The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy: 19th Century (European Literary Fantasy Anthologies)

by Brian Stableford

  III

  The King of Thessaly quitted the Hall of Music. Moody, yet not uninfluenced by a degree of wild excitement, he wandered forth into the gardens of Olympus. He came to a beautiful green retreat surrounded by enormous cedars, so vast that it seemed they must have been coeval with the creation; so fresh and brilliant, you would have deemed them wet with the dew of their first spring. The turf, softer than down, and exhaling, as you pressed it, an exquisite perfume, invited him to recline himself upon this natural couch. He threw himself upon the aromatic herbage, and leaning on his arm, fell into a deep reverie.

  Hours flew away; the sunshiny glades that opened in the distance had softened into shade.

  "Ixion, how do you do? " inquired a voice, wild, sweet, and thrilling as a bird. The King of Thessaly started and looked up with the distracted air of a man roused from a dream, or from complacent meditation over some strange, sweet secret. His cheek was flushed, his dark eyes flashed fire; his brow trembled, his dishevelled hair played in the fitful breeze. The King of Thessaly looked up, and beheld a most beautiful youth.

  Apparently, he had attained about the age of puberty. His stature, however, was rather tall for his age, but exquisitely moulded and proportioned. Very fair, his somewhat round cheeks were tinted with a rich but delicate glow, like the rose of twilight, and lighted by dimples that twinkled like stars. His large and deep-blue eyes sparkled with exultation, and an air of ill-suppressed mockery quivered round his pouting lips. His light auburn hair, braided off his white forehead, clustered in massy curls on each side of his face, and fell in sunny torrents down his neck. And from the back of the beautiful youth there fluttered forth two wings, the tremulous plumage of which seemed to have been bathed in a sunset: so various, so radiant, and so novel were its shifting and wondrous tints; purple, and crimson, and gold; streaks of azure, dashes of orange and glossy black; now a single feather, whiter than light, and sparkling like the frost, stars of emerald and carbuncle, and then the prismatic blaze of an enormous brilliant! A quiver hung at the side of the beautiful youth, and he leant upon a bow.

  "Oh! god, for god thou must be!" at length exclaimed Ixion. " Do I behold the bright divinity of Love?"

  "I am indeed Cupid," replied the youth; "and am curious to know what Ixion is thinking about."

  "Thought is often bolder than speech."

  "Oracular, though a mortal! You need not be afraid to trust me. My aid I am sure you must need. Who ever was found in a reverie on the green turf, under the shade of spreading trees, without requiring the assistance of Cupid? Come! be frank, who is the heroine? Some love-sick nymph deserted on the far earth; or worse, some treacherous mistress, whose frailty is more easily forgotten than her charms? Tis a miserable situation, no doubt. It cannot be your wife?"

  "Assuredly not," replied Ixion, with energy.

  "Another man's?"

  "No."

  "What! an obdurate maiden?"

  Ixion shook his head.

  "It must be a widow, then," continued Cupid. "Who ever heard before of such a piece of work about a widow!"

  "Have pity upon me, dread Cupid!" exclaimed the King of Thessaly, rising suddenly from the ground, and falling on his knee before the God. "Thou art the universal friend of man, and all nations alike throw their incense on thy altars. Thy divine discrimination has not deceived thee. I am in love; desperately, madly, fatally enamoured. The object of my passion is neither my own wife nor another man's. In spite of all they have said and sworn, I am a moral member of society. She is neither a maid nor a widow. She is - "

  "What? what?" exclaimed the impatient deity.

  "A Goddess!" replied the King.

  "Wheugh!" whistled Cupid. "What! has my mischievous mother been indulging you with an innocent flirtation?"

  "Yes; but it produced no effect upon me."

  "You have a stout heart, then. Perhaps you have been reading poetry with Minerva, and are caught in one of her Platonic man-traps."

  "She set one, but I broke away."

  "You have a stout leg, then. But where are you, where are you? Is it Hebe? It can hardly be Diana, she is so cold. Is it a Muse, or is it one of the Graces?"

  Ixion again shook his head.

  "Come, my dear fellow," said Cupid, quite in a confidential tone, "you have told enough to make further reserve mere affectation. Ease you heart at once, and if I can assist you, depend upon my exertions."

  "Beneficent God!" exclaimed Ixion, "if I ever return to Larissa, the brightest temple in Greece shall hail thee for its inspiring deity. I address thee with all the confiding frankness of a devoted votary. Know, then, the heroine of my reverie was no less a personage than the Queen of Heaven herself?"

