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# 2025-01-29 - The Twilight of the Gods by Richard Garnett | |
Prometheus by Gustave Moreau (1868) | |
I admire the author's beautiful, poetic writing style in this | |
collection of high-quality fantasy short stories. I liked the first | |
story the best. I also enjoyed The Dumb Oracle, Pan's Wand, and | |
Truth And Her Companions. All of these stories involve Greek | |
mythology. | |
The story of Ananda The Miracle Worker is a Buddhist trope. Long | |
ago i read that when Buddhism became an official state spiritual | |
path, the role of Ananda in many stories was to be a dupe, showing | |
the superiority of Buddha's teaching over what it supplanted. In | |
this story, Ananda fills this role perfectly. | |
I am including the complete text of the first story below. | |
# The Twilight of the Gods | |
> Truth fails not, but her outward forms that bear | |
> The longest date do melt like frosty rime. | |
## Chapter I | |
The fourth Christian century was far past its meridian, when, high | |
above the summit of the supreme peak of Caucasus, a magnificent | |
eagle came sailing on broad fans into the blue, and his shadow | |
skimmed the glittering snow as it had done day by day for thousands | |
of years. A human figure--or it might be superhuman, for his mien | |
seemed more than mortal--lifted from the crag, to which he hung | |
suspended by massy gyves and rivets, eyes mournful with the | |
presentiment of pain. The eagle's screech clanged on the wind, as | |
with outstretched neck he stooped earthward in ever narrowing | |
circles; his huge quills already creaked in his victim's ears, | |
whose flesh crept and shrank, and involuntary convulsions agitated | |
his hands and feet. Then happened what all these millenniums had | |
never witnessed. No thunderbolt had blazed forth from that dome of | |
cloudless blue; no marksman had approached the inaccessible spot; | |
yet, without vestige of hurt, the eagle dropped lifeless, falling | |
sheer down into the unfathomable abyss below. At the same moment | |
the bonds of the captive snapped asunder, and, projected by an | |
impetus which kept him clear of the perpendicular precipice, he | |
alighted at an infinite depth on a sun-flecked greensward amid | |
young ash and oak, where he long lay deprived of sense and motion. | |
The sun fell, dew gathered on the grass, moonshine glimpsed through | |
the leaves, stars peeped timidly at the prostrate figure, which | |
remained prostrate and unconscious still. But as sunlight was born | |
anew in the East a thrill passed over the slumberer, and he became | |
conscious, first of an indescribably delicious feeling of restful | |
ease, then of a gnawing pang, acute as the beak of the eagle for | |
which he at first mistook it. But his wrists, though still | |
encumbered with bonds and trailing fetters, were otherwise at | |
liberty, and eagle there was none. Marvelling at his inward and | |
invisible foe, he struggled to his feet, and found himself | |
contending with a faintness and dizziness heretofore utterly | |
unknown to him. He dimly felt himself in the midst of things grown | |
wonderful by estrangement and distance. No grass, no flower, no | |
leaf had met his eye for thousands of years, nothing but the | |
impenetrable azure, the transient cloud, sun, moon, and star, the | |
lightning flash, the glittering peaks of ice, and the solitary | |
eagle. There seemed more wonder in a blade of grass than in all | |
these things, but all was blotted in a dizzy swoon, and it needed | |
his utmost effort to understand that a light sound hard by, rapidly | |
growing more distinct, was indeed a footfall. With a violent effort | |
he steadied himself by grasping a tree, and had hardly accomplished | |
so much when a tall dark maiden, straight as an arrow, slim as an | |
antelope, wildly beautiful as a Dryad, but liker a Maenad with her | |
aspect of mingled disdain and dismay, and step hasty as of one | |
pursuing or pursued, suddenly checked her speed on perceiving him. | |
"Who art thou?" he exclaimed. | |
"Gods! Thou speakest Greek!" | |
"What else should I speak?" | |
"What else? From whom save thee, since I closed my father's eyes, | |
have I heard the tongue of Homer and Plato?" | |
"Who is Homer? Who is Plato?" | |
The maiden regarded him with a look of the deepest astonishment. | |
"Surely," she said, "thy gift has been bestowed upon thee to little | |
purpose. Say not, at least, that thou usest the speech of the Gods | |
to blaspheme them. Thou art surely yet a votary of Zeus?" | |
"I a votary of Zeus!" exclaimed the stranger. "By these fetters, | |
no!" And, weak as he was, the forest rang with his disdainful | |
laughter. | |
"Farewell," said the maiden, as with dilating form and kindling eye | |
she gathered up her robes. "I parley with thee no more. Thou art | |
tenfold more detestable than the howling mob down yonder, intent on | |
rapine and destruction. They know no better, and can no other. But | |
thou, apt in speaking the sacred tongue yet brutally ignorant of | |
its treasures, knowing the father of the Gods only to revile him! | |
Let me pass." | |
The stranger, if willing to hinder her, seemed little able. His | |
eyes closed, his limbs relaxed, and without a cry he sank senseless | |
