No More Learning

Yesterday he challenged
Eros--tripped up his heels somehow, and had him on his back in a
twinkling; before the applause was over, he had taken the opportunity
of a congratulatory hug from Aphrodite to steal her girdle; Zeus had
not done laughing before--the sceptre was gone. If the thunderbolt had
not been too heavy, and very hot, he would have made away with that
too.

_Heph_. The child has some spirit in him, by your account.

_Ap_. Spirit, yes--and some music, moreover, young as he is.

_Heph_. How can you tell that?

_Ap_. He picked up a dead tortoise somewhere or other, and contrived
an instrument with it. He fitted horns to it, with a cross-bar, stuck
in pegs, inserted a bridge, and played a sweet tuneful thing that made
an old harper like me quite envious. Even at night, Maia was saying,
he does not stay in Heaven; he goes down poking his nose into Hades--
on a thieves' errand, no doubt. Then he has a pair of wings, and he
has made himself a magic wand, which he uses for marshalling souls--
convoying the dead to their place.

_Heph_. Ah, I gave him that, for a toy.

_Ap_. And by way of payment he stole--

_Heph_. Well thought on; I must go and get them; you may be right
about the baby-linen.

H.




VIII _Hephaestus. Zeus_


_Heph_. What are your orders, Zeus? You sent for me, and here I am;
with such an edge to my axe as would cleave a stone at one blow.

_Zeus_. Ah; that's right, Hephaestus. Just split my head in half, will
you?

_Heph_. You think I am mad, perhaps? --Seriously, now, what can I do
for you?

_Zeus_. What I say: crack my skull. Any insubordination, now, and you
shall taste my resentment; it will not be the first time. Come, a good
lusty stroke, and quick about it. I am in the pangs of travail; my
brain is in a whirl.

_Heph_. Mind you, the consequences may be serious: the axe is sharp,
and will prove but a rough midwife.

_Zeus_. Hew away, and fear nothing. I know what I am about.

_Heph_. H'm. I don't like it: however, one must obey orders. . . . Why,
what have we here? A maiden in full armour! This is no joke, Zeus. You
might well be waspish, with this great girl growing up beneath your
_pia mater_; in armour, too! You have been carrying a regular barracks
on your shoulders all this time. So active too! See, she is dancing a
war-dance, with shield and spear in full swing. She is like one
inspired; and (what is more to the point) she is extremely pretty, and
has come to marriageable years in these few minutes; those grey eyes,
even, look well beneath a helmet. Zeus, I claim her as the fee for my
midwifery.

_Zeus_. Impossible! She is determined to remain a maid for ever. Not
that _I_ have any objection, personally.

_Heph_. That is all I want. You can leave the rest to me. I'll carry
her off this moment.

_Zeus_. Well, if you think it so easy. But I am sure it is a hopeless
case.

F.




XI

_Aphrodite. Selene_


_Aph_. What is this I hear about you, Selene? When your car is over
Caria, you stop it to gaze at Endymion sleeping hunter-fashion in the
open; sometimes, they tell me, you actually get out and go down to
him.

_Sel_. Ah, Aphrodite, ask that son of yours; it is he must answer for
it all.

_Aph_. Well now, what a naughty boy! he gets his own mother into all
sorts of scrapes; I must go down, now to Ida for Anchises of Troy, now
to Lebanon for my Assyrian stripling;--mine? no, he put Persephone in
love with him too, and so robbed me of half my darling. I have told
him many a time that if he would not behave himself I would break his
artillery for him, and clip his wings; and before now I have smacked
his little behind with my slipper. It is no use; he is frightened and
cries for a minute or two, and then forgets all about it. But tell me,
is Endymion handsome? That is always a comfort in our humiliation.

_Sel_. _Most_ handsome, _I_ think, my dear; you should see him when he
has spread out his cloak on the rock and is asleep; his javelins in
his left hand, just slipping from his grasp, the right arm bent
upwards, making a bright frame to the face, and he breathing softly in
helpless slumber. Then I come noiselessly down, treading on tiptoe not
to wake and startle him--but there, you know all about it; why tell
you the rest? I am dying of love, that is all.

H.




