Chapter III

[_A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees,
except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over
the latter is rising the harvest moon._ PHOEBUS APOLLO _alone;
he watches the luminary for a long time in silence_.]

PHOEBUS.

Selene! sister!--since that tawny shell,
Stained by thy tears and hollowed by thy sighs,
Recalls thee still to mind--dost thou regard,
From some tumultuous covert of this woodland,
Thy whilom sphere and palace? Nun of the skies,
In coy virginity of pulse, thy hands
Repelled me when I sought to win thy lair,
Fraternal, with no thoughts but humorous ones;
And in thy chill revulsion, through thy skies,
At my advance thy crystal home would fade,
A ghost, a shadow, a film, a papery dream.
Thou and thy moon were one. What is it now,
Thy phantom paradise of gorgeous pearl,
With sibilant streams and palmy tier on tier
Of wind-bewhitened foliage? Still it floats,
As when thy congregated harps and viols
Beat slow harmonious progress, light on light,
Across our stainless canopy of heaven.
Ah! but how changed, Selene! If thy form
Crouches among these harsher herbs, O turn
Thy withering face away, and press thine eyes
To darkness in the strings of dusty heather,
Since that loose globe of orange pallor totters,
Racked with the fires of anarchy, and sheds
The embers of thy glory; and the cradles
Of thy imperial maidenhood are foul
With sulphur and the craterous ash of hell.
O gaze not, sister, on the loathsome wreck
Of what was once thy moon. Yet, if thou must
With tear-fed eyes visit thine ancient realm,
Bend down until the fringe of thy faint lids
Hides all save what is in this tarn reflected--
Cold, pallid, swimming in the lustrous pool,
There only worthy of thy clear regard,
A vision purified in woe.

[_The reeds in the tarn are stirred, and there is audible a faint
shriek and a ripple of laughter. A shrouded figure rises from
the marsh, and, hastening by_ PHOEBUS _through the darkness,
is lost in the woods. It is followed closely by_ PAN, _who,
observing_ PHOEBUS, _pauses in embarrassment_.]

PHOEBUS.

I thought I was alone.

PAN.

And so did we, sire.

PHOEBUS.

Am I to congratulate you on your distractions?

PAN.

I have a natural inclination to marshy places.

PHOEBUS.

This is a ghastly night, Pan.

PAN.

I had not observed it, sire. Yes, doubtless a ghastly night. But I was occupied, and I am no naturalist. This glen curiously reminded me of rushy Ladon. I am a great student of reeds, and I was agreeably surprised to find some very striking specimens here--worthy of the Arcadian watercourses, as I am a deity. I should say, _was_ a deity.

PHOEBUS.

They will help, perhaps, to reconcile you to mortality. You can add them to your collection.

PAN.

That, sire, is my hope. The stems are particularly full and smooth, and the heads of the best of them rustle back with a profusion of flaxen flowerage, remarkably agreeable to the touch. I broke one as your Highness approached. But the wind, or some goblin, bore it from me. This curious place seems full of earth-spirits.

PHOEBUS.

You must study them, too, Pan. That will supply you with another object.

PAN.

But the marsh water has a property unknown to the Olympian springs. I suspect it of being poisoned. After standing long in it, I found myself troubled with aching in the shank, from knee to hoof. If this is repeated, my studies of reed-life will be made dolorously difficult.

PHOEBUS.

It must now be part of your pleasure to husband your enjoyments. You have always rolled in the twinkle of the vine-leaves, hot enough and not too hot, with grapes--immense musky clusters--just within your reach. If you think of it philosophically----

PAN.

How, sire?

PHOEBUS.

Philosophically.... Well, if you think of it sensibly, you will see that there was a certain dreariness in this uniformity of satisfaction. Rather amusing, surely, to find the cluster occasionally spring up out of reach, to find the polished waist of the reed slip from your hands? Occasionally, of course; just enough to give a zest to pursuit.

PAN.

Ah! there was pursuit in Ladon, but it was pursuit which always closed easily in capture. What I am afraid of is that here capture may prove the exception. Your Highness ... but a slight family connection and our adversities are making me strangely familiar....

PHOEBUS.

Speak on, my good Pan.

PAN.

Your Highness was once something of a botanist?

PHOEBUS.

A botanist? Ah, scarcely! A little arboriculture, the laurel; a little horticulture, the sun-flower. Those varieties seem entirely absent here, and I have no thought of replacing them.

PAN.

The last thing I should dream of suggesting would be a _hortus siccus_....

PHOEBUS.

And I was never a consistent collector. There are reeds everywhere, you fortunate goat-foot, but even in Olympus I was the creature of a fastidious selection.

PAN.