on the sward. | |
In an instant the maiden was kneeling by his side. Hastily undoing | |
a basket she carried on her arm, she drew forth a leather flask, | |
and, supporting the sunken head with one hand, poured a stream of | |
wine through the lips with the other. As the gurgling purple | |
coursed down his throat the sufferer opened his eyes, and thanked | |
her silently with a smile of exquisite sweetness. Removing the | |
large leaves which shaded the contents of the basket, she disclosed | |
ripe figs and pomegranates, honeycomb and snow-white curd, lying | |
close to each other in tempting array. The stranger took of each | |
alternately, and the basket was well-nigh emptied ere his appetite | |
seemed assuaged. | |
The observant maiden, meanwhile, felt her mood strangely altered. | |
"So have I imaged Ulysses to myself," she thought as she gazed on | |
the stranger's goodly form, full of vigour, though not without | |
traces of age, the massive brow, the kindly mouth, the expression | |
of far-seeing wisdom. "Such a man ignorant of letters, and a | |
contemner of Zeus!" | |
The stranger's eloquent thanks roused her from a reverie. The Greek | |
tongue fell upon her ear like the sweetest music, and she grieved | |
when its flow was interrupted by a question addressed directly to | |
herself. | |
"Can a God feel hunger and thirst?" | |
"Surely no," she rejoined. | |
"I should have said the same yesterday," returned the stranger. | |
"Wherefore not to-day?" | |
"Dear maiden," responded he, with winning voice and manner, "we | |
must know each other better ere my tale can gain credence with | |
thee. Do thou rather unfold what thine own speech has left dark to | |
me. Why the language of the Gods, as should seem, is here | |
understood by thee and me alone; what foes Zeus has here other than | |
myself; what is the profane crowd of which thou didst speak; and | |
why, alone and defenceless, thou ascendest this mountain. Think of | |
me, if thou wilt, as one fallen from the clouds." | |
"Strange man," returned the maiden, "who knowest Homer's speech and | |
not Homer's self, who renouncest Zeus and resemblest him, hear my | |
tale ere I require thine. Yesterday I should have called myself the | |
last priestess of Apollo in this fallen land, to-day I have neither | |
shrine nor altar. Moved by I know not what madness, my countrymen | |
have long ago forsaken the worship of the Gods. The temples | |
crumbled into ruin, prayer was no longer offered or sacrifice made | |
as of old, the priestly revenues were plundered; the sacred vessels | |
carried away; the voice of oracles became dumb; the divine tongue | |
of Greece was forgotten, its scrolls of wisdom mouldered unread, | |
and the deluded people turned to human mechanics and fishermen. One | |
faithful servant of Apollo remained, my father; but 'tis seven days | |
since he closed his eyes for ever. It was time, for yesternoon the | |
heralds proclaimed by order of the King that Zeus and the Olympians | |
should be named no more in Caucasia." | |
"Ha!" interrupted the stranger, "I see it all. Said I not so?" he | |
shouted, gazing into the sky as if his eye could pierce and his | |
voice reach beyond the drifting clouds. "But to thy own tale," he | |
added, turning with a gesture of command to the astonished Elenko. | |
"It is soon told," she said. "I knew that it was death to serve the | |
Gods any more, yet none the less in my little temple did fire burn | |
upon Apollo's altar this morning. Scarcely was it kindled ere I | |
became aware of a ruffianly mob thronging to sack and spoil. I was | |
ready for death, but not at their hands. I caught up this basket, | |
and escaped up the mountain. On its inaccessible summit, it is | |
reported, hangs Prometheus, whom Zeus (let me bow in awe before his | |
inscrutable counsels) doomed for his benevolence to mankind. To | |
him, as Aeschylus sings, Io of old found her way, and from him | |
received monition and knowledge of what should come to pass. I will | |
try if courage and some favouring God will guide me to him; if not, | |
I will die as near Heaven as I may attain. Tell me on thy part what | |
thou wilt, and let me depart. If thou art indeed Zeus's enemy, thou | |
wilt find enough on thy side down yonder." | |
"I have been Zeus's enemy," returned the stranger, mildly and | |
gravely, "I am so no longer. Immortal hate befits not the mortal I | |
feel myself to have become. Nor needest thou ascend the peak | |
further. Maiden, I am Prometheus!" | |
## Chapter II | |
It is a prerogative of the Gods that, when they do speak sooth, | |
mortals must needs believe them. Elenko hence felt no incredulity | |
at the revelation of Prometheus, or sought other confirmation than | |
the bonds and broken links of chain at his wrists and ankles. | |
"Now," he cried, or rather shouted, "is the prophecy fulfilled with | |
which of old I admonished the Gods in the halls of Olympus. I told | |
them that Zeus should beget a child mightier than himself, who | |
should send him and them the way he had sent his father. I knew not | |
that this child was already begotten, and that his name was Man. It | |
has taken Man ages to assert himself, nor has he yet, as it would | |
seem, done more than enthrone a new idol in the place of the old. | |