XII

_Aphrodite. Eros_


_Aph_. Child, child, you must think what you are doing. It is bad
enough on earth,--you are always inciting men to do some mischief, to
themselves or to one another;--but I am speaking of the Gods. You
change Zeus into shape after shape as the fancy takes you; you make
Selene come down from the sky; you keep Helius loitering about with
Clymene, till he sometimes forgets to drive out at all. As for the
naughty tricks you play on your own mother, you know you are safe
there. But Rhea! how could you _dare_ to set her on thinking of that
young fellow in Phrygia, an old lady like her, the mother of so many
Gods? Why, you have made her quite mad: she harnesses those lions of
hers, and drives about all over Ida with the Corybantes, who are as
mad as herself, shrieking high and low for Attis; and there they are,
slashing their arms with swords, rushing about over the hills, like
wild things, with dishevelled hair, blowing horns, beating drums,
clashing cymbals; all Ida is one mad tumult. I am quite uneasy about
it; yes, you wicked boy, your poor mother is quite uneasy: some day
when Rhea is in one of her mad fits (or when she is in her senses,
more likely), she will send the Corybantes after you, with orders to
tear you to pieces, or throw you to the lions. You are so venturesome!

_Eros_. Be under no alarm, mother; I understand lions perfectly by
this time. I get on to their backs every now and then, and take hold
of their manes, and ride them about; and when I put my hand into their
mouths, they only lick it, and let me take it out again. Besides, how
is Rhea going to have time to attend to me? She is too busy with
Attis. And I see no harm in just pointing out beautiful things to
people; they can leave them alone;--it is nothing to do with me. And
how would you like it if Ares were not in love with you, or you with
him?

_Aph_. Masterful boy! always the last word! But you will remember this
some day.

F.




XIII

_Zeus. Asclefius. Heracles_


_Zeus_. Now, Asclepius and Heracles, stop that quarrelling; you might
as well be men; such behaviour is very improper and out of place at
the table of the Gods.

_Her_. Is this druggist fellow to have a place above me, Zeus?

_Asc_. Of course I am; I am your better.

_Her_. Why, you numskull? because it was Zeus's bolt that cracked your
skull, for your unholy doings, and now you have been allowed your
immortality again out of sheer pity?

_Asc_. You twit me with my fiery end; you seem to have forgotten that
you too were burnt to death, on Oeta.

_Her_. Was there no difference between your life and mine, then? I am
Zeus's son, and it is well known how I toiled, cleansing the earth,
conquering monsters, and chastising men of violence. Whereas you are a
root-grubber and a quack; I dare say you have your use for doctoring
sick men, but you never did a bold deed in your life.

_Asc_. That comes well from you, whose burns I healed, when you came
up all singed not so long ago; between the tunic and the flames, your
body was half consumed. Anyhow, it would be enough to mention that I
was never a slave like you, never combed wool in Lydia, masquerading
in a purple shawl and being slippered by an Omphale, never killed my
wife and children in a fit of the spleen. Her. If you don't stop being
rude, I shall soon show you that immortality is not much good. I will
take you up and pitch you head over heels out of Heaven, and Apollo
himself shall never mend your broken crown. Zeus. Cease, I say, and
let us hear ourselves speak, or I will send you both away from table.
Heracles, Asclepius died before you, and has the right to a better
place.

H.




XIV

_Hermes. Apollo_


_Her_. Why so sad, Apollo?

_Ap_. Alas, Hermes,--my love!

_Her_. Oh; that's bad. What, are you still brooding over that affair
of Daphne?

_Ap_. No. I grieve for my beloved; the Laconian, the son of Oebalus.

_Her_. Hyacinth? he is not dead?

_Ap_. Dead.

_Her_. Who killed him? Who could have the heart? That lovely boy!

_Ap_. It was the work of my own hand.

_Her_. You must have been mad!

_Ap_. Not mad; it was an accident.

_Her_. Oh? and how did it happen?

_Ap_. He was learning to throw the quoit, and I was throwing with him.
I had just sent my quoit up into the air as usual, when jealous Zephyr
(damned be he above all winds! he had long been in love with Hyacinth,
though Hyacinth would have nothing to say to him)--Zephyr came
blustering down from Taygetus, and dashed the quoit upon the child's
head; blood flowed from the wound in streams, and in one moment all
was over. My first thought was of revenge; I lodged an arrow in
Zephyr, and pursued his flight to the mountain. As for the child, I
buried him at Amyclae, on the fatal spot; and from his blood I have
caused a flower to spring up, sweetest, fairest of flowers, inscribed
with letters of woe. --Is my grief unreasonable?

