The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy

by Brian Stableford

  “Your mind is opening, Ixion. You will soon be a man of the world. To the left, and keep clear of that star.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “The Fates know, not I. Some low people who are trying to shine into notice. ’Tis a parvenu planet, and only sprung into space within this century. We do not visit them.”

  “Poor devils! I feel hungry.”

  “All right. We shall get into Heaven by the first dinner bolt. You cannot arrive at a strange house at a better moment. We shall just have time to dress. I would not spoil my appetite by luncheon. Jupiter keeps a capital cook.”

  “I have heard of Nectar and Ambrosia.”

  “Poh! nobody touches them. They are regular old-fashioned celestial food, and merely put upon the side-table. Nothing goes down in Heaven now but infernal cookery. We took our chef from Proserpine.”

  “Were you ever in Hell?”

  “Several times. ’Tis the fashion now among the Olympians to pass the winter there.”

  “Is this the season in Heaven?”

  “Yes; you are lucky. Olympus is quite full.”

  “It was kind of Jupiter to invite me.”

  “Ay! he has his good points. And, no doubt, he has taken a liking to you, which is all very well. But be upon your guard. He has no heart, and is as capricious as he is tyrannical.”

  “Gods cannot be more unkind to me than men have been.”

  “All those who have suffered think they have seen the worst. A great mistake. However, you are now in the high road to preferment, so we will not be dull. There are some good fellows enough amongst us. You will like old Neptune.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “Yes, he generally passes his summer with us. There is little stirring in the ocean at that season.”

  “I am anxious to see Mars.”

  “Oh! a brute, more a bully than a hero. Not at all in the best set. These mustachioed gentry are by no means the rage at present in Olympus. The women are all literary now, and Minerva has quite eclipsed Venus. Apollo is our hero. You must read his last work.”

  “I hate reading.”

  “So do I. I have no time, and seldom do anything in that way but glance at a newspaper. Study and action will not combine.”

  “I supposed I shall find the Goddesses very proud?”

  “You will find them as you find women below, of different dispositions with the same object. Venus is a flirt; Minerva a prude, who fancies she has a correct taste and a strong mind; and Juno a politician. As for the rest, faint heart never won fair lady, take a friendly hint, and do not be alarmed.”

  “I fear nothing. My mind mounts with my fortunes. We are above the clouds. They form beneath us a vast and snowy region, dim and irregular, as I have sometimes seen them clustering upon the horizon’s ridge at sunset, like a raging sea stilled by some sudden supernatural frost and frozen into form! How bright the air above us, and how delicate its fragrant breath! I scarcely breathe, and yet my pulses beat like my first youth. I hardly feel my being. A splendour falls upon your presence. You seem, indeed, a God! Am I so glorious? This, this is Heaven!”

  III

  The travellers landed on a vast flight of sparkling steps of lapis-lazuli. Ascending, they entered beautiful gardens; winding walks that yielded to the feet, and accelerated your passage by their rebounding pressure; fragrant shrubs covered with dazzling flowers, the fleeting tints of which changed every moment; groups of tall trees, with strange birds of brilliant and variegated plumage, singing and reposing in their sheeny foliage, and fountains of perfumes.

  Before them rose an illimitable and golden palace, with high spreading domes of pearl, and long windows of crystal. Around the huge portal of ruby was ranged a company of winged genii, who smile on Mercury as he passed them with his charge.

  “The father of Gods and men is dressing,” said the son of Maia. “I shall attend his toilet and inform him of your arrival. These are your rooms. Dinner will be ready in half an hour. I will call for you as I go down. You can be formally presented in the evening. At that time, inspired by liqueurs and his matchless band of wind instruments, you will agree with the world that Aegiochus is the most finished God in existence.”

  IV

  “Now, Ixion, are you ready?”

  “Even so. What says Jove?”

  “He smiled, but said nothing. He was trying on a new robe. By this time he is seated. Hark! the thunder. Come on!”