  "Juno! by all that is sacred!" shouted Cupid.

  "I am here," responded a voice of majestic melody. The stately form of the Queen of Heaven advanced from a neighbouring bower. Ixion stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, with a throbbing heart and burning cheeks. Juno stood motionless, pale and astounded. The God of Love burst into excessive laughter.

  "A pretty pair," he exclaimed, fluttering between both, and laughing in their faces. "Truly a pretty pair. Well! I see I am in your way. Good bye!" And so saying, the God pulled a couple of arrows from his quiver, and with the rapidity of lightning shot one in the respective breasts of the Queen of Heaven and the King of Thessaly.

  IV

  The amethystine twilight of Olympus died away. The stars blazed with tints of every hue. Ixion and Juno returned to the palace. She leant upon his arm; her eyes were fixed upon the ground; they were in sight of the gorgeous pile, and yet she had not spoken. Ixion, too, was silent, and gazed with abstraction upon the glowing sky.

  Suddenly, when within a hundred yards of the portal, Juno stopped, and looking up into the face of Ixion with an irresistible smile, she said, "I am sure you cannot now refuse to tell me what the Queen of Mesopotamia's peacock's tail was made of!"

  "It is impossible now," said Ixion. "Know, then beautiful Goddess, that the tail of the Queen of Mesopotamia's peacock's tail was made of some plumage she had stolen from the wings of Cupid"

  "And what was the reason that prevented you from telling me before?"

  "Because, beautiful Juno, I am the most discreet of men, and respect the secret of a lady, however trifling."

  "I am glad to hear that," replied Juno, and they reentered the palace.

  V

  Mercury met Juno and Ixion in the gallery leading to the grand banqueting hall.

  "I was looking for you," said the God, shaking his head. "Jove is in a sublime rage. Dinner has been ready this hour."

  The King of Thessaly and the Queen of Heaven exchanged a glance and entered the saloon. Jove looked up with a brow of thunder, but did not condescend to send forth a single flash of anger. Jove looked up and Jove looked down. All Olympus trembled as the father of Gods and men resumed his soup. The rest of the guests seemed nervous and reserved, except Cupid, who said immediately to Juno, "Your majesty has been detained? "

  I fell asleep in a bower reading Apollo's last poem," replied Juno. "I am lucky, however, in finding a companion in my negligence. Ixion, where have you been?"

  "Take a glass of nectar, Juno," said Cupid, with eyes twinkling with mischief; "and perhaps Ixion will join us."

  This was the most solemn banquet ever celebrated in Olympus. Every one seemed out of humour or out of spirits. Jupiter spoke only in monosyllables of suppressed rage, that sounded like distant thunder.

  Apollo whispered to Minerva. Mercury never opened his lips, but occasionally exchanged significant glances with Ganymede. Mars compensated, by his attentions to Venus, for his want of conversation. Cupid employed himself in asking disagreeable questions. At length the Goddesses retired. Mercury exerted himself to amuse Jove, but the Thunderer scarcely deigned to smile at his best stories. Mars picked his teeth, Apollo played with his rings, Ixion was buried in a profound reverie.

  VI

  It was a great relief to all when
Ganymede summoned them to the presence of their late companions.

  "I have written a comment upon your inscription," said Minerva to Ixion, " and am anxious for your opinion of it."

  "I am a wretched critic," said the King, breaking away from her. Juno smiled upon him in the distance.

  "Ixion," said Venus, as he passed by, "come and talk to me."

  The bold Thessalian blushed, he stammered out an unmeaning excuse, he quitted the astonished but goodnatured Goddess, and seated himself by Juno, and as he seated himself his moody brow seemed suddenly illumined with brilliant light.

  "Is it so?" said Venus

  "Hem! " said Minerva

  "Ha, ha! " said Cupid.

  Jupiter played piquette with Mercury.

  "Everything goes wrong to-day," said the King of Heaven; "cards wretched, and kept waiting for dinner, and by - a mortal!"

  "Your Majesty must not be surprised," said the goodnatured Mercury, with whom Ixion was no favourite. "Your Majesty must not be very much surprised at the conduct of this creature. Considering what he is, and where he is, I am only astonished that his head is not more turned than it appears to be. A man, a thing made of mud, and in Heaven! Only think, sire! Is it not enough to inflame the brain of any child of clay? To be sure, keeping your Majesty from dinner is little short of celestial high treason. I hardly expected that, indeed. To order me about, to treat Ganymede as his own lackey, and, in short, to command the whole household; all this might be expected from such a person in such a situation, but I confess I did think he had some little respect left for your Majesty."