_Her_. It is, Apollo. You knew that you had set your heart upon a
mortal: grieve not then for his mortality.

F.




XV

_Hermes. Apollo_


_Her_. To think that a cripple and a blacksmith like him should marry
two such queens of beauty as Aphrodite and Charis!

_Ap_. Luck, Hermes--that is all. But I do wonder at their putting up
with his company; they see him running with sweat, bent over the
forge, all sooty-faced; and yet they cuddle and kiss him, and sleep
with him!

_Her_. Yes, it makes me angry too; how I envy him! Ah, Apollo, you may
let your locks grow, and play your harp, and be proud of your looks; I
am a healthy fellow, and can touch the lyre; but, when it comes to
bedtime, we lie alone.

_Ap_. Well, my loves never prosper; Daphne and Hyacinth were my great
passions; she so detested me that being turned to a tree was more
attractive than I; and him I killed with a quoit. Nothing is left me
of them but wreaths of their leaves and flowers.

_Her_. Ah, once, once, I and Aphrodite--but no; no boasting.

_Ap_. I know; that is how Hermaphroditus is accounted for. But perhaps
you can tell me how it is that Aphrodite and Charis are not jealous of
one another.

_Her_. Because one is his wife in Lemnus and the other in Heaven.
Besides, Aphrodite cares most about Ares; he is her real love; so she
does not trouble her head about the blacksmith.

_Ap_. Do you think Hephaestus sees?

_Her_. Oh, he sees, yes; but what can he do? he knows what a martial
young fellow it is; so he holds his tongue.
He talks of inventing a
net, though, to take them in the act with.

_Ap_. Ah, all I know is, I would not mind being taken in that
act.

H.




XVI

_Hera. Leto_


_Hera_. I must congratulate you, madam, on the children with whom you
have presented Zeus.

_Leto_. Ah, madam; we cannot all be the proud mothers of Hephaestuses.

_Hera_. My boy may be a cripple, but at least he is of some use. He is
a wonderful smith, and has made Heaven look another place; and
Aphrodite thought him worth marrying, and dotes on him still. But
those two of yours ! --that girl is wild and mannish to a degree; and
now she has gone off to Scythia, and her doings _there_ are no secret;
she is as bad as any Scythian herself,--butchering strangers and
eating them! Apollo, too, who pretends to be so clever, with his bow
and his lyre and his medicine and his prophecies; those oracle-shops
that he has opened at Delphi, and Clarus, and Dindyma, are a cheat; he
takes good care to be on the safe side by giving ambiguous answers
that no one can understand, and makes money out of it, for there are
plenty of fools who like being imposed upon,--but sensible people know
well enough that most of it is clap-trap. The prophet did not know
that he was to kill his favourite with a quoit; he never foresaw that
Daphne would run away from him, so handsome as he is, too, such
beautiful hair! I am not sure, after all, that there is much to choose
between your children and Niobe's.

_Leto_. Oh, of course; my children are butchers and impostors. I know
how you hate the sight of them. You cannot bear to hear my girl
complimented on her looks, or my boy's playing admired by the company.

_Hera_. His playing, madam! --excuse a smile;--why, if the Muses had
not favoured him, his contest with Marsyas would have cost him his
skin; poor Marsyas was shamefully used on that occasion; 'twas a
judicial murder. --As for your charming daughter, when Actaeon once
caught sight of her charms, she had to set the dogs upon him, for fear
he should tell all he knew: I forbear to ask where the innocent child
picked up her knowledge of obstetrics.

_Leto_. You set no small value on yourself, madam, because you are the
wife of Zeus, and share his throne; you may insult whom you please.
But there will be tears presently, when the next bull or swan sets out
on his travels, and you are left neglected.

F.




XVIII

_Hera. Zeus_


_Hera_. Well, Zeus, I should be ashamed if _I_ had such a son; so
effeminate, and so given to drinking; tying up his hair in a ribbon,
indeed! and spending most of his time among mad women, himself as much
a woman as any of them; dancing to flute and drum and cymbal! He
resembles any one rather than his father.

