of course. There’s one splendid part where the husband——” She paused suddenly.
“Yes,” said Thalia drily. “In those pretty French stories there generally is one splendid part where the husband——” and she also paused suddenly. She looked at Erato, and they both smiled.
“Certainly not! Most certainly not!” said Clio at once. “You must remember, Erato, that this is not the Greek civilisation. The English have got beyond that: they have advanced; they sweep through the deep while the stormy winds do blow, and hearts of oak are their men, and they’d take a cup o’ kindness yet on the place where the old hoss died. I make these last remarks on the authority of their own favourite songs, of which I have made a special study for my book on National Misfortunes. I assure you, Erato, that any University paper which printed your story would be ruined.”
“Ah, well!” answered Erato. “I have heard it said that Love’s a lost art nowadays.” She paused a second, and then added: “Perhaps—perhaps they are happier without it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Terpsichore. “Everything depends on the way you take it. Some take their love laughing, and some take it crying. I always take it laughing myself. Either way, you’re happier for it.”
“Really, Terpsichore,” murmured Clio reprovingly.
Terpsichore did not heed her. “Where they are so wrong nowadays is in taking their love commercially; in other words, they do not love; they simply acquire all rights in a cheap housekeeper or an expensive table ornament. They are so much too judicious. Yet sometimes—well, there was a man—shall I go on?”
“Yes, do,” said Erato.
And this is the way that Terpsichore went on:—
There was a man once—not very long ago—who was poor, but artistic; and during his life he had rather more than his share of coincidences. It happened one autumn that he was amusing himself by wandering about a country that was good enough for an artist, but failed to attract many tourists because it did not boast enough places where you had to pay for admission. He had stayed a few days in a little village, where there was one street that went tumbling downhill, sometimes with cottages on each side, sometimes through clumps of stunted trees, sometimes with the open heath all round it. It happened one night that he was wandering down this street, and had reached one of those places where the street turned into a country lane for a time, or rather for a space. He was smoking, and humming to himself a song that he had heard Viola sing a few months before.
Viola had taken very fair hold of the town that season. It was not only that she sang divinely; she was beautiful, and a little mysterious. The numerous stories told about her were rendered probable by her beauty, which was rather wicked; but no one could be certain about them because she was so mysterious. Besides, many of the stories were self-contradictory.
On one side of the road was a cottage, standing by itself, and partly screened by the shrubs which grew in the small garden in front of it. Here the man stopped short, for the lower windows of the cottage were open, and from within he could hear some one singing the very song which he had just been humming. Some one? Why, it could be no other than Viola herself who was singing it like that! He had always been interested in Viola, although he had seen her only on the stage. It was her reputation that she loved splendour and luxury. What could she be doing in this quiet, out-of-the-way village?
He leaned over the low garden gate, resting his elbows on the top of it, and listened until the song’s conclusion. The room in the cottage was brightly lighted, and the curtains were not drawn over the window; he had heard rightly; it was Viola. He could see her distinctly. She was standing with her face towards the garden; and the man watched her attentively. The mystery increased. Her dress was brilliant, not the dress that a woman would put on in solitude and in a country village. She was wearing her diamonds too—those diamonds about which every story had been told except the true one. What was the reason for it all? Was this simply her passion for splendour, existing even when the splendour was to have no witnesses. The little, shabby, taciturn old woman who acted as her companion in London was seated at the piano, and had been playing the music for her song. But surely Viola would not have made herself so magnificent simply on her account.
It suddenly dawned on him that he was doing rather a mean thing by watching Viola in this way. He would not look any more, but he would wait, in case she should be going to sing again. That was love of music—not curiosity.
But even as he was making this decision the door of the cottage opened, and Viola came out. She walked straight up the pathway towards the gate on which the man was leaning; there was not the least hesitation about her.
“I wonder how on earth she managed to see me in this darkness?” he thought. “Well, I’m not going to run away. I will wait, and make my apologies to her. I expect she will be angry with me. Well, she should not leave the windows open when she sings, if she does not want people to stop and listen.”
As she drew near to him she murmured a few words in Italian, as if she were pleased about something; he conjectured that much, for he could not understand Italian. Then she astonished him by placing her hands on his shoulders, and kissing him, once, passionately.
It flashed across him for an instant that she had been expecting some one else, and had made a mistake. Now he understood the dress, the diamonds—everything.
“Excuse me, my dear lady,” he said, “but you are kissing the wrong face—are you not?” He afterwards thought that he might have expressed himself better, but he was agitated.
She, on the other hand, never lost her composure for a second. She spoke in English, with the faintest possible stammer:
“Yes, th—thanks; it is the wrong face. Would you t—take it away?”
He retired at once, walked twenty yards down the road, and then met the full humour of the situation. He laughed a long, suppressed laugh. He went on and on, away from the village, out over the heath, away from the haunts of men. And, as he walked, the humour of the situation vanished again; but the night was full of her music, her queenliness, the fragrant charm of her presence. “Viola,” he said softly, “Viola, what a heavenly mistake!”
Three years passed away. The poor but artistic man grew slowly wealthy in those years. The exaltation of that night never left him; he was full of brightness and happiness; his work was all light and strength. He grew popular—partly by reason of his excellent spirits, and partly because of his finer qualities. His luck was proverbially good; but he had enough hope, optimism, and vigour to have carried him safely through the most trying fortunes. His reputation was at its brightest when his death came.
He was in an accident—a commonplace railway accident—an accident that passed over a dishonest commercial traveller in one compartment, and killed the artist in the next. There was a short period, however, chiefly occupied by delirium, between the accident and the man’s death.
It was at the end of the delirium that he turned to the friend who was by his bedside, and asked abruptly:
“Have I been speaking of Viola?”
“Yes; of course I wouldn’t——”
“Of course. All the time?”
“All the time.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Well, I have known you most of your life, and I never heard you speak of her before—not in that way at all. I did not know that you had been her lover.”
“I was not. But once, before she left England, I was—I was her lover’s under-study. I have lived on it ever since,” he added, after a pause.
Then, through some queer freak of the brain, the humour of the mistaken kiss appealed to him again, and he began to laugh—uncontrollably, as if the thing had just happened.
Laughter was the worst thing possible for him in that state. He died laughing.
“I suppose she—Viola—didn’t care,” said Erato thoughtfully, when Terpsichore had finished her story.
“You forget that she had some one else to think about. Did you ever know a woman yet that thought twice, by way of pity, about a man she did not love, when she had a man that she did love to think about?”
“N—no,” Erato replied.
There was a moment’s pause. “Personally I don’t mind,” said Clio, “but—considering where we are—do you think that last story quite—quite judicious?”