But for the old, behold the last traces of its authority in these | |
fetters, of which the first smith will rid me. Expect no | |
thunderbolt, dear maiden; none will come: nor shall I regain the | |
immortality of which I feel myself bereaved since yesterday." | |
"Is this no sorrow to thee?" asked Elenko. | |
"Has not my immortality been one of pain?" answered Prometheus. | |
"Now I feel no pain, and dread one only." | |
"And that is?" | |
"The pain of missing a certain fellow-mortal," answered Prometheus, | |
with a look so expressive that the hitherto unawed maiden cast her | |
eyes to the ground. Hastening away from the conversation to which, | |
nevertheless, she inly purposed to return. | |
"Is Man, then, the maker of Deity?" she asked. | |
"Can the source of his being originate in himself?" asked | |
Prometheus. "To assert this were self-contradiction, and pride | |
inflated to madness. But of the more exalted beings who have like | |
him emanated from the common principle of all existence, Man, since | |
his advent on the earth, though not the creator, is the preserver | |
or the destroyer. He looks up to them, and they are; he out-grows | |
them, and they are not. For the barbarian and Triballian gods there | |
is no return; but the Olympians, if dead as deities, survive as | |
impersonations of Man's highest conceptions of the beautiful. | |
Languid and spectral indeed must be their existence in this | |
barbarian age; but better days are in store for them." | |
"And for thee, Prometheus?" | |
"There is now no place," replied he, "for an impeacher of the Gods. | |
My cause is won, my part is played. I am rewarded for my love of | |
man by myself becoming human. When I shall have proved myself also | |
mortal I may haply traverse realms which Zeus never knew, with, I | |
would hope, Elenko by my side." | |
Elenko's countenance expressed her full readiness to accompany | |
Prometheus as far beyond the limits of the phenomenal world as he | |
might please to conduct her. A thought soon troubled her delicious | |
reverie, and she inquired: | |
"Peradventure, then, the creed which I have execrated may be truer | |
and better than that which I have professed?" | |
"If born in wiser brains and truer hearts, aye," answered | |
Prometheus, "but of this I can have no knowledge. It seems from thy | |
tale to have begun but ill. Yet Saturn mutilated his father, and | |
his reign was the Golden Age." | |
While conversing, hand locked in hand, they had been strolling | |
aimlessly down the mountain. Turning an abrupt bend in the path, | |
they suddenly found themselves in presence of an assembly of early | |
Christians. | |
These confessors were making the most of Elenko's dilapidated | |
temple, whose smoking shell threw up a sable column in the | |
background. The effigies of Apollo and the Muses had been dragged | |
forth, and were being diligently broken up with mallets and | |
hammers. Others of the sacrilegious throng were rending scrolls, or | |
dividing vestments, or firing the grove of laurel that environed | |
the shrine, or pelting the affrighted birds as they flew forth. The | |
sacred vessels, however, at least those of gold and silver, | |
appeared safe in the guardianship of an episcopal personage of | |
shrewd and jovial aspect, under whose inspection they were being | |
piled up by a troop of sturdy young ecclesiastics, the only | |
weapon-bearers among the rabble. Elenko stood riveted to the | |
ground. Prometheus, to her amazement, rushed forward to one of the | |
groups with a loud "By all the Gods and Goddesses!" Following his | |
movements, she saw that the object of his interest was an enormous | |
dead eagle carried by one of the mob. The multitude, startled by | |
his cry and his emotion, gazed eagerly at the strangers, and | |
instantly a shout went up: | |
"The heathen woman!" | |
"With a heathen man!" | |
And clubs began to be brandished, and stones to be picked up from | |
the ground. | |
Prometheus, to whom the shouts were unintelligible, looked | |
wistfully at Elenko. As their eyes met, Elenko's countenance, which | |
had hitherto been all disdain and defiance, assumed an expression | |
of irresolution. A stone struck Prometheus on the temple, drawing | |
blood; a hundred hands went up, each weighted with a missile. | |
"Do as I," cried Elenko to him, and crossed herself. | |
Prometheus imitated her, not unsuccessfully for a novice. | |
The uplifted arms were stayed, some even sank down. | |
By this time the Bishop had bustled to the front, and addressed a | |
torrent of questions to Prometheus, who merely shook his head, and | |
turned to inspect the eagle. | |
"Brethren," said the Bishop, "I smell a miracle!" And, turning to | |
Elenko, he rapidly proceeded to cross-examine her. | |
"Thou wert the priestess of this temple?" | |
"I was." | |
"Thou didst leave it this morning a heathen?" | |
"I did." | |
"Thou returnest a Christian?" | |
Elenko blushed fire, her throat swelled, her heart beat violently. | |
All her soul seemed concentrated in the gaze she fastened on the | |
pale and bleeding Prometheus. She remained silent--but she crossed | |
herself. | |
"Who then has persuaded thee to renounce Apollo?" | |
Elenko pointed to Prometheus. | |
"An enemy of Zeus, then?" | |
