ON HIGH OLYMPUS

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 334, 20 April 1928, Page 14

ON HIGH OLYMPUS

[Written for The Sun.]

WITH the death of Anatole France, whose works were always so deftly translated that we can’t help regarding him as one of our own masters, Olympus ceases to be a popular summer resort. There is none left who does not require for his hero someone at once less shadowy and less radiant than the Olympians. Anatole France was most ingenious in bringing his old gods thoroughly up to date. Were they, with the coming of the Christian era, to fade into legends or to be cruelly explained away by to-day’s wiseacres as allegoric figures? Never! In “The Revolt of the Angels” the writer gives his immortals a very plausible family tree. In the beginning they were the angels, summarily ejected from heaven by the Jewish Javeh against whose thunderbolts all their bright swords of wit and beauty are powerless. But instead of remaining forever in a place of cinders and sulphurous discomfort, they become the guardian genii of the neglected folk of earth, teaching them the worship of beauty, the arts of carving marble, making music, and tilling the fields. Mankind is raised fronT a very wretched state to one of, comparative dignity. The world becomes a pleasant place. The god Dionysus takes the role of Satan. His eyes had the wetness of woodviolets, his lips were brilliant with the ruby-red of pomegranates . . .

under his feet flowers and fruits came to life. In the month of the vintage, he visited Greece, and the villagers ran forth to meet him, stained with Ihe green and ruddy juices of the on 'the leafy summits of the mounains and on the yellow shores of the sea. The naiads and the oreads mingled with us at our play. Aphrodite at our coining rose from the foam of the seas to smile at us.

Agreeably together lived nymphs, shepherds, and gods. Here was a fair world and a green world, flowering in perfection from the sacred soil of Attica. Under the aegis of the friendly demons, when the day of Greece had passed, Rome learned all that she was capable of learning in grace and piety, reverencing the Grecian arts which she could not imitate. In the orchards little cakes of barley-meal, honey, and cheese were set for the Satyrs and the Fauns. But on the coming of the Christian era the sacred altars, the temples which were lovely bubbles of blown marble, were torn down: a fine time the nymphs had, avenging themselves on the ragged men who denounced them: they filled their heads with dreams of impossible loveliness, and then vanished like ripples of moonlight through the vineyards. But the barbarians, in their turn, learned a certain rough knowledge of beauty from the subtle demons, who did not hesitate to take service as monks, teaching their pupils the mellow wisdom which made the monasteries beloved. In the great cathedral towers built in the middle ages, the face of full many a friendly spirit peeped out from carven chancel or belfry. The nymphs were still beloved under the name of fairies.

“The beauty of the antique world” was all-but triumphant over creeds of punishment and pain when Martin Luther took the floor and swept from it the garlands of Dionysus. The friendly satyrs were painted as sooty, black, and scandalous people. Dionysus was made a tale for the frightening of babes. The nymphs hardly dared to show their faces on a moonlight night, and their cronies, old peasant women and young savants, were promptly burned at the stake for necromancy. But still the faithful awaited better days. The peaches in my orchard remind me of the sun-kissed skin olf the mienads. For mankind I have retained my old friendship, a little admiration and much pity, and I await, while cultivating this enclosure, the still distant day when the great Dionysus shall come, followed by his Fauns and his Bacchantes, to restore beauty and gladness to the world and to bring back the Golden Age. I shall fare joyously behind the car.

And now for a very different conception of Olympus, told in a new edition of an old book, Benjamin Disraeli’s “Ixion in Heaven.” The book is illustrated by John Austen with ultra-modern caricatures of magnificent Victorian ladies and gentlemen, wonderful crinolines, high-shouldered coats, and bell-toppers into w'hich the disembodied spirits of the book can creep, and thereafter strut, swagger, and simper, to the very life of their period. Nobody, having seen the illustrations and, still more, having read the book, could help admitting that “cattiness” can be a fine, and even a noble art. The goddesses of Olympus, excepting Juno, who falls very

.violently and tux wisely in love with Ixion, are cats; and the gods, lolling on horsehair sofas or presiding ,at dinner tables, are fat, bon viveur, or grouchy old gentlemen—so skilfully drawn that one wishes the Victorian age could have been