IV — Melpomene’s Story: The Cursed Pig
“I ’M rather thirsty,” said Erato to Clio. Erato had stretched herself once more on the mosaic floor of the cloud-room, with enough cushions to make herself comfortable. “So am I,” said Terpsichore.
“Well, considering how very hot the night is, I am not surprised. Cupid!”
The little petulant boy came laughing into the room, and nodded his head in reply to the order which Clio gave him. Then he brought in a silver tray covered with fragile glasses of nectar. All the Muses drank nectar except Melpomene. She had a look of intense gloom, and she drank blood-and-seltzer from a very large tumbler with a very bad curse cut in Greek characters on the margin of it. Before Cupid handed her glass to Erato, he just touched it with his own lips. Then he sat down by Erato’s side, playing with her long hair. “Erato,” he said, “I would like to wrap your beautiful dark hair all around me, and go to sleep. There’s a faint scent of those yellow roses about it, and it’s awfully soft and warm. I love you, Erato.”
“You ought to love all of us,” said Clio reprovingly.
“I try to,” said Cupid, very soberly, “and it’s tough work with some of them,” he added under his breath.
“Cupid, darling,” whispered Erato to him, “to-morrow I will give you the bow-string that you wanted.”
“Thanks awfully,” said Cupid, “and you must tell the next story, you know, and I will lie here and listen to it. Tell me the story again about that shepherd in Sicily who——”
“Hush! hush!” interrupted Erato, “some of the sisters hardly like that kind of story; and they say that the young students at work in the colleges below us never think of love, and would not care to hear about it.”
“Well,” replied Cupid, with some assumption of importance, “I was there last June week on business, and I bagged three hundred and forty-two brace. That looks rather different, I fancy. Every man that I hit is engaged. They write long letters to Her. They keep faded flowers which She wore. They are beginning to drop all their bachelor friends. One of them has made a kind of little shrine on his mantelpiece, in which he keeps one tiny white satin slipper that She wore, and also a large photograph of Her. Unfortunately the virus—I mean the sweet influence—is not always permanent. Only too often the June week of one year undoes the work of the previous June. I feel sure they would like to hear the story about the Sicilian shepherd, and how he got to the cave, and found——”
“Hush!” said Erato quickly, “that’s the most dangerous part of all. We’ll see about it though. Clio,” she added, raising her voice, “Cupid tells me that you must be a little mistaken about those young students; he says that——”
“I am sorry to have to interrupt you,” remarked Clio, “but I have asked Melpomene to tell us a soul-moving story, and she is going to commence.”
“I am not going to listen to that bloodthirsty hag,” whispered Cupid to Erato. He kissed her and passed out of the room. Erato was busy with the curious little silver brazier, from which the smoke began to ascend more quickly.
Melpomene took a draught of her blood-and-seltzer, and began in a deep and husky voice:—
A watchman stood on a lonely tower, looking eastward, and whistling “Wait till the clouds roll by,” shredding it in as a remedy against impatience. And that watchman was nothing if he was not classical.
He pondered upon the history of the house. For the master was away from home, having gone to a lonely place not marked on the maps, in order to make atonement for his crime. Ten years before he had eaten a veal-and-ham pie, in which, owing to the inadvertence of the cook, his eldest daughter had taken the place of the veal-and-ham. And the cook’s carelessness had been entirely due to absence of mind: he was distraught because his son had just murdered his aunt, and the son had murdered the aunt because his mind was unhinged owing to a sudden depreciation in nitrates, which he had bought largely. And the gods had caused the nitrates to depreciate because one of the directors hadn’t sacrificed anything except one thigh slice, rather fat, for the last two years. And the director hadn’t sacrificed anything else, because he got his butcher’s meat under contract and the butcher had bilked him. And the butcher had been compelled to bilk him, because the gods had sent a murrain on all the cattle in the world, to punish one pig that they had a spite against. This was not quite the ordinary curse, descending from father to son with the silver spoons and the mortgages. It went zigzag, like a snipe. Many people had taken snap-shots at it with sacrifices, but they hadn’t been able to stop it. Nobody knew where that curse was going to next; so a general interest in it prevailed. Teiresias had taken a long prayer at it, just as it was hopping from the director to the cook’s family, and missed badly. And now the master of the watchman’s house—by name Eustinkides—had fired a ten-years’ penance at it. Some thought he’d hit it; others said it was lying low, and would get up again in a minute.
This distressed the watchman. He felt uneasy. It was one of those frisky curses, with an everlasting ricochet about it, going on like sempiternal billiards with a bad cushion. He did not think it probable, of course, that it would hit him. He was in such a very humble position in life. But still he would have felt more comfortable if he could have seen that curse getting to work somewhere else. It was not a pleasant thing to have hanging about the house. In the meantime he awaited the coming of Eustinkides. The master had ordered that at the moment when he appeared in sight the hot water should be turned into the bath. For, during the ten years’ penance in the place not recognised by the Atlas, he had carefully abstained from all manner of washing, and had not so much as breathed the name of soap. Suddenly the watchman removed his eye from the telescope, and cried: “Listen, ye that are within the house. For on the road is a curious geological formation that walks, and a staff is stuck in a projecting portion of one of its upper strata.” When it came nearer, and within hearing, the watchman called out to it:
“What ho! old alluvial deposit. How’s your ammonites?”
A deep voice answered: “I am thy master, Eustinkides.”
“Oh! sorry!” gasped the watchman, and disappeared abruptly. Whish! The hot water poured into the bath.
An hour afterwards Eustinkides lay in that bath, and soaked. As fragments of other climates slowly detached themselves from him, he thought of his penance and of his journey home. He had stopped at Delphi and put himself in communication with Zeus. “Could you tell me how to stop this curse, Mr. Zeus?” he called up the communication tube. He waited for some little time, and then a hollow voice replied:
“One pork chop and mashed. Two in order.” At this Eustinkides had at first been angry; but afterwards it seemed to him that it might be a mystery. He thought of writing to Zeus to ask for a further explanation, but there was the difficulty about the address. He felt sure it would not do to write:
——Zeus, Esq.,
Up Top, R.S.O.
So he dried himself slowly, and went into the study. As he sat there, his French cook was announced, to consult with him on the question of dinner. While they were talking, a smell came out of the kitchen and walked slowly upstairs; it was a strong young smell, but it was lazy. It lounged into the study, and sat down under the King’s nose.
“Ah!” said Eustinkides, “that is very pleasant. What is that you are cooking downstairs?”
“Pork chops for myself and the watchman,” said the cook.