  "And he does order you about, eh?" inquired Jove. "I have the spades."

  "Oh! 'tis quite ludicrous," responded the son of Maia. "Your Majesty would not expect from me the offices that this upstart daily requires."

  "Eternal destiny! is't possible? That is my trick. And Ganymede, too?"

  "Oh! quite shocking, I assure you, sire," said the beautiful cupbearer, leaning over the chair of Jove with all the easy insolence of a privileged favourite. "Really sire, if Ixion is to go on in the way he does, either he or I must quit."

  "Is it possible?" exclaimed Jupiter. "But I can believe anything of a man who keeps me waiting for dinner. Two and three make five."

  "It is Juno that encourages him so," said Ganymede.

  "Does she encourage him?" inquired Jove.

  "Everybody notices it," protested Ganymede.

  "It is indeed a little noticed," observed Mercury.

  "What business has such a fellow to speak to Juno?" exclaimed Jove. "A mere mortal, a mere miserable mortal! You have the point. How I have been deceived in this fellow! Who ever could have supposed that, after all my generosity to him, he would ever have kept me waiting for dinner?"

  "He was walking with Juno," said Ganymede. "It was all a sham about their having met by accident. Cupid saw them."

  "Ha!" said Jupiter, turning pale; "you don't say so! Repiqued, as I am a God. That is mine. Where is the Queen?"

  "Talking to Ixion, sire," said Mercury. "Oh, I beg your pardon, sire; I did not know you meant the queen of diamonds."

  "Never mind. I am repiqued, and I have been kept waiting for dinner. Accursed be this day! Is Ixion really talking to Juno? We will not endure this."

  VII

  "Where is Juno?" demanded Jupiter.

  "I am sure I cannot say," said Venus, with a smile.

  "I am sure I do not know," said Minerva, with a sneer.

  "Where is Ixion?" said Cupid, laughing outright.

  "Mercury, Ganymede, find the Queen of Heaven instantly," thundered the father of Gods and men.

  The celestial messenger and the heavenly page flew away out of different doors. There was a terrible, an immortal silence. Sublime rage lowered on the brow of Jove like a storm upon the mountain-top. Minerva seated herself at the card-table and played at Patience. Venus and Cupid tittered in the background. Shortly returned the envoys, Mercury looking solemn, Ganymede malignant.

  "Well?" inquired Jove; and all Olympus trembled at the monosyllable.

  Mercury shook his head.

  "Her Majesty has been walking on the terrace with the King of Thessaly," replied Ganymede.

  "Where is she now, sir?" demanded Jupiter.

  Mercury shrugged his shoulders.

  "Her Majesty is resting herself in the pavilion of Cupid, with the King of Thessaly," replied Ganymede.

  "Confusion!" exclaimed the father of Gods and men; and he rose and seized a candle from the table, scattering the cards in all directions. Every one present, Minerva and Venus, and Mars and Apollo, and Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses, and the Graces, and all the winged Genii - each seized a candle; rifling the chandeliers, each followed Jove.

  "This way," said Mercury.

  "This way," said Ganymede.

  "This way, this way!" echoed the celestial crowd.

  "Mischiefl" cried Cupid; "I must save my victims."

  They were all upon the terrace. The father of Gods and men, though both in a passion and a hurry, moved with dignity. It was, as customary in Heaven, a clear and starry night; but this eve Diana was indisposed, or otherwise engaged, and there was no moonlight. They were in sight of the pavilion.

  "What are you?" inquired Cupid of one of the Genii, who accidentally extinguished his candle.

  "I am a Cloud," answered the winged Genius.

  "A Cloud! Just the thing. Now do me a shrewd turn, and Cupid is ever your debtor. Fly, fly, pretty Cloud, and encompass yon pavilion with your form. Away! ask no questions; swift as my word."

  "I declare there is a fog," said Venus.

  "An evening mist in Heaven! " said Minerva.

  "Where is Nox?" said Jove. "Everything goes wrong. Who ever heard of a mist in Heaven?"

  "My candle is out," said Apollo.

  "And mine, too," said Mars.