"Zeus has not such another enemy in the world." | |
"I knew it, I was sure of it," exclaimed the Bishop. "I can always | |
tell a Christian when I see him. Wherefore speaks he not?" | |
"He is ancient, for all his vigorous mien. His martyrdom began ere | |
our present speech was, nor could he learn this in his captivity." | |
"Martyrdom! Captivity!" exclaimed the prelate gleefully, "I thought | |
we were coming thither. An early martyr, doubtless?" | |
"A very early martyr." | |
"Fettered and manacled?" | |
"Behold his wrists and ankles." | |
"Tortured, of course?" | |
"Incredibly." | |
"Miraculously kept alive to this day?" | |
"In an entirely supernatural manner." | |
"Now," said the Bishop, "I would wager my mitre and ring that his | |
life was prolonged by the daily ministrations of yonder fowl that | |
he caresses with such singular affection?" | |
"Never," replied Elenko, "for one day did that most punctual bird | |
omit to visit him." | |
"Hurrah!" shouted the Bishop. "And now, its mission accomplished, | |
the blessed creature, as I am informed, is found dead at the foot | |
of the mountain. Saints and angels! this is glorious! On your | |
knees, ye infidels!" | |
And down they all went, the Bishop setting the example. As their | |
heads were bowed to the earth, Elenko made a sign to Prometheus, | |
and when the multitude looked up, it beheld him in the act of | |
imparting the episcopal blessing. | |
"Tell him that we are all his brethren," said the Bishop, which | |
announcement became in Elenko's mouth, "Do as I do, and cleave to | |
thy eagle." | |
A procession was formed. The new saint, his convert, and the eagle, | |
rode in a car at the head of it. The Bishop, surrounded by his | |
bodyguard, followed with the sacred vessels of Apollo, to which he | |
had never ceased to direct a vigilant eye throughout the whole | |
proceedings. The multitude swarmed along singing hymns, or | |
contending for the stray feathers of the eagle. The representatives | |
of seven monasteries put in their claims for the links of | |
Prometheus's fetters, but the Bishop scouted them all. He found | |
time to whisper to Elenko: | |
"You seem a sensible young person. Just hint to our friend that we | |
don't want to hear anything about his theology, and the less he | |
talks about the primitive Church the better. No doubt he is a most | |
intelligent man, but he cannot possibly be up to all the recent | |
improvements." | |
Elenko promised most fervently that Prometheus' theological | |
sentiments should remain a mystery to the public. She then began to | |
reflect very seriously on the subject of her own morals. "This | |
day," she said to herself, "I have renounced all the Gods, and told | |
lies enough to last me my life, and for no other reason than that I | |
am in love. If this is a sufficient reason, lovers must have a | |
different code of morality from the rest of the world, and indeed | |
it would appear that they have. Will you die for me? Yes. | |
Admirable. Will you lie for me? No. Then you don't love me. | |
Βαλλ εισ κορακασ εισ Ταιναρον εισ Όγγ Κογγ." | |
## Chapter III | |
Elenko soon found that there was no pausing upon the path to which | |
she had committed herself. As the sole medium of communication | |
between Prometheus and the religious public, her time was half | |
spent in instructing Prometheus in the creed in which he was | |
supposed to have instructed her, and half in framing the edifying | |
sentences which passed for the interpretation of discourses for the | |
most part far more interesting to herself than if they had been | |
what they professed to be. The rapt and impassioned attention which | |
she was observed to bestow on his utterances on such occasions all | |
but gained her the reputation of a saint, and was accepted as a | |
sufficient set-off against the unhallowed affection which she could | |
not help manifesting for the memory of her father. The judicious | |
reluctance of the Caucasian ecclesiastics to inquire over-anxiously | |
into the creeds and customs of the primitive Church was a great | |
help to her; and another difficulty was removed by the Bishop, who, | |
having no idea of encouraging a rival thaumaturgist, took an early | |
opportunity of signifying that it was rather in the line of | |
Desmotes (for by this name the new saint passed) to be the subject | |
than the instrument of miracles, and that, at all events, no more | |
were to be looked for from him at his time of life. The warmth with | |
which Elenko espoused this view raised her greatly in his good | |
opinion, and he was always ready to come to her aid when she became | |
entangled in chronological or historical difficulties, or seasoned | |
her versions of Desmotes' speeches with reminiscences of Plato or | |
Marcus Aurelius, or when her invention failed altogether. On such | |
occasions, if objectors grew troublesome, the Bishop would thunder, | |
"Brethren, I smell a heresy!" and no more was said. One minor | |
trouble both to Prometheus and Elenko was the affection they were | |
naturally expected to manifest towards the carcase of the wretched | |
eagle, which many identified with the eagle of the Evangelist John. | |
Prometheus was of a forgiving disposition, but Elenko wished | |
nothing more ardently than that the whole aquiline race might have | |