In a moment the words of the oracle flashed across into the mind of Eustinkides. “I also will eat pork chops, but they must not be cut from the animal whereof my servants eat. So go out, and catch another pig, and kill him, and chop him, and cook him, and bring me the result.”
So the cook went out, and caught a butcher who was very careless, and demanded a pig. And the careless butcher remembered that he had killed a pig a month or two before, but he had entirely forgotten what he had done with it. At last he found it in the coal-cellar, and brought it to the cook. “It’s a bit dusty,” he remarked, “but that’ll all wash off.”
“There’s something wrong with that pig,” said the cook as he prepared dinner for Eustinkides.
“There’s something deuced wrong with these chops,” remarked Eustinkides as he worked his way slowly through them. However, he felt sure that he was doing the right thing, and carrying out the commands of Zeus, so he did not much mind at the time.
A quarter of an hour afterwards he staggered into a Chemist’s. “Give us two-pennyworth of any quick sort of death, will you?” he gasped faintly.
“What are you suffering from?”
“Cursed pork,” he murmured.
That was precisely it. The pig from which those chops had been taken was the very pig which the gods had such a spite against. Eustinkides was carried home to fulfil his destiny. His last words were: “Apple sauce!”
So the front end of the curse run into the hinder end, and that smashed the thing up. Wherefore let us all reverence the name of Eustinkides, and refrain from soap and sin.
Melpomene fainted, and squirmed on the floor. I cannot say that I was surprised. They picked her up, and gave her a little more blood-and-seltzer, and she recovered gradually.
“Tragedy does take it out of one,” she explained.
“There isn’t any more of the story, is there?” asked Thalia.
“No, that’s all.”
“Thank Zeus!” all the sisters ejaculated fervently, but in a whisper.
V — Polymnia’s Story: An Hour of Death
Clio was toying with the delicate little glass from which she had been drinking. “Before we have the next story, one of you might sing something,” she said. “I shall be glad to play the accompaniment on the sackbut, which is a historical instrument. We first hear of it as being in use about the latter end of the——”
“Let’s see,” said Erato, shamelessly interrupting, “I was to tell the next story, I think.”
“Well, let’s have the song first.”
“I like music at night,” said Erato. “At night it has a speaking voice, and one understands it better. And it would be a good introduction to my story; but it must not be a drawing-room song. They are called drawing-room songs because they are whistled in the street. No, my song must be good. There mustn’t be any—
Love me! love me forrever!
Till the years shall porse awye
Beside the flowin’ river
You ’ear the words I sye.
Love me! love me forrever!
Love, though the world grows cold,
Till no more we roam, and they call us ’ome.
And there’s tew more lambs in the fold.
That sort of thing couldn’t possibly make anybody love anybody, you know. It’s rather queer,” she continued meditatively, “but one goes out at night all alone, and it’s quiet, and a lot of little stars show you how big the darkness is. You’re thinking just about ordinary things; and without any reason there comes into your head a bit of one of the Nocturnes—Chopin’s, the eleventh, I think—and straightway you feel as if you’ll die unless you kiss somebody you’re awfully fond of. And, of course, being alone, you can’t. And so you get sorrowful. It’s queer, because there’s nothing about love in all that—the music, and quiet, and darkness—to make one think about it; but one always does—at least I do.”
“My dear Erato!” remonstrated Clio.
“Well, I do. Euterpe shall sing to us now. I don’t mind a song that can be sung in a drawing-room—it’s the drawing-room song that I hate. But Euterpe knows all about it, and she sings beautifully, and she’s very pretty—and yet she’s shy.”
Erato was quite shameless in her favouritism. But she had chosen well. Euterpe was shy and quiet, but she loved singing. She smiled at Erato, and seated herself at a cottage piano in one corner of the cloud-room. I had not noticed before that there was a piano. She refused Clio’s offer to accompany her on the sackbut, and another offer from Terpsichore to accompany her on the banjo. She was quiet, but when it came to music she was firm. The music of her song was beautiful, but owing to the expense of printing music it is cheaper to give the words:—
Down the dusty road together
Homeward pass the hurrying sheep,
Stupid with the summer weather,
Too much grass and too much sleep.
I, their shepherd, sing to thee
That summer is a joy to me.
Down the shore rolled waves all creamy
With the flecked surf yesternight;
I swam far out in starlight dreamy,
In moving waters, cool and bright.
I, the shepherd, sing to thee
I love the strong life of the sea.
And upon the hillside growing,
Where the fat sheep dozed in shade,
Bright red poppies I found blowing,
Drowsy, tall, and loosely made.
I, the shepherd, sing to thee
How fair the bright red poppies be.
To the red-tiled homestead bending
Winds the road, so white and long;
Day and work are near their ending,
Sleep and dreams will end my song.
I, the shepherd, sing to thee;
In the dream-time answer me.
“Dear Euterpe,” said Erato, “you must have been thinking of Sicily. It brings it all back to my mind, how he and I——” Erato paused. “Clio,” she said at last, “I don’t want to tell the next story. Let one of the others tell it. Perhaps I sha’n’t listen very much, but you must forgive me. I want to lie here, and think, and think, with music in my head.”
“Perhaps Polymnia has a story to tell us,” suggested Clio.
Polymnia wore a long robe of pearly-grey; her face was pale, and her eyes were deep and thoughtful.
“Yes,” she said, in a low musical voice, “I remember a story.”
And this is the story which she remembered:—
It happened one day that Zeus was in a bad temper—a thoroughly bad temper. When this took place the whole of Olympus knew it. John Ganymede knew it. He had grown respectable and middle-aged. He was inclined to be portly, and still more inclined to give his views on anything to anybody. Just at present he was standing in his pantry, polishing glasses, and talking to the Deputy Cloud-controller.
“There’s no pleasin’ of him, when he’s like that,” said Ganymede, shaking his bald respectable head. “Last night he was suthin’ awful. ‘Ganymede,’ he says to me, when I brings him his whisky last thing afore he goes to bed, ‘you can pour it out for me.’ So I does. ‘And you can put hot water in it.’ So I does again. ‘I think a couple of lumps of sugar would improve it—and a little bit of lemon peel—don’t you, Ganymede?’ ‘Yessir, suttinly sir,’ I says, and puts ’em in. ‘Grate a little nutmeg on the top.’ I were surprised, o’ course, but I did it. ‘Stick a couple of spoonfuls of Maraschino into it.’ All this time he’s lookin’ as quiet and gentle as a hangel. There wasn’t no Maraschino, and I had to go down to the cellar and fetch it. I measures it out careful, and says nothing. ‘I’ll have a large lump of ice in it, and two straws.’ I thought his poor ’ead must be going, but it wasn’t my place to make no remarks. I just carries out the horder. ‘Have you done all that, Ganymede?’ he asks, drowsy-like. ‘Yessir, suttinly sir,’ says I. ‘Well, there,’ says he, ‘you—several blanks—now you can run round, and see if you can find a dog that’s such a Zeus-forsaken fool as to drink it—because I ain’t going to.’ And with that he goes off into his bedroom, screamin’ an’ laughin’ an’ swearin’ like a maniac. Now that ain’t no way to be’ave.”