  They entered a cupolaed hall. Seats of ivory and gold were ranged round a circular table of cedar, inlaid with the campaigns against the Titans, in silver exquisitely worked, a nuptial present of Vulcan. The service of gold plate threw all ideas of the King of Thessaly as to Royal magnificence into the darkest shade. The enormous plateau represented the constellations. Ixion viewed the father of Gods and men with great interest, who, however, did not notice him. He acknowledged the majesty of that countenance whose nod shook Olympus. Majestically robust and luxuriantly lusty, his tapering waist was evidently immortal, for it defied Time, and his splendid auburn curls, parted on his forehead with celestial precision, descended over cheeks glowing with the purple radiancy of perpetual manhood.

  The haughty Juno was seated on his left hand and Ceres on his right. For the rest of the company there was Neptune, Latona, Minerva, and Apollo, and when Mercury and Ixion had taken their places, one seat was still vacant.

  “Where is Diana?” inquired Jupiter, with a frown.

  “ My sister is hunting,” said Apollo.

  “She is always too late for dinner,” said Jupiter. “No habit is less Goddess-like.”

  “Godlike pursuits cannot be expected to induce Goddess-like manners,” said Juno, with a sneer.

  “I have no doubt Diana will be here directly,” said Latona, mildly.

  Jupiter seemed pacified, and at that instant the absent guest returned.

  “Good sport, Di?” inquired Neptune.

  “Very fair, uncle. Mamma,” continued the sister of Apollo, addressing herself to Juno, who she ever thus styled when she wished to conciliate her, “I have brought you a new peacock.”

  Juno was fond of pets, and was conciliated by the present.

  “Bacchus made a great noise about this wine, Mercury,” said Jupiter, “but I think with little cause. What think you?”

  “It pleases me, but I am fatigued, and then all wine is agreeable.”

  “You have had a long journey,” replied the Thunderer. “Ixion, I am glad to see you in Heaven.”

  “Your Majesty arrived to-day?” inquired Minerva, to whom the King of Thessaly sat next.

  “Within this hour.”

  “You must leave off talking of Time now,” said Minerva, with a severe smile. “Pray is there anything new in Greece?”

  “I have not been at all in society lately.”

  “No new editions of Homer? I admire him exceedingly.”

  “All about Greece interests me,” said Apollo, who, although handsome, was a somewhat melancholy lack-a-daisical looking personage, with his shirt collar thrown open, and his long curls theatrically arranged. “All about Greece interests me. I always consider Greece my peculiar property. My best poems were written at Delphi. I travelled in Greece when I was young. I envy mankind.”

  “Indeed!” said Ixion.

  “Yes: they at least can look forward to a termination of the ennui of existence, but for us Celestials there is no prospect. Say what they like, Immortality is a bore.”

  “You eat nothing, Apollo,” said Ceres.

  “Nor drink,” said Neptune.

  “To eat, to drink, what is it but to live; and what is life but death, if death be that which all men deem it, a thing insufferable, and to be shunned. I refresh myself now only with soda-water and biscuits. Ganymede, bring some.”

  Now, although the cuisine of Olympus was considered perfect, the forlorn poet had unfortunately fixed upon the only two articles which were not comprised in its cellar or larder. In Heaven, there was neither soda-water n
or biscuits. A great confusion consequently ensued; but at length the bard, whose love of fame was only equalled by his horror of getting fat, consoled himself with a swan stuffed with truffles, and a bottle of strong Tenedos wine.

  “What do you think of Homer?” inquired Minerva of Apollo. “Is he not delightful?”

  “If you think so.”

  “Nay, I am desirous of your opinion”

  “Then you should not have given me yours, for your taste is too fine for me to dare to differ with it.”

  “I have suspected, for some time, that you are rather a heretic.”