but one neck, and that she might wring it. It somewhat comforted | |
her to observe that the eagle's plumage was growing thin, while the | |
eagle's custodian was growing fat. | |
But she had worse troubles to endure than any that eagles could | |
occasion. The youth of those who resorted to her and Prometheus | |
attracted remark from the graver members of the community. Young | |
ladies found the precepts of the handsome and dignified saint | |
indispensable to their spiritual health; young men were charmed | |
with their purity as they came filtered through the lips of Elenko. | |
Is man more conceited than woman, or more confiding? Elenko should | |
certainly have been at ease; no temptress, however enterprising, | |
could well be spreading her nets for an Antony three hundred years | |
old. Prometheus, on the contrary, might have found cause for | |
jealousy in many a noble youth's unconcealed admiration of Elenko. | |
Yet he seemed magnificently unconscious of any cause for | |
apprehension, while Elenko's heart swelled till it was like to | |
burst. She had the further satisfaction of knowing herself the best | |
hated woman in Caucasia, between the enmity of those of whose | |
admirers she had made an involuntary conquest, and of those who | |
found her standing between them and Prometheus. Her monopoly of | |
Greek, she felt sure, was her only security. Two constant | |
attendants at Prometheus's receptions particularly alarmed her, the | |
Princess Miriam, niece of the Bishop, a handsome widow accustomed | |
to have things as she wished them; and a tall veiled woman who | |
seemed unknown to all, but whose unseen eyes, she instinctively | |
knew, were never averted from the unconscious Prometheus. | |
It was therefore with some trepidation that she received a summons | |
to the private apartment of the Princess Miriam. | |
"Dear friend," the Princess began, "thou knowest the singular | |
affection which I have invariably entertained for thee." | |
"Right well do I know it," responded Elenko. ("The thirty-first lie | |
to-day," she added wearily to herself.) | |
"It is this affection, dear friend," continued the Princess, "which | |
induces me on the present occasion to transgress the limits of | |
conventional propriety, and make a communication distressing to | |
thee, but infinitely more so to myself." | |
Elenko implored the Princess to make no such sacrifice in the cause | |
of friendship, but the great lady was resolute. | |
"People say," she continued-- | |
"What say they?" | |
"That thy relation to Desmotes is indiscreet. That it is equivocal. | |
That it is offensive. That it is sacrilegious. That, in a word, it | |
is improper." | |
Elenko defended herself with as much energy as her candour would | |
allow. | |
"Dear friend," said the Princess, "thou dost not imagine that I | |
have part or lot in these odious imputations? Even could I deem | |
them true, should I not think charitably of thee, but yesterday a | |
heathen, and educated in impiety by a foul sorcerer? My poor lamb! | |
But tongues must be stopped, and I have now to advise thee how this | |
may be accomplished." | |
"Say on." | |
"People will always talk so long as thou art the sole medium of | |
communication with the holy man. Some deem him less ignorant of our | |
speech than he seems, but concerning this I inquire not: for, in | |
society, what seems, is. Enough that thy colloquies expose thee to | |
scandal. There is but one remedy. Thou must yield thy place to | |
another. It is meet that thou forthwith instruct in that barbarous | |
dialect some matron of unblemished repute and devout aspirations; | |
no mere ignorant devotee, however, but a woman of the world, whose | |
prudence and experience may preserve the holy man from the pitfalls | |
set for him by the unprincipled. Manifestly she must be a married | |
person, else nought were gained, yet must she not be chargeable | |
with forsaking her duties towards her husband and children. It | |
follows that she must be a widow. It were also well that she should | |
be of kin to some influential personage, to whose counsel she might | |
have recourse in times of difficulty, and whose authority might | |
protect her against the slanderous and evil disposed. I have not | |
been able to meet any one endowed with all these qualifications, | |
excepting myself. I therefore propose to thee that thou shouldst | |
instruct me in the speech of Desmotes, and when I am qualified to | |
take thy place my uncle shall elevate thee to the dignity of | |
Abbess, or bestow thee upon some young clergyman of extraordinary | |
desert." | |
Elenko intimated, perhaps with more warmth than necessary, her | |
aversion to both propositions, and the extreme improbability of the | |
Princess ever acquiring any knowledge of Greek by her | |
instrumentality. | |
"If this is the case," said the Princess, with perfect calmness, "I | |
must have recourse to my other method, which is infallible." | |
Elenko inquired what it might be. | |
"I shall represent to my uncle, what indeed he very well knows, | |
that a saint is, properly speaking, of no value till he is dead. | |
Not until his decease are his relics available, or pilgrimages to | |
his shrine feasible. It is solely in anticipation of this event | |