The Deputy Cloud-controller could sympathise. That very morning Zeus had sent for him, and demanded:
“How’s the wind?”
“Due East,” said the Deputy.
“Then make it due West.”
The Deputy bowed, retired, and made it due West. In ten minutes’ time he was summoned before Zeus again.
“Make it East and West and South and North all at once,” said Zeus.
“I can’t,” said the Deputy.
“Then consider yourself discharged,” roared Zeus.
“Then consider yourself a blighted idiot,” replied the Deputy indiscreetly, getting ready to dodge a thunderbolt.
“So I do,” said Zeus, who never was very expected. “Go away, and send me some one else to be angry with. You’re stale.”
The Deputy Cloud-controller had found some difficulty in getting any one to go.
“What am I to do, Mr. Ganymede?” said the Deputy despairingly. “They all say that it’s more than their lives are worth. And the females won’t stand his language. I must send some one, or I shall get discharged in real earnest.”
“Well, pussonally,” said Ganymede, “I should be very glad to oblige you, but leave this ’ere glass and plate I can’t. Now, there’s the Clerk of the Curses. He’s pretty tough. Why don’t you send him?”
“So I would,” said the Deputy, “but he’s away on his holiday.”
“Then there’s the Earth-child,” suggested Ganymede, looking a little ashamed of himself.
No one quite knew how the Earth-child had come among the gods. There must have been a mistake somewhere; it was pretty generally known that she was to have been born in Arcadia. There was something of a scandal about it, too. But there she was, generally petted and liked, and happy enough among the gods.
“Yes, there’s the Earth-child,” said the Deputy, and he too looked a little ashamed of himself. They talked together a little while longer, and then the Deputy went away, suffering badly from conscience.
A few minutes afterwards the Earth-child walked fearlessly into the hall where Zeus was seated. She had red hair, and an intelligent face. She was bright, and affectionate, and twelve years old, and not afraid of anything.
“I heard you wanted to be angry with me, Zeus,” said the child.
Zeus looked at her grimly. “I should prefer something rather bigger.”
“Why do you want to be angry?” the child asked.
“Because I’ve done everything, and know almost everything, and I’m quite sick of everything.”
“Music?” suggested the child.
“Sick of it!”
“Love?”
“Everything—everything, I tell you,” said Zeus hastily. “I’m tired of eating, drinking, loving, hating, sleeping, walking, talking, killing—everything.”
“I’m sorry for you, Zeus,” said the child, with a sigh. “Couldn’t you die?” she suggested afterwards, seriously.
Zeus frowned. “No, no—not that,” he said. There was a moment’s pause. Zeus was thinking; and, as he thought, his face grew very ugly. He was immortal, but to a certain extent his immortality was conditioned. He might die at any moment he chose, and remain dead for an hour. If at the end of that hour any one would put his lips on the lips of Zeus, and draw in his breath, then Zeus would come back to life, and he that so drew in his breath would die. But if no one did that, then Zeus himself would be dead for ever. Zeus had never ventured on the experiment; he knew that no one loved him enough. But he might play on the simplicity of the child. And take her life? No, he could not do that. But he would ask her.
“Earth-child,” he said, “will you do something for me?”
“Yes, Zeus—anything that will make you happy again.”
It was horribly tempting. Should he try this one thing of which he knew nothing, of which he was not tired? Yes, he must.
“I am going to sleep,” he said rapidly. “I will turn this hour-glass here, and when the last grain of sand is running out, you must put your lips to mine and draw in your breath. Then I shall wake up again, and be happy.”
The child stared at him with wondering eyes. “I will do it,” she said.
A minute afterwards Zeus was lying dead, and the child was watching him, and in the hour-glass the sand was running out slowly. Time passed, and the child, as she watched, saw that his face was changing queerly. It was not quite like the face of one who slept. Suddenly she crept to his side, and put one hand over his heart. It was motionless. “Zeus!” she called, in a loud whisper. He did not answer, and she knew then that he was dead.
“But shall I wake him?” she said, watching the running sand.
As the last grains ran out, she bent over him, and did what he had said. He sat up with a gasp, and a look of horror died slowly out of his face. And the child lay prone on the floor, face downwards.
Zeus hardly thought of her. “Take that away,” he said to Ganymede, who entered the hall just then. Ganymede went pale to the lips, but he lifted the white burden in his arms, and carried her out. “I wish we hadn’t sent her,” he sighed to the Deputy Cloud-controller; “I would have gone myself, if I’d known.”
“I wish you had,” said the Deputy. “Both of us together are not worth her.”
Zeus had forgotten her. He could think only of the things he had known in that horrible hour. “I will never die again,” he said to himself; and for many nights he could not sleep.
“The weather’s rainy,” said the Muse of Astronomy, who had drawn a curtain back and was looking out.
“Yes, but Urania,” murmured Terpsichore, knowing it was wrong, but quite unable to help it.
VI — Calliope’s Story: The Last Straw
If Euterpe had happened to have been born a pronoun, she would not have been demonstrative or personal. She would have been self-possessive. With all her shyness, she had herself perfectly in hand. She always was a little in love with somebody, but that was a secret she never told herself. Some gentle reason guided all that she did. And now for some little time she had been watching Erato, who was stretched in her favourite attitude on the floor of the cloud-chamber.
Now Erato had not even pretended to pay the slightest attention to Polymnia’s story. She was thinking—and thinking. She thought easiest when she was lying on her back. Her hands were clasped behind her head, and she looked upwards with wide-opened eyes. You never saw such eyes. They told one half the story, how—with all her waywardness and petulance and laughter—love was the life of her. And now, as she lay dreaming, it seemed that it was noon in Sicily, and the flocks were sleeping; and he rested in the shade—he, the shepherd—singing. And now, again, the noon had passed and the night had fallen; in the dim cavern the air was fragrant and cool; one heard no footsteps on the thin white sand; she said nothing to him, nor he to her, for all was said and sleep was near; only for a little while they listened, and heard the great sea singing its song eternal. And it all was over and gone. For the gods are dead, and the steam-roller goes about the streets; and we are all either brutes or prigs, and most of us are both, and there is no more love-making. I, of course—a spiritual nature, very highly civilised—can see that we live in an age of progress and omnibuses, and can be thankful for it. But Erato, poor child, did not take many things seriously—only love and the service of it. And it happened, every now and then, that some such fit of despondency or fierce sorrow would capture her as had captured her now. Of late this had been happening too often. To-night it was the song which Euterpe had sung that had set her pondering—now thrilling her with some exquisite recollection, now saddening her as she thought of the present time, the epoch of the brute and the prude. It was half-pitiful to watch, as Euterpe was watching, and to see the laughter all die away from those red lips, and the eyes grow liquid and suddenly close, and the tightening of the little hands, and the hurried breathing.