The current of the thick and punctual blood never left me liable to the distractions of choice.

PHOEBUS.

I congratulate you, Pan, upon your temperament, and I recommend to you a further pursuit of the attainable.

[PAN _makes a profound obeisance and disappears in the woodland_.
PHOEBUS _watches him depart, and then turns to the moon_.]

PHOEBUS [_alone_].

His familiarity was not distasteful to me. It reminded me of days out hunting, when I have come suddenly upon him at the edge of the watercourse, and have shared his melons and his conversation. I anticipate for him some not unagreeable experiences. The lower order of divinities will probably adapt themselves with ease to our new conditions. They despaired the most suddenly, with wringing of hands as we raced to the sea, with interminable babblings and low moans and screams, as they clustered on the deck of that extraordinary vessel. But the science of our new life must be to forget or to remember. We must live in the past or forego the past. For Pan and his likes I conceive that it will largely resolve itself into a question of temperature--of temperature and of appetite. That orb is of a sinister appearance, but to do it justice it looks heated. My sister had a passion for coldness; she would never permit me to lend her any of my warmth. I cannot say that it is chilly here to-night. I am agreeably surprised.

[_The veiled figure flits across again, and_ PAN _once more
crosses in close pursuit_.]

PHOEBUS [_as they vanish_].

What an amiable vivacity! Yes; the lower order of divinities will be happy, for they will forget. We, on the contrary, have the privilege of remembering. It is only the mediocre spirits, that cannot quite forget nor clearly remember, which will have neither the support of instinct nor the solace of a vivid recollection.

[_He seats himself. A noise of laughter rises from the marsh,
and dies away. In the silence a bird sings._]

PHOEBUS.

Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill, the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very considerable skill in warbling. But the moon--what is happening to _it_? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This little bird's incantation has, without question, produced this fortunate effect. This little bird, halfway on the road between the nightingale and the cicada, is doubtless an enchanter, and one whose art possesses a more than respectable property. My sister's attention should be drawn to this highly interesting circumstance. Selene! Selene!

[_He calls and waits. From the upper woods_ SELENE _slowly
descends, wrapped in long white garments_.]

PHOEBUS.

Sister, behold the throne that once was thine.

SELENE.

And now, a rocking cinder, fouls the skies.

PHOEBUS.

A magian sweeps its filthy ash away.

SELENE.

There is no magic in the bankrupt world.

PHOEBUS.

Nay, did'st thou hear this twittering peal of song?

SELENE.

Some noise I heard; this glen is full of sounds.

PHOEBUS.

Fling back thy veil, and staunch thy tears, and gaze.

SELENE.

At thee, my brother, not at my darkened orb.

PHOEBUS.

Gaze then at me. What seest thou in mine eyes?

SELENE.

Foul ruddy gleams from what was lately pure.

PHOEBUS.

Nay, but thou gazest not. Look up, look at me!

SELENE.

But on thy sacred eyeballs fume turns fire.

PHOEBUS.

Nay, then, turn once and see thy very moon.

SELENE [_turning round_].

Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone.

PHOEBUS.

The wizard bird has sung the fumes away.

SELENE.

Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more.

PHOEBUS [_approaching her, and in a confidential tone_].

I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you--yes, even of gratification, my sister--that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power of temporarily relieving it and raising it.

[SELENE, _manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on
the left_. PHOEBUS, _turning again to the moon_,]

I have observed that this species of mysterious agency has a very salutary effect upon the more melancholy of our female divinities. They are satisfied if they have the felicity of waiting for something which they cannot be certain of realising, and which they attribute to a cause impossible to investigate. [_To_ SELENE, _raising his voice_.] Whither do you go, my sister?

SELENE.

I am searching for this little bird. I propose to discuss with it the nature of its extraordinary, and I am ready to admit its gratifying, control over the moon. I think it possible that I may concoct with it some scheme for our return. You shall, in that case, Phoebus, be no longer excluded from my domain.

PHOEBUS.

Let me urge you to do no such thing. The action of this little bird upon your unfortunate luminary is sympathetic, but surely very obscure. It would be a pity to inquire into it so closely as to comprehend it.

[SELENE, _without listening to him, passes up into the woods,
and exit_.]

PHOEBUS [_alone_].

To comprehend it might even be to discover that it does not exist. Whereas to come here night after night, in the fragrant darkness, to see the unhallowed lump of fire creep out of the lake, to listen for the first clucks and shakes of the sweet little purifying song, and to watch the orb growing steadily more hyaline and lucent under its sway, how delicious! The absolute harmony and concord of nature would be then patent and recurrent before us. My poor sister! However, it is consoling to reflect that she is almost certain not to be able to find that bird.