that my uncle is keeping Desmotes at all; and the sooner it comes | |
to pass, the sooner will my revered relative come by his own. Only | |
think of the capital locked up in the new church, now so nearly | |
completed, on the spot where they picked up the eagle! How shall it | |
be dedicated to Desmotes in Desmotes' lifetime? Were it not a most | |
blissful and appropriate coincidence if the day of the consecration | |
were that of the saint's migration to a better world? I shall | |
submit this view of the case to my uncle: he is accustomed to hear | |
reason from me, of whom, between ourselves, he is not a little | |
afraid. Thou mayest rely upon it that about the time of the | |
consecration Desmotes will ascend to heaven; while thou, it is | |
gravely to be feared, wilt proceed in the opposite direction. | |
Would'st thou avert this unpleasantness, think well of my first | |
proposal. I give thee credit for loving Desmotes, and suppose, | |
therefore, that thou wilt make some sacrifice for his sake. I am a | |
Kettle, thou art a Pot. Take heed how thou knockest against me!" | |
Elenko sped back to bear tidings of the threatened collision to | |
Prometheus. As she approached his chamber she heard with | |
astonishment two voices in eager conversation, and discovered with | |
still greater amazement that their dialogue was carried on in | |
Greek. The second speaker, moreover, was evidently a female. A | |
jealous pang shot through Elenko's breast; she looked cautiously | |
in, and discerned the same mysterious veiled woman whose demeanour | |
had already been an enigma to her. But the veil was thrown back, | |
and the countenance went far to allay Elenko's disquiet. It bore | |
indeed traces of past beauty, but was altogether that of one who | |
had known better days; worn and faded, weary and repining. Elenko's | |
jealousy vanished, though her surprise redoubled, when she heard | |
Prometheus address the stranger as "Sister." | |
"A pretty brother I have got," rejoined the lady, in high sharp | |
tones: "to leave me in want! Never once to inquire after me!" | |
"Nay, sister, or sister-in-law," responded Prometheus, "if it comes | |
to that, where were you while I was on Caucasus? The Oceanides | |
ministered to me, Hermes came now and then, even Hercules left a | |
card; but I never saw Pandora." | |
"How could I compromise Epimetheus, Prometheus?" demanded Pandora. | |
"Besides, my attendant Hope was always telling me that all would | |
come right, without any meddling of mine." | |
"Let her tell you so now," retorted Prometheus. | |
"Tell me now! Do you pretend not to know that the hussey forsook | |
Olympus ten years ago, and has turned Christian?" | |
"I am sure I am very sorry to hear it. Somehow, she never forsook | |
me. I can't imagine how you Gods get on without her." | |
"Get on! We are getting off. Except Eros and Plutus, who seem as | |
usual, and the old Fates, who go on spinning as if nothing had | |
happened, none of us expects to last for another ten years. The | |
sacrifices have dwindled down to nothing. Zeus has put down his | |
eagle. Hera has eaten her peacocks. Apollo's lyre is never | |
heard--pawned, no doubt. Bacchus drinks water, and Venus--well, you | |
can imagine how she gets on without him and Ceres. And here you | |
are, sleek and comfortable, and never troubling yourself about your | |
family. But you had better, or I swear I will tell Zeus; and we | |
shall see whether these Christians will keep you with your | |
ante-chamber full of starving gods. Take a day to think of what I | |
have been saying!" | |
And away she flounced, not noticing Elenko. Long and earnestly did | |
the pair discuss the perils that menaced them, and at the end of | |
their deliberations Elenko sought the Bishop, and briefly imparted | |
the Princess Miriam's ultimatum. | |
"It is painful to a spiritual man," replied the prelate, "to be | |
accessory to a murder. It is also repugnant to his feelings to deny | |
a beloved niece anything on which she has set her heart. To avoid | |
such grievous dilemma, I judge it well that ye both ascend to | |
heaven without further ceremony." | |
That night the ascent of Prometheus and Elenko was witnessed by | |
divers credible persons. The new church was consecrated shortly | |
afterwards. It was amply stored with relics from the wardrobe of | |
Prometheus and what remained of the eagle. The damsels of the | |
capital regained their admirers, and those who had become enamoured | |
of Prometheus mostly transferred their affections to the Bishop. | |
Everybody was satisfied except the Princess Miriam, who never | |
ceased to deplore her indulgence in giving Elenko the chance of | |
first speech with her uncle. | |
"If I had been five minutes beforehand with the minx!" she said. | |
## Chapter IV | |
The heaven to which Prometheus and Elenko had ascended was situated | |
in a sequestered valley of Laconia. A single winding path led into | |
the glen, which was inhabited only by a few hunters and shepherds, | |
who still observed the rites of the ancient faith; and sometimes, | |
deeming but to show kindness to a mortal, refreshed or sheltered a | |
forlorn and hungry Deity. Saving at the entrance the vale was | |
walled round by steep cliffs, for the most part waving with trees, | |