Euterpe was not demonstrative. So it was the more to her credit that she left her place, and sat down on the cushions by Erato’s side. She did not say anything to her. She only did one or two of those gentle things that a girl will do—a touch of the hand—a caress. And suddenly Erato buried her head in Euterpe’s lap, and clung to her and sobbed quietly. I suppose Euterpe had the sympathetic way. Some dogs have it: you are sitting before your fire, alone, smoking, thinking of your bills or your badness, or anything unpleasant, and you murmur a few bad words; the big dog gets up, shakes himself, and thrusts his cold nose into your hand and whines dejectedly. Then you have to slap his back genially, to make him see that it is not his fault.
I do not think Clio can have noticed what had happened, for she said briskly:
“And now, Erato, we will have your story. The young men in Cambridge must be all in bed and asleep, so it won’t hurt them. You must not spoil it by leaving anything out. Let it be the story of you and the shepherd, you know—and don’t——”
“Clio, Clio,” said Euterpe quickly, “can’t you see that Erato is ill? Please go on quickly, and let Calliope tell her story. When that is finished, Erato will be all right again. She has been worrying herself.”
It was not often that Euterpe said so much, and so authoritatively. Her eyes were bright: almost there were tears in them.
“I should be glad to recite to you,” said Calliope, “a poem in thirty-five cantos, with two thousand stanzas to the canto, heroic metre, classical subject——”
“Swivel-action and no escapement,” Thalia went on, under her breath.
“I am afraid,” said Clio, “that we shall not have time for all that, much as we should like to.”
“Oh, quite so,” added Terpsichore, a little maliciously.
“If you would read us the synopsis now,” suggested Clio.
“Or the index,” said Thalia.
“Or even the advertisements at the end,” Terpsichore proposed.
“I will read you no poem whatever,” said Calliope severely. “You are not—not yet ripe for it.”
“Yes, we are very crude,” sighed Thalia to Terpsichore.
“I will tell you instead a perfectly true story, quite unadorned and not at all epic. When you get a little riper, I will read you one of my own poems, but not to-night. To-night you have to put up with the following drivel.”
This is the drivel which they had to put up with:—
There was once a man, an Athenian, who was the opposite of all that he wanted to be. The gods had made him for a joke, and a very good joke he was; but as a man he was a failure.
To start with, he desired to have a perfect body and then to despise it. He wanted to be beautiful, and strong, and think nothing of it. Yet he thought a good deal of the bent piece of ugliness which was the nearest he could do to a perfect body. For he had nothing he wanted, and could do nothing he wanted. Sometimes he made good resolutions and tried to lead a fine life; then the gods dug one another in the ribs, and rolled about Olympus gasping with laughter. They knew very well that they had taken unusual pains about that man’s physical composition; they had afflicted him with several hereditary taints; they knew that he might make enough good resolutions to pave the whole of—well, Westminster Abbey, and that it was a physical impossibility that he should keep any of them. “Let this man,” one of the gods had said to Zeus, shortly before the failure was born, “be cowardly, sensual, and brutal.” Then Zeus said that he was tired of making that sort. “Oh,” the other god urged, “but we’ll give him at the same time the emotions and aspirations of a noble mind. Then we shall see soul and body fighting, and the soul will get thrashed every time.” “Now, that is something like sport,” Zeus had remarked, as he gave the necessary order.
So this man went on providing amusement for gods and men until he was twenty-five years of age. Sometimes he, unfortunately, was quite unable to laugh at himself. Then he wrote verses. At other times he laughed at himself very well—often in self-defence, because it made other men let him off easier—and then he would tear his verses up.
On that last day he lay in bed in the morning and shivered. He had slept for a little while—he had seen to that before he went to bed—but he was wide awake now, and his head was burning, and his thoughts were of the kind that tighten the muscles of the body and are likely nowadays to lead on to padded rooms. For the day before he had been found out; one act of fatal cowardice on his part—such cowardice as no one could forgive—had cost a girl her life, and this girl was the sister of his own familiar friend. There was plenty of variety about his thoughts. Sometimes he felt like a murderer. Sometimes he heard the dead girl’s brother speaking awful things to him, contemptuous, heart-broken words. There was no hope of concealment, no pretty story that he could tell. It had all been seen and known. In his dreams that night he had been through the whole scene again, but his own part had been altered. In his dream he had been equal to the occasion—taken the plunge, rescued the girl, and been welcomed with praise and honour, and he had walked back through the streets of Athens feeling more happy than a god. Suddenly he awoke and recalled the facts. The girl whom he had loved was dead—dead through his own cowardice. It was such loathly cowardice that he shuddered to think of it. All men would hate him, and yet their hatred would be nothing to his own hatred for himself. Every thought was a torture, a knife that went into his heart and brain, fiercely and with regular beat, stabbing and stabbing.
He sprang from his bed, and dressed himself hurriedly. The house seemed to him to be strangely quiet. He called—in a parched, husky voice—and no one answered. All had left him: the very slaves had run away from such a master, and he was alone. No one, he thought, would come near him now. He had served as a laughing-stock for his friends: he was now too despicable to be laughed at. If you wish the villain of your drama to be hissed as villain was never hissed before, make him during the first two acts the low comedian of the piece.
The man was trembling and shuddering. He made a small fire, and crouched down by it. Ah, if he only had it to do again! A million deaths were better than such torture as this. An impulse—irresistible almost—came over him to shriek aloud and to tear with his hands at something. Could he be going mad? The thought horrified him. He fetched wine, and drank it, and tried to calm himself, crouching down by the fire again. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and presently one of his old companions—and the worst man in Athens—stood before him.
“You cur!” said his old companion.
“Leave me alone!” gasped the crouching figure. “Leave me alone, or I will kill you.”
“You know that you dare not touch me.”