_Zeus_. Anyhow, my dear, this wearer of ribbons, this woman among
women, not content with conquering Lydia, subduing Thrace, and
enthralling the people of Tmolus, has been on an expedition all the
way to India with his womanish host, captured elephants, taken
possession of the country, and led their king captive after a brief
resistance. And he never stopped dancing all the time, never
relinquished the thyrsus and the ivy; always drunk (as you say) and
always inspired! If any scoffer presumes to make light of his
ceremonial, he does not go unpunished; he is bound with vine-twigs; or
his own mother mistakes him for a fawn, and tears him limb from limb.
Are not these manful doings, worthy of a son of Zeus? No doubt he is
fond of his comforts, too, and his amusements; we need not complain of
that: you may judge from his drunken achievements, what a handful the
fellow would be if he were sober.

_Hera_. I suppose you will tell me next, that the invention of wine is
very much to his credit; though you see for yourself how drunken men
stagger about and misbehave themselves; one would think the liquor had
made them mad. Look at Icarius, the first to whom he gave the vine:
beaten to death with mattocks by his own boon companions!

_Zeus_. Pooh, nonsense. That is not Dionysus's fault, nor the wine's
fault; it comes of the immoderate use of it. Men _will_ drink their
wine neat, and drink too much of it. Taken in moderation, it engenders
cheerfulness and benevolence. Dionysus is not likely to treat any of
his guests as Icarius was treated. --No; I see what it is:--you are
jealous, my love; you can't forget about Semele, and so you must
disparage the noble achievements of her son.

F.




XIX

_Aphrodite_. _Eros_


_Aph_. Eros, dear, you have had your victories over most of the Gods--
Zeus, Posidon, Rhea, Apollo, nay, your own mother; how is it you make
an exception for Athene? against her your torch has no fire, your
quiver no arrows, your right hand no cunning.

_Eros_. I am afraid of her, mother; those awful flashing eyes! she is
like a man, only worse. When I go against her with my arrow on the
string, a toss of her plume frightens me; my hand shakes so that it
drops the bow.

_Aph_. I should have thought Ares was more terrible still; but you
disarmed and conquered him.

_Eros_. Ah, he is only too glad to have me; he calls me to him. Athene
always eyes me so! once when I flew close past her, quite by accident,
with my torch, 'If you come near me,' she called out, 'I swear by my
father, I will run you through with my spear, or take you by the foot
and drop you into Tartarus, or tear you in pieces with my own hands'--
and more such dreadful things. And she has such a sour look; and then
on her breast she wears that horrid face with the snaky hair; that
frightens me worst of all; the nasty bogy--I run away directly I see
it.

_Aph_. Well, well, you are afraid of Athene and the Gorgon; at least
so you say, though you do not mind Zeus's thunderbolt a bit. But why
do you let the Muses go scot free? do _they_ toss their plumes and
hold out Gorgons' heads?

_Eros_. Ah, mother, they make me bashful; they are so grand, always
studying and composing; I love to stand there listening to their
music.

_Aph_. Let them pass too, because they are grand. And why do you never
take a shot at Artemis?

_Eros_. Why, the great thing is that I cannot catch her; she is always
over the hills and far away. But besides that, her heart is engaged
already.

_Aph_. Where, child?

_Eros_. In hunting stags and fawns; she is so fleet, she catches them
up, or else shoots them; she can think of nothing else. Her brother,
now, though he is an archer too, and draws a good arrow--

_Aph_. I know, child, you have hit _him_ often enough.

H.




XX.

THE JUDGEMENT OF PARIS

_Zeus. Hermes. Hera. Athene. Aphrodite. Paris_


_Zeus_. Hermes, take this apple, and go with it to Phrygia; on the
Gargaran peak of Ida you will find Priam's son, the herdsman. Give him
this message: 'Paris, because you are handsome, and wise in the things
of love, Zeus commands you to judge between the Goddesses, and say
which is the most beautiful. And the prize shall be this apple. '--Now,
you three, there is no time to be lost: away with you to your judge. I
will have nothing to do with the matter: I love you all exactly alike,
and I only wish you could all three win. If I were to give the prize
to one of you, the other two would hate me, of course. In these
circumstances, I am ill qualified to be your judge. But this young
Phrygian to whom you are going is of the royal blood--a relation of
Ganymede's,--and at the same time a simple countryman; so that we need
have no hesitation in trusting his eyes.

_Aph_. As far as I am concerned, Zeus, Momus himself might be our
judge; _I_ should not be afraid to show myself. What fault could he
find with _me_? But the others must agree too.

_Hera_. Oh, we are under no alarm, thank you,--though your admirer
Ares should be appointed. But Paris will do; whoever Paris is.

_Zeus_. And my little Athene; have we her approval? Nay, never blush,
nor hide your face. Well, well, maidens will be coy; 'tis a delicate
subject. But there, she nods consent. Now, off with you; and mind, the
beaten ones must not be cross with the judge; I will not have the poor
lad harmed. The prize of beauty can be but one.

_Herm_. Now for Phrygia. I will show the way; keep close behind me,
ladies, and don't be nervous. I know Paris well: he is a charming
young man; a great gallant, and an admirable judge of beauty. Depend
on it, he will make a good award.

_Aph_. I am glad to hear that; I ask for nothing better than a just
judge. --Has he a wife, Hermes, or is he a bachelor?

_Herm_. Not exactly a bachelor.

_Aph_. What do you mean?

_Herm_. I believe there is a wife, as it were; a good enough sort of
girl--a native of those parts--but sadly countrified! I fancy he does
not care very much about her. --Why do you ask?

_Aph_. I just wanted to know.

_Ath_. Now, Hermes, that is not fair. No whispering with Aphrodite.

_Herm_. It was nothing, Athene; nothing about you. She only asked me
whether Paris was a bachelor.

_Ath_. What business is that of hers?

_Herm_. None that I know of. She meant nothing by the question; she
just wanted to know.

_Ath_. Well, and is he?

_Herm_. Why, no.

_Ath_. And does he care for military glory? has he ambition? Or is he
a _mere_ neatherd?

_Herm_. I couldn't say for certain. But he is a young man, so it is to
be presumed that distinction on the field of battle is among his
desires.

_Aph_. There, you see; _I_ don't complain; I say nothing when you
whisper with _her_. Aphrodite is not so particular as some people.

_Herm_. Athene asked me almost exactly the same as you did; so don't
be cross. It will do you no harm, my answering a plain question. --
Meanwhile, we have left the stars far behind us, and are almost over
Phrygia. There is Ida: I can make out the peak of Gargarum quite
plainly; and if I am not mistaken, there is Paris himself.

_Hera_. Where is he? I don't see him.

_Herm_. Look over there to the left, Hera: not on the top, but down
the side, by that cave where you see the herd.

_Hera_. But I _don't_ see the herd.

_Herm_. What, don't you see them coming out from between the rocks,--
where I am pointing, look--and the man running down from the crag, and
keeping them together with his staff?

_Hera_. I see him now; if he it is.

_Herm_. Oh, that is Paris. But we are getting near; it is time to
alight and walk. He might be frightened, if we were to descend upon
him so suddenly.

_Hera_. Yes; very well. And now that we are on the earth, you might go
on ahead, Aphrodite, and show us the way. You know the country, of
course, having been here so often to see Anchises; or so I have heard.

_Aph_. Your sneers are thrown away on me, Hera.

_Herm_. Come; I'll lead the way myself. I spent some time on Ida,
while Zeus was courting Ganymede. Many is the time that I have been
sent here to keep watch over the boy; and when at last the eagle came,
I flew by his side, and helped him with his lovely burden. This is the
very rock, if I remember; yes, Ganymede was piping to his sheep, when
down swooped the eagle behind him, and tenderly, oh, so tenderly,
caught him up in those talons, and with the turban in his beak bore
him off, the frightened boy straining his neck the while to see his
captor. I picked up his pipes--he had dropped them in his fright and
--ah! here is our umpire, close at hand. Let us accost him. --
Good-morrow, herdsman!

_Par_. Good-morrow, youngster. And who may you be, who come thus far
afield? And these dames? They are over comely, to be wandering on the
mountain-side.

_Herm_. 'These dames,' good Paris, are Hera, Athene, and Aphrodite;
and I am Hermes, with a message from Zeus. Why so pale and tremulous?
Compose yourself; there is nothing the matter.