  "And mine, and mine, and mine," said Mercury and Ganymede, and the Muses and the Graces.

  "All the candles are out!" said Cupid; " a regular fog. I cannot even see the pavilion: it must be hereabouts, though, said the God to himself. "So, so; I should be at home in my own pavilion, and am tolerably accustomed to stealing about in the dark. There is a step; and here, surely, is the lock. The door opens, but the Cloud enters before me. Juno, Juno," whispered the God of Love, " we are all here. Be contented to escape, like many other innocent dames, with your reputation only under a cloud: it will soon disperse; and lo! the heaven is clearing."

  "It must have been the heat of our flambeaux" said Venus; "for see, the mist is vanished; here is the pavilion."

  Ganymede ran forward, and dashed open the door. Ixion was alone.

  "Seize him!" said Jove.

  "Juno is not here," said Mercury, with an air of blended congratulation and disappointment.

  "Never mind," said Jove; "seize him! He kept me waiting for dinner."

  "Is this your hospitality, Aegiochus?" exclaimed Ixion, in a tone of bullying innocence. "I shall defend myself."

  "Seize him, seize him!" exclaimed Jupiter, "What! do you all falter? Are you afraid of a mortal?"

  "And a Thessalian?" added Ganymede.

  No one advanced.

  "Send for Hercules," said Jove.

  "I will fetch him in an instant," said Ganymede.

  "I protest," said the King of Thessaly, "against this violation of the most sacred rights."

  "The marriage tie?" said Mercury.

  "The dinner-hour?" said Jove.

  "It is no use talking sentiment to Ixion," said Venus; "all mortals are callous."

  "Adventures are to the adventurous," said Minerva.

  "Here is Hercules! here is Hercules!"

  "Seize him!" said Jove; "seize that man."

  In vain the mortal struggled with the irresistible demi-god.

  "Shall I fetch your thunderbolt, Jove?" inquired Ganymede.

  "Anything short of eternal punishment is unworthy of a God," answered Jupiter, with great dignity. "Apollo, bring me a wheel of yo
ur chariot."

  "What shall I do tomorrow morning?" inquired the God of Light.

  "Order an eclipse," replied Jove. "Bind the insolent wretch to the wheel; hurl him to Hades; its motion shall be perpetual."

  "What am I to bind him with?" inquired Hercules.

  "The girdle of Venus," replied the Thunderer.

  "What is all this?" inquired Juno, advancing, pale and agitated.

  "Come along; you shall see," answered Jupiter. "Follow me, follow me."

  They all followed the leader, all the Gods, all the Genii; in the midst, the brawny husband of Hebe bearing Ixion aloft, bound to the fatal wheel. They reached the terrace; they descended the sparkling steps of lapis-lazuli. Hercules held his burthen on high, ready, at a nod, to plunge the hapless but presumptuous mortal through space into Hades. The heavenly group surrounded him, and peeped over the starry abyss. It was a fine moral, and demonstrated the usual infelicity that attends unequal connections.

  "Celestial despot!" said Ixion.

  In a moment all sounds were hushed, as they listened to the last words of the unrivalled victim. Juno, in despair, leant upon the respective arms of Venus and Minerva.

  "Celestial despot!" said Ixion, "I defy the immortal ingenuity of thy cruelty. My memory must be as eternal as thy torture: that will support me."

  CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870) was the most influential champion of fantastic fiction in nineteenth century Britain, although his support was compromised by the opinion that fantasy should be allowed free rein only in its proper place. As an editor, of Household Words and All the Year Round , Dickens used a good deal of fantastic fiction, but he saved most of it for the special Christmas numbers. His own fantasies are either anecdotal tales or novellas issued as "Christmas Books". Several comic fantasies are incorporated into The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (1836-37), including "The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton", which imports the moral message later to be more elaborately developed in A Christmas Carol (1843).

  Dickens was ambitious for his Christmas Book fantasies, but they fell victim to an irreconcilable conflict of format and ambition. The Chimes (1844) was intended to "strike a great blow for the poor" by spelling out the requirements for psychological survival in the face of economic misfortune, but it made its middle-class readers far too uneasy, and they much preferred the cosy sentimentality of The Cricket on The Hearth (1845). The Haunted Man and The Ghost's Bargain (1848) plumbs murkier moral depths in a cautionary tale of a catastrophic infection which obliterates pain by spreading emotional and moral anaesthesia, but it too proved too discomfiting for an audience expecting light entertainment.