The coward knew it. It was true. The long knife which he had grasped fell from his fingers. “Leave me,” he cried again piteously; “you can say nothing of me which I have not said of myself. You cannot hate me as I hate myself. Leave me! leave me!”
Then, with a gesture of disgust and contempt, the worst man in Athens left him. And now the strength of the wine mastered the coward, and he slept. This time dream followed dream, and every dream was cruel. It was late in the evening when he awoke. The only light in the room was that which came from the dying embers of the fire. By that light he saw to his horror the figure of a child standing there—a white-faced child, with awe in her eyes—the younger sister of the girl whose death his cowardice had caused.
“I have a message for you,” she said. “As I slept this afternoon she came to me, and bade me tell you that she knows all about it, and that you could not help it; the gods made you so; for the gods are strong, and it is fitting that we should be very patient.”
The crouching coward said nothing.
Then the child came quickly to him and kissed his ugly face. “I am very sorry, very sorry for you,” she whispered gently; and then she crept gently away.
The coward burst into tears, and, grasping the long knife once more, staggered into an inner chamber, and drew the curtain behind him. The child’s kiss was the thing that had just turned the balance. From the inner chamber there was the sound of one who fell heavily, and then all was still—very still indeed.
“The worst of making that sort,” Zeus remarked, with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of that inner chamber, “is that they so seldom last. But they are certainly funny. Personally, I sha’n’t sleep for laughing to-night.”
“Would you mind,” said Euterpe quietly, “drawing back that curtain from the front of the room? A few minutes ago Erato fainted, and I can’t bring her round again. I think the cool night air might revive her.”
Terpsichore drew back the curtain, grumbling to herself. “Just like her—we shall have the whole place turned into a regular hospital again, I expect.”
VII — Thalia’s Story: The Camel Who Never Got Started
Erato soon recovered consciousness, although she did not regain the spirit which she had shown at the commencement of the evening. She leaned, white and listless, on a pile of cushions. Cupid had brought her water to drink; and now he waited, seated on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin and his hands clasped over them, gazing lovingly and sadly at his dear Erato, or downward in sheer dejection at the mosaic. Euterpe, at Erato’s request, had gone to the piano. For some time she sat playing nothing in particular with great feeling and much expression; but she went songwards in the end, as she always did. As far as I can remember the words, they were something like this—it is called “Malcontent”:
At Somerset House in the noontide hour, and close to the roar of the Strand,
The kind policeman looks to the sky with a piece of bread in his hand,
And the pigeons all come fluttering down, because they understand.
Would that I might a pigeon be,
For some one on earth to care for me!
Heigh-ho!
And when they’ve had enough of crumbs they turn and fly away,
Upward and onward through the smoke, and they see the city grey,
Like a rotten peach that is stuffed with flies on a stifling summer’s day.
Had I but wings I would fly afar,
Where no disgusting cities are.
Heigh-ho!
But the waiter brings the bill of fare and spreads it in front of me,
And pigeon-pie at one-and-four’s the first thing that I see;
Imagine what the effect of this on my young soul must be.
Almost I would that I had died,
And were under the crust with my feet outside!
Waly! Waly! Waly!
“These verses,” said Euterpe in apology, “were written by a young man in London, who was forced to live in town, but would have preferred to have driven the cows to pasture, and to have made wreaths of buttercups to twine in his beautiful hair.”
“Had he beautiful hair?” asked Erato softly.
“N-no; that was the difficulty,” answered Euterpe.
Then she came and sat by Erato again, blushing at having spoken so much. And Erato made a good deal of her, as she always did.
“I am quite well again now, Euterpe,” she said.
“Ah!” sighed Euterpe, “but this happens every night.”
“Every night you swoon away,” added Cupid.
“But I am quite well now, and I will never be ill any more.”
“Then,” said Clio, “perhaps you would tell us your story now. Love stories suit the small hours.”
I am afraid Clio had wanted to hear that story all the time. But she was the incarnation of outward propriety, and had struggled against her wishes. And now it was Erato who was unwilling.
“I can’t,” she said in a low voice. “I could have done it before—earlier in the night—but now it reminds me of too many things.”
“Then,” said Clio rather snappishly, “I will ask Thalia.”
Thalia had a good-humoured smile, and a very pleasant voice, but her story was nothing more than the following:—
There was once a camel who had got sick of the menagerie business. And this was pardonable, because the menagerie had now been on tour for six weeks, and the trombone in the band had been out of tune all the time. There were other things that made the camel weary. The untamed tigress had a bad cough, and kept him awake at night. The showman had called him the ship of the desert at each performance, and he wanted to be called something else for a change. On one occasion he had been lying in motionless dignity, and a little boy in a tight suit had asked if he was stuffed. He had been kicked by his keeper, ridden by children, starved by the manager, and jested upon by young men with penny cigars, who sucked intermittent oranges and called one another Chollie. He was sick of the menagerie business, and he wanted to get out of it. So he made himself disagreeable. As he was passing the band-stand one night, he reached out his great neck and ate the trombone part to “Nancy Lee.” This made him want to be a sailor and sing “heave-ho” during the rest of the term of his natural life. But where was the sea? He’d got no sea. He hadn’t an notion, as people say. So he gave up his mind to being disagreeable again. He knocked down a beautiful child with golden hair, and trod on her, so that she died; and the management had to send her parents a gratis admission before they’d stop grumbling. Then the camel took up his position in front of the lion’s den, and said sarcastic things to the lioness. This enraged her; and not being able to reach the camel, she ate a portion of the lion-tamer, to show her spirit. Finally he walked up to one of the elephants who had a dummy tusk, and did a little comic dentist business, insomuch that the audience jeered at the showman, and the showman said several things which were not set down in the printed guide to the show. That night the camel kicked his keeper, out of reciprocity, and then talked very high talk indeed in the still midnight hours to a hyena who had seen the world.
“I am going away,” the camel said, with a pathetic gasp which was the nearest he could do to a sigh. “My soul is being stifled—quite stifled—in this place.”
“That’s the bread,” said the hyena decidedly. “We get nothing but bread.”
“It’s not the bread,” snapped the camel. “It’s the smell, and the low social status of the audience. I am going to seek peace and culture in another clime. I am not happy here; there can be no true happiness in a tent which smells of thirty-four distinct species, and penny cigars on the top of them.”
“Well, I hope you’ll find them—the peace and culture. I’m not much on pilgrimages myself, but I believe the first thing to do is to get started. Start away.”
“I will,” said the camel. So he wandered slowly out of the tent, and was fetched quickly back again, and tied up, and treated with ignominy. He tried it again on the following night, and was kicked till he was more grieved than he could express. He tried it a third time, and then the menagerie management sold him to a circus.