  “Why, the truth is” replied Apollo, playing with his rings, “I do not think much of Homer. Homer was not esteemed in his own age, and our contemporaries are generally our best judges. The fact is, there are very few people who are qualified to decide upon matters of taste. A certain set, for certain reasons, resolve to cry up a certain writer, and the great mass soon join in. All is cant. And the present admiration of Homer is not less so. They say I have borrowed a great deal from him. The truth is, I never read Homer since I was a child, and I thought of him then what I think of him now, a writer of some wild irregular power, totally deficient in taste. Depend upon it, our contemporaries are our best judges, and his contemporaries decided that Homer was nothing. A great poet cannot be kept down. Look at my case. Marsyas said of my first volume that it was pretty good poetry for a God, and in answer I wrote a satire, and flayed Marsyas alive. But what is poetry, and what is criticism, and what is life? Air. And what is Air? Do you know? I don’t. All is mystery, and all is gloom, and ever and anon from out the clouds a star breaks forth, and glitters, and that star is Poetry.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Minerva.

  “I do not exactly understand you,” said Neptune.

  “Have you heard from Proserpine, lately?” inquired Jupiter of Ceres.

  “Yesterday,” said the domestic mother. “They talk of soon joining us. But Pluto is at present so busy, owing to the amazing quantity of wars going on now, that I am almost afraid he will scarcely be able to accompany her.”

  Juno exchanged a telegraphic nod with Ceres. The Goddesses rose, and retired.

  “Come, old boy,” said Jupiter to Ixion, instantly throwing off all his chivalric majesty, “I drink your welcome in a magnum of Maraschino. Damn your poetry, Apollo, and Mercury give us one of your good stories.”

  V

  “Well! what do you think of him?” asked Juno.

  “He appears to have a fine mind,” said Minerva.

  “Poh! he has very fine eyes,” said Juno.

  “He seems a very nice, quiet young gentleman,” said Ceres.

  “I have no doubt he is very amiable,” said Latona.

  “He must have felt very strange,” said Diana.

  VI

  Hercules arrived with his bride Hebe; soon after the Graces dropped in, the most delightful personages in the world for a soirée, so useful and ready for anything. Afterwards came a few of the Muses, Thalia, Melpomene, and Terpsichore, famous for a charade or a proverb. Jupiter liked to be amused in the evening. Bacchus also came, but finding that the Gods had not yet left their wine, retired to pay them a previous visit.

  VII

  Ganymede announced coffee in the saloon of Juno. Jupiter was in superb good humour. He was amused by his mortal guest. He had condescended to tell one of his best stories in his best style, about Leda, not too scandalous, but gay.

  “Those were bright days,” said Neptune.

  “We can remember,” said the Thunderer, with a twinkling eye. “These youths have fallen upon duller times. There are no fine women now. Ixion, I drink to the health of your wife.”

  “With all my heart, and may we never be nearer than we are at present.”

  “Good! i’faith; Apollo, your arm. Now for the ladies. La, la, la, la! la, la, la, la!”

  VIII

  The Thunderer entered the saloon of Juno with that bow which no God could rival; all rose, and the King of Heaven seated himself between Ceres and Latona. The melancholy Apollo stood apart, and was soon carried off by Minerva to an assembly at the house of Mnemosyne. Mercury chatted with the Graces, and Bacchus with Diana. The three Muses favoured the company with singing, and the Queen of Heaven approached Ixion.

  “Does your Majesty dance?” she haughtily inquired.

  “On earth; I have few accomplishments even there, and none in Heaven.”

  “You have led a strange life! I have heard of your adventures.”

  “A king who has lost his crown may generally gain at least experience.”

  “Your courage is firm.”

  “I have felt too much to care for much. Yesterday I was a vagabond exposed to every pitiless storm, and now I am the guest of Jove. While there is life there is hope, and he who laughs at Destiny will gain Fortune. I would go through the past again to enjoy the present, and feel that after all, I am my wife’s debtor, since, through her conduct, I can gaze upon you.”

  “No great spectacle. If that be all, I wish you better fortune.”

  “I desire no greater”

  “You are moderate.”

  “I am perhaps more unreasonable than you imagine.”

  “Indeed!”

  Their eyes met; the dark orbs of the Thessalian did not quail before the flashing vision of the Goddess. Juno grew pale. Juno turned away.

  PART II

  “Others say it was only a cloud.”