but here and there revealing the naked crag. It was traversed by a | |
silvery stream, in its windings enclosing Prometheus's and Elenko's | |
cottage, almost as in an island. The cot, buried in laurel and | |
myrtle, had a garden where fig and mulberry, grape and almond, | |
ripened in their season. A few goats browsed on the long grass, and | |
yielded their milk to the household. Bread and wine, and flesh when | |
needed, were easily procured from the neighbours. Beyond necessary | |
furniture, the cottage contained little but precious scrolls, | |
obtained by Elenko from Athens and the newly founded city of | |
Constantine. In these, under her guidance, Prometheus read of | |
matters that never, while he dwelt on Olympus, entered the | |
imagination of any God. | |
It is a chief happiness of lovers that each possesses treasures | |
wholly their own, which they may yet make fully the possession of | |
the other. These treasures are of divers kinds, beauty, affection, | |
memory, hope. But never were such treasures of knowledge shared | |
between lovers as between Prometheus and Elenko. Each possessed | |
immeasurable stores, hitherto inaccessible to the other. How | |
trifling seemed the mythical lore which Elenko had gleaned as the | |
minister of Phœbus to that now imparted by Prometheus! The Titan | |
had seen all, and been a part of all that he had seen. He had bowed | |
beneath the sceptre of Uranus, he had witnessed his fall, and | |
marked the ocean crimson with his blood. He remembered hoary Saturn | |
a brisk active Deity, pushing his way to the throne of Heaven, and | |
devouring in a trice the stone that now resists his fangs for | |
millenniums. He had heard the shields of the Corybantes clash | |
around the infant Zeus; he described to Elenko how one day the sea | |
had frothed and boiled, and undraped Aphrodite had ascended from it | |
in the presence of the gazing and applauding amphitheatre of | |
cloud-cushioned gods. He could depict the personal appearance of | |
Cybele, and sketch the character of Enceladus. He had instructed | |
Zeus, as Chiron had instructed Achilles; he remembered Poseidon | |
afraid of the water, and Pluto of the dark. He called to mind and | |
expounded ancient oracles heretofore unintelligible: he had himself | |
been told, and had disbelieved, that the happiest day of his own | |
life would be that on which he should feel himself divested of | |
immortality. Of the younger gods and their doings he knew but | |
little; he inquired with interest whether Bacchus had returned in | |
safety from his Indian expedition, and whether Proserpine had a | |
family of divine imps. | |
Much more, nevertheless, had Elenko to teach Prometheus than she | |
could learn from him. How trivial seemed the history of the gods to | |
what he now heard of the history of men! Were these indeed the | |
beings he had known "like ants in the sunless recesses of caves, | |
dwelling deep-burrowing in the earth, ignorant of the signs of the | |
seasons," to whom he had given fire and whom he had taught memory | |
and number, for whom he had "brought the horse under the chariot, | |
and invented the sea-beaten, flaxen-winged chariot of the sailor?" | |
And now, how poorly showed the gods beside this once wretched | |
brood! What Deity could die for Olympus, as Leonidas had for | |
Greece? Which of them could, like Iphigenia, dwell for years beside | |
the melancholy sea, keeping a true heart for an absent brother? | |
Which of them could raise his fellows nearer to the source of all | |
Deity, as Socrates and Plato had raised men? Who could portray | |
himself as Phidias had portrayed Athene? Could the Muses speak with | |
their own voices as they had spoken by Sappho's? He was especially | |
pleased to see his own moral superiority to Zeus so eloquently | |
enforced by Æschylus, and delighted in criticising the sentiments | |
which the other poets had put into the mouths of the gods. Homer, | |
he thought, must have been in Olympus often, and Aristophanes not | |
seldom. When he read in the Cyclops of Euripides, "Stranger, I | |
laugh to scorn Zeus's thunderbolts," he grew for a moment | |
thoughtful. "Am I," he questioned, "ending where Polyphemus began?" | |
But when he read a little further on: | |
> The wise man's only Jupiter is this, | |
> To eat and drink during his little day, | |
> And give himself no care-- | |
"No," he said, "the Zeus that nailed me to the rock is better than | |
this Zeus. But well for man to be rid of both, if he does not put | |
another in their place; or, in dropping his idolatry, has not flung | |
away his religion. Heaven has not departed with Zeus." And, taking | |
his lyre, he sang: | |
> What floods of lavish splendour | |
> The lofty sun doth pour! | |
> What else can Heaven render? | |
> What room hath she for more? | |
> | |
> Yet shall his course be shortly done, | |
> And after his declining | |
> The skies that held a single Sun | |
> With thousands shall be shining. | |
## Chapter V | |
It was not long ere the gods began to find their way to | |
Prometheus's earthly paradise, and who came once came again. The | |
first was Epimetheus, who had probably suffered least of all from | |
the general upset, having in truth little to lose since his | |