Now, at the circus, the camel was at first exceedingly proud, because he walked in the procession, and cab-horses shied at him; but afterwards he grew very lonely, for want of other wild beasts with whom he might converse. But at last the circus people bought an ostrich that was very cheap because it had consumption, and the camel’s heart was lightened. Now the ostrich was a great romancer, and told stories of passion and bulbuls, of rivers and deserts. And the camel listened to all these stories with glowing eyes.
“I once,” he said confidingly, “was going to start on a pilgrimage to find culture, but I was prevented. And after all it would surely be better to return to my old home in the desert and taste the sweets of domesticity.” Now the camel had been born in the menagerie, and knew nought of the desert, but he was nothing if he was not a talker.
“I shall lie under the palm-trees, and crop the cocoanuts; plunge into the hot white sands for air and exercise; and I shall take a wife, and she shall build herself a nest, and sit in it, and lay eggs in it.”
“My dear sir!” said the ostrich with a blush.
“And then my family will gather round me in the winter evenings, and we shall play round games, and go to bed early, and regularly enjoy ourselves.”
“When do you start on your pilgrimage in search of domesticity?”
“I shall start, wind and weather permitting, to-morrow at one pm.”
But he did not start then, because he ate of circus bread, which was so exceedingly diseased that he fell on a bed of sickness. And the circus company saw that he would die, and advertised him for sale very cheap. And he was bought by an ardent young curate who had an enthusiastic but indistinct idea that the poor beast might be utilised to illustrate a lecture on the Holy Land.
Now the curate was a very humane man, and lodged the camel meanwhile at a livery stable. And while he was writing a sermon against all manner of pride, that night a message came to him from the livery stable to say that the camel had very bad spasms, and had kicked a large hole in the ostler. The curate, from force of habit, sent the poor quadruped a pound of tea, a bottle of port, and a tract called, “Mother’s Mangle; or, Have you a Penny for the Ticket?” The ostler drank the port, and the camel ate the tea. So much tea made him very nervous, and out of compassion they put a cat in the stable to keep him company.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the cat. “Will you sing something?” The cat knew perfectly well, of course, that camels cannot sing; it wanted to make the animal return the polite inquiry, and so get a chance of letting off an erotic song which it had learned in the stables. But the camel was not such a fool as that.
“I dislike music,” he said. “I went in search of culture, and never got started. I also went in search of domesticity, and never got started. I am now going on a third pilgrimage,—but it will not be in search of music.”
“Do you like milk?” said the cat rather inconsequently.
“No,” said the camel.
“Do you like being scratched under the left ear?”
“No,” said the camel.
“Can you catch mice and kill them slowly?”
“Look here,” said the camel, now justly irritated, “you’re not the Catechism, and you’re not the Census; what’s the point of all these questions?”
“I was going,” replied the cat, rather aggrieved, “to suggest some object for your pilgrimage, and I wished to see what you liked.”
“Well, if that’s all,” said the camel, “I’ve quite made up my mind. I am going to search for death. I shall start, if the tide serves, at six a.m. to-morrow morning.”
But he didn’t, because he died that night. And as he arrived without ever starting, it has been argued by some that he must have been a genius. If he had stuck half-way without ever arriving, he would have been only a camel of considerable talent.
But these things may be otherwise. Things generally are.
“Has that story got an inner meaning?” asked Terpsichore.
“Yes,” said Thalia.
“What is it?”
“Don’t know,” said Thalia.
“If you do know, you ought to say,” remarked Clio.
“I do not think the story is quite—quite—well, you know.”
“No, I don’t,” said Thalia.
“Nor do I,” said Terpsichore.
They were just going to quarrel a little more, when Euterpe exclaimed: “Look, Erato, the dawn is breaking; it is already a little lighter in the East.” She added gently, after a pause, “Don’t you think you had better go to bed now, Cupid?”
“No, no,” said Cupid, “I want to stay with my darling Erato. I love you, too, Euterpe, but I love Erato more than anything else in the whole world.”
“Then come and kiss me—again, and again,” said Erato.
VIII — Urania’s Story: Number One Hundred and Three
“YES,” said Clio, “it will soon be morning. There will be time only for one more story. Urania shall tell it to us. Do you not think that you had better go and rest now, Erato? You look so tired.”
“I am tired,” answered Erato, “but it is not the tiredness that wants sleep. And I should like to hear Urania’s story.” She was very pale; dark shadows lay under her burning eyes; her face seemed spiritualised. Her ways and her voice were subdued and gentle now. The brightness and vivacity were gone. Sometimes she would look lovingly up into Euterpe’s eyes, or touch caressingly Cupid’s curly hair. For the most part she lay motionless, and seemed to be looking fixedly at something—some vision unseen by her sisters.
But Cupid never ceased to look earnestly at her, with trouble on his pretty, boyish face. And all of them felt the strange nervous tension of those who have watched far into the night; an excited tremor came over them, bringing with it flashing, vivid imaginings. There was a pause, a silence that was like a prayer to the dawning light. Then Terpsichore arose, with no merriment, as of old, upon her face, but a look of eager penitence. And she knelt down by Erato’s side, and whispered—so softly that only Erato might hear it—“Forgive me, Erato, forgive me! I did not love you once as well as I love you now. I was half jealous because you seemed to like Euterpe better than you liked me, and because you were so beautiful. But I do love you now—I love you more than I can say. Oh, forgive me, Erato!”
Erato kissed her on the lips, and Terpsichore went back to her place, crying a little, for no particular reason, and hoping that no one noticed it, after the manner of maidens.
Suddenly Urania spoke, with a deep thrill in her voice. This was her story:—
There was once a man who was very careful. He saluted the sun, spoiled a good floor by making libations, sacrificed freely, and learned by heart what enabled him to remember the distinction between the dies fastus and the dies nefastus. In fact, he did all that could be done. And his number in the books was number one hundred and three.
Now, at the end of the quarter, Zeus & Co. were going through their books. It was wearying work and dry work. Ganymede was in and out of the office all day with liquors, and Mercury had been run off his legs with messages to the different departments. The clerk was reading out the items in a dreary monotone.
“Number one hundred and one. Dead. Cholera.”
“That was a capital cholera,” murmured Co., “and did its work well. Go on, clerk.”
“Used to live in Eubœa. Killed to spite his sister, because she——”
“That’ll do,” said Zeus hurriedly; “I remember that case—a stupid woman, a very stupid woman—but pretty. Next, please.”
“Number one hundred and two. Philosopher still living because he wants to die.”
