IX
[_The terrace, as in the first scene_; ZEUS _enters from the house, conducted by_ HEBE _and several of the lesser divinities_.]
HEBE.
Will your Majesty be pleased to descend to the lower boskage?
ZEUS.
No! Place my throne here, out of the wind, in the sun, which seems to have very little fire left in it, but some pleasant light still.
The sea down there is bright again to-day; the carrying of our unfortunate person upon its surface was probably the source of immense alarm to it. It quaked and blackened continuously. Now we are removed, it regains something of its normal quiescence. I trust that the land hereabouts is dowered with a less painful susceptibility.
GANYMEDE.
A priest, sire, the only one who saved his musical instrument through our calamities, stands within. Is your Majesty disposed to be sung to?
ZEUS.
No, certainly not. Which is he? [_The_ PRIEST _is pointed out_.]
What an odd-looking person! Yes, he may give me a specimen of his art--a short one.
[_The_ PRIEST _comes forward; he is dressed in wild Thessalian raiment. He approaches with uncouth gestures, and a mixture of servility and self-consciousness. On receiving a nod from_ ZEUS, _he tunes his instrument and sings as follows_:]
_Wild swans winging Through the blue, Spiders springing To a clue, Till the sparkling drops renew All that ever Youth"s endeavour Had determined to undo.
White and blue are h.o.a.rds of treasure, For the panting hands of pleasure To go dropping, dropping, dropping, Without measure Through and through._
ZEUS.
Very pretty, I must say. Would you repeat it again?
[PRIEST _repeats it again_.]
ZEUS.
What does it ... exactly _mean_? I think it quite pretty, you understand.
PRIEST.
Does your Majesty receive any impression from it?
ZEUS.
Well, I don"t know that I could precisely pa.r.s.e it. But it is very pretty. Yes, I think I gain a certain impression from it.
PRIEST.
Do you not feel, sire, a peculiar sense of flush, of spring-tide--a direct juvenile ebullience?
ZEUS.
Ah, no doubt, no doubt. And a kind of nostalgia, or harking-back to happier days, a sense of their rapid pa.s.sage, and their irrecoverability. Is that right?
PRIEST.
It is a positive divination!
ZEUS.
I am conscious of the agreeable recollection of an incident----
PRIEST [_with rapture_].
Ah!----
ZEUS.
A little event?----
PRIEST.
You make my heart beat so high, sire, that I can hardly speak.
Deign, sire, to recall that incident.
ZEUS [_with extreme affability_].
It was hardly an incident.... I merely happened, while you were reciting your song, to remember an occasion on which--on which Iris, at the rampart of our golden wall, bending back, was caught by the wind, and--and the contours were delicious.
PRIEST.
Oh! the word, the word!
ZEUS [_with slight hauteur_].
I do not follow you. Her rainbow----
PRIEST.
Ah! yes, sire, the rainbow, the rainbow! O what an art of incontestable divination!
ZEUS [_much animated_].
But you did not say anything about a rainbow, nor describe one, nor ever mention the elements of such a bow.
PRIEST.
Ah! no, sire. That is the art of the New Poetry. It names nothing, it describes nothing. All that it designs to do is to place the mind of the listener--of the august and perspicacious listener--in such an att.i.tude as that the unnamed, the undescribed object rises full in vision. The poet flings forth his melody, and to the gross ear it seems a mere tinkle of inanity. That is simply because the crowd who worship at the shrine of the Sminthean Apollo have been accustomed by an old-fashioned and ridiculously incompetent priesthood to look for an instant and mechanical relation between sound and sense. I would not exaggerate, sire; but the kind of poetry lately cultivated, not only at Delphi, but in Delos also, is simply obsolete.