  I

  Mercury and Ganymede were each lolling on an opposite couch in the antechamber of Olympus.

  “It is wonderful,” said the son of Maia, yawning.

  “It is incredible,” rejoined the cup-bearer of Jove, stretching his legs.

  “A miserable mortal!” exclaimed the God, elevating his eyebrows.

  “A vile Thessalian!” said the beautiful Phrygian, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Not three days back an outcast among his own wretched species!”

  “And now commanding everybody in Heaven”

  “He shall not command me, though,” said Mercury.

  “Will he not?” replied Ganymede. “Why, what do you think? only last night; hark! here he comes.”

  The companions jumped up from their couches; a light laugh was heard. The cedar portal was flung open, and Ixion lounged in, habited in a loose morning robe, and kicking before him one of his slippers.

  “Ah!” exclaimed the King of Thessaly, “the very fellows I wanted to see! Ganymede, bring me some nectar; and Mercury, run and tell Jove that I shall not dine at home today.”

  The messenger and the page exchanged looks of indignant consternation.

  “Well! what are you waiting for?” continued Ixion, looking round from the mirror in which he was arranging his locks. The messenger and the page disappeared.

  “So! this is Heaven,” exclaimed the husband of Dia, flinging himself upon one of the couches; “and a very pleasant place too. These worthy Immortals required their minds to be opened, and I trust I have effectually performed the necessary operation. They wanted to keep me down with their dull old-fashioned celestial airs, but I fancy I have given them change for their talent. To make your way in Heaven you must command. These exclusives sink under the audacious invention of an aspiring mind. Jove himself is really a fine old fellow, with some notions too. I am a prime favourite, and no one is greater authority with Aegiochus on all subjects, from the character of the fair sex or the pedigree of a courser, down to the cut of a robe or the flavour of a dish. Thanks, Ganymede,” continued the Thessalian, as he took the goblet from his returning attendant.

  “I drink to your bonnes fortunes. Splendid! This nectar makes me feel quite immortal. By-the-bye, I hear sweet sounds. Who is in the Hall of Music?”

  “The Goddesses, royal sir, practise a new air of Euterpe, the words by Apollo. ’Tis pretty, and will doubtless be very popular, for it is all about moonlight and the misery of existence.”

  “I warrant it.”

  “You
have a taste for poetry yourself?” inquired Ganymede.

  “Not the least,” replied Ixion.

  “Apollo,” continued the heavenly page, “is a great genius, though Marsyas said that he never would be a poet because he was a god, and had no heart. But do you think, sir, that a poet does indeed need a heart?”

  “I really cannot say. I know my wife always said I had a bad heart and worse head; but what she meant, upon my honour I never could understand.”

  “Minerva will ask you to write in her album.”

  “Will she indeed! I am sorry to hear it, for I can scarcely scrawl my signature. I should think that Jove himself cared little for all this nonsense.”

  “Jove loves an epigram. He does not esteem Apollo’s works at all. Jove is of the classical school, and admires satire, provided there be no allusions to gods and kings.”

  “Of course; I quite agree with him. I remember we had a confounded poet at Larissa who proved my family lived before the deluge, and asked me for a pension. I refused him, and then he wrote an epigram asserting that I sprang from the veritable stones thrown by Deucalion and Pyrrha at the re-peopling of the earth, and retained all the properties of my ancestors.”

  “Ha, ha! Hark! there’s a thunderbolt! I must run to Jove.”

  “And I will look in on the musicians. This way, I think?”

  “Up the ruby staircase, turn to your right, down the amethyst gallery. Farewell!”

  “Good bye; a lively lad that!”

  II

  The King of Thessaly entered the Hall of Music with its golden walls and crystal dome. The Queen of Heaven was reclining in an easy chair, cutting out peacocks in small sheets of note paper. Minerva was making a pencil observation on a manuscript copy of the song: Apollo listened with deference to her laudatory criticisms. Another divine dame, standing by the side of Euterpe, who was seated by the harp, looked up as Ixion entered. The wild liquid glance of her soft but radiant countenance denoted the famed Goddess of Beauty.