ill-starred union with Pandora. He had indeed reason for | |
thankfulness in his practical divorce from his spouse, who had | |
settled in Caucasia, and gave Greek lessons to the Princess Miriam. | |
Would Prometheus lend him half a talent? a quarter? a tenth? a | |
hundredth? Thanks, thanks. Prometheus might rely upon it that his | |
residence should not be divulged on any account. Notwithstanding | |
which assurance, the cottage was visited next day by eleven gods | |
and demigods, mostly Titans. Elenko found it trying, and was really | |
alarmed when by and by the Furies, having made over their functions | |
to the Devil, strolled up to take the air, and dropped in for a | |
chat, bringing Cerberus. But they behaved exceedingly well, and | |
took back a message from Elenko to Eurydice. Ere long she was on | |
most intimate terms with all the dethroned divinities, celestial, | |
infernal, and marine. | |
Beautiful and blessed beyond most things is youthful enthusiasm, | |
looking up to something it feels or deems above itself. Beautiful, | |
too, as autumn sunshine is maturity looking down with gentleness on | |
the ideal it has surpassed, and reverencing it still for old ideas | |
and associations. The thought of beholding a Deity would once have | |
thrilled Elenko with rapture, if this had not been checked by awe | |
at her own presumption. The idea that a Deity, other than some | |
disgraced offender like Prometheus, could be the object of her | |
compassion, would never have entered her mind. And now she pitied | |
the whole Olympian cohort most sincerely, not so much for having | |
fallen as for having deserved to fall. She could not conceal from | |
herself how grievously they were one and all behind the age. It was | |
impossible to make Zeus comprehend how an idea could be a match for | |
a thunderbolt. Apollo spoke handsomely of Homer, yet evidently | |
esteemed the Iliad and Odyssey but lightly in comparison with the | |
blind bard's hymn to himself. Ceres candidly admitted that her mind | |
was a complete blank on the subject of the Eleusinian mysteries. | |
Aphrodite's dress was admirable for summer, but in winter seemed | |
obstinate conservatism; and why should Pallas make herself a fright | |
with her Gorgon helmet, now that it no longer frightened anybody? | |
Where Elenko would fain have adored she found herself tolerating, | |
excusing, condescending. How many Elenkos are even now tenderly | |
nursing ancient creeds, whose main virtue is the virtue of their | |
professors! | |
One autumn night all the principal gods were assembled under | |
Prometheus's roof, doing justice to the figs and mulberries, and | |
wine cooled with Taygetan snow. The guests were more than usually | |
despondent. Prometheus was moody and abstracted, his breast seemed | |
labouring with thought. "So looked my Pythoness," whispered Apollo | |
to his neighbour, "when about to deliver an oracle." | |
And the oracle came--in lyric verse, not to infringe any patent of | |
Apollo's-- | |
> When o'er the towers of Constantine | |
> An Orient Moon begins to shine, | |
> Waning nor waxing aught, and bright | |
> In daytide as in deep of night: | |
> Then, though the fane be brought | |
> To wreck, the God shall find, | |
> Enthroned in human thought, | |
> A temple in the mind. | |
"And what becomes of us while this prodigious moonshine is | |
concocting?" demanded Zeus, who had become the most sceptical of | |
any of the gods. | |
"Go to Elysium," suggested Prometheus. | |
"There's an idea!" cried Zeus and Pallas together. | |
"To Elysium! to Elysium!" exclaimed the other gods, and all rose | |
tumultuously, saving two. | |
"I go not," said Eros, "for where Love is, there is Elysium. And | |
yonder rising moon tells me that my hour is come." And he flitted | |
forth. | |
"Neither go I," said an old blind god, "for where Plutus is, | |
Elysium is not. Moreover, mankind would follow after me. But I too | |
must away. Strange that I should have abode so long under the roof | |
of a pair of perfect virtue." And he tottered out. | |
But the other gods swept forth into the moonlight, and were seen no | |
more. And Prometheus picked up the forsaken sandals of Hermes, and | |
bound them on his own feet, and grasped Elenko, and they rose up by | |
a dizzy flight to empty heaven. All was silent in those immense | |
courts, vacant of everything save here and there some rusty | |
thunderbolt or mouldering crumb of ambrosia. Above, around, below, | |
beyond sight, beyond thought, stretched the still deeps of æther, | |
blazing with innumerable worlds. Eye could rove nowhither without | |
beholding a star, nor could star be beheld from which the Gods' | |
hall, with all its vastness, would not have been utterly invisible. | |
Elenko leaned over the battlements, and watched the racing meteors. | |
Prometheus stood by her, and pointed out in the immeasurable | |
distance the little speck of shining dust from which they had flown. | |
"There? or here?" he asked. | |
"There!" said Elenko. | |
author: Garnett, Richard, 1835-1906 | |
detail: gopher://gopherpedia.com/0/The_Twilight_of_the_Gods_and_Other_Tales | |
LOC: PZ3.G187 T | |
source: gopher://gopher.pglaf.org/1/1/0/0/9/10095/ | |
tags: ebook,fantasy,fiction | |
title: Twilight of the Gods | |
# Tags | |
ebook | |
fantasy | |
fiction |