“Say ‘usual formula’ when we come to that. It’s no good wasting time. Has number one hundred and two got anything unpleasant the matter with him?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah, then—let me see—we’ll give him a couple of ulcers. Mercury, just look in at the Punishment Department, and order a couple of large ulcers to be sent to number one hundred and two, and look sharp back. Next, please.”
“Number one hundred and three. Living and prosperous. Regular in his righteousness. Further details at the Virtue Record Department.”
“We ought to give that man some other reward,” said Zeus, who sometimes suffered from a slight twinge of justice in damp weather.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Co., who was very healthy, and never got a touch of justice in any weather. “I hate a man who does everything right. It’s so infernally hypocritical. Besides, it shows a commercial mind. He only does it in order to get something by it. I hate a commercial mind. I’ll guarantee he doesn’t do it out of affection for us.”
Zeus sniggered. “Well, well,” he said, “affection, you know, affection——” But here he was interrupted by the arrival of Mercury.
“Just look in at the Virtue Record,” said Co., “and bring the detailed list for number one hundred and three.”
Mercury was back again in a minute. “The Virtue Record office is shut, sir, nobody ever virtuous after lunch, sir—shuts at one, sir. The clerk’s gone home and taken the keys.”
“Well,” said Co., “it doesn’t matter. The man is obviously a hypocrite, and he’s got no business to try and make bargains with us. I don’t mind it so much myself, Zeus, but it is such an insult to your dignity.”
“Do you think so?” said Zeus quickly. “Then he shall repent it. I’ll teach him to call ME a pettifogging huckster. I’ll teach him to try to bribe ME. I’ll give him a lesson. Pass me those thunderbolts. I’ll scorch, and blight, and blast——”
“Gently, gently,” said Co. “We may just as well try and get a little fun out of it. We’ll see who can torture best—killing barred. You shall go first.”
So Zeus, who had plenty of force but very little skill, went to work in the old-fashioned way. He killed the man’s relations, burned down his house, destroyed his crops, wrecked his ships, reduced him to poverty, and afflicted him with the most distressing disease that the Punishment Department had in stock. And yet the man continued cheerful, saying that the gods were just and would yet send him prosperity.
“Oh, this is sickening,” said Zeus; “I can’t do anything with him. Now, Co., you try.”
“You’ve not left me much to work on,” said Co.; “you’ve taken away all the man has, except his baby son and his belief in us. I will give him something—a little accident—fever—cerebral disorder. See? Then he kills his child—you observe?—the child whom he loves more than himself. Then I restore him to his senses again. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Zeus, a little sulkily, “you’ve won, Co. What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know,” said Co. modestly. “It was just an idea. He could not be tortured any worse than that?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” objected Zeus. “You let me try again.” Number one hundred and three still lay moaning on the floor of the room.
“You can try, of course,” said Co.
Zeus still stuck to the old-fashioned plan of punishing by deprivation. There was only one thing left to take away—the man’s belief in the gods. So he took that.
Suddenly number one hundred and three arose. There was a chill smile on his face, and he walked out into the courtyard, and looked at the rising sun. “I was mistaken,” he said. “There are no gods. All is as it chances. Good is chance and bad is chance. Nothing matters any more. I would die if I thought anything mattered. There are no more values. It is the same thing whether I murder my son, who is dearer than life to me, or whether I give alms, or whether I eat my breakfast. I shall never be sorry or happy any more. Sorrow and happiness are vain and foolish.”
So he went back to his house again, and washed his hands calmly, and broke his fast.
“Well, I never!” said Zeus.
“Ah!” said Co., “you must learn the new ways. You’re behind the times.”
“Very well,” retorted Zeus snappishly; “you needn’t say it so loudly. I don’t want all Olympus to know that.”
“The dawn is here!”
It was Terpsichore who spoke. She had drawn back the curtain that formed the front of the cloud. Below them lay the flat fen country, with dykes, and waste places, and gaunt lonely trees. The sunrise was beautiful as a fair dream, sprigs of light snapping on the surface of the marshy pools and slow streams, where the cool dawn-wind shook the water’s surface.
“And now I will go to my rest,” said Clio.
“And I,” said the others. “And I too.” Only Erato strove to rise and could not, and fell back, breathing quickly.
“I have grown weak,” she said, and her voice was low, so that it could hardly be heard. “I will stay here, and rest here, in the warm light of the sun: I am cold, strangely cold.”
Euterpe and Cupid stayed with Erato. The rest all went into an inner room, far within the cloud. Each as she passed Erato had some gentle word to say to her. They had bidden Cupid come with them; he had replied with an angry look and a shake of the head, not trusting himself to words.
So these three were left alone in the cloud-chamber. Erato stretched out her little hands to the sun, and watched the light come flickering over them. Cupid had drawn a little apart, still watching her. At last her eyes closed. “Euterpe,” she whispered, “sing to me—sing the last song. I am drowsy, and would sleep now.” So Euterpe went to the piano. She did not sing very well, for something seemed to be wrong with her voice—a kind of huskiness:
All’s over: fall asleep.
There is no more to say,
There are no more tears to shed, and no more longings dead,
And the watch ends with the day.
Wherefore wish or weep?
Close your eyes, and fall asleep;
And happy are the dead who sleep alway.
In the fair sunlight lie;
And let your sad thoughts stray
Through the golden gleams of the gate of dreams
At the breaking of the day
Wherefore wish or weep?
Close your eyes, and fall asleep;
And happy——
Suddenly Euterpe stopped, and for a moment there was an awful silence in the room. Then putting restraint aside, she burst into sobs, weeping as if her heart were broken, and flung herself down by Erato’s side.
“Dead? Erato, my darling!”
And Erato did not move or speak; her face was very beautiful as the sunlight fell upon it. There was no sound in the room but the passionate sobbing of Euterpe.
Cupid had risen. His face, for all its boyishness, was firm, unmoved; only a little drop of blood was on his lip where he had bitten it through. He looked once at his dead Erato; then walked to the front of the cloud-chamber, and stared vacantly outwards. It seemed to him that rings of iron were growing tighter round his chest, and stopping his breath. A humming sound was in his ears. He did not quite know what was happening. Flecks of light seemed to dart before his hot, dry eyes.
He had stood there a long time—he knew not how long—when he heard a voice behind him.
“Cupid! Cupid! you loved her too.”
It was Euterpe, standing there pale and sweet, looking at him, stretching her hands towards him, the tears trembling still in her eyes.
And then, at last, flinging himself into her arms and clinging to her, he wept. “Loved her! loved her!” he cried.
So Erato lay there dead, and beautiful in death, and the sun shone fiercely, because it was now day, and men were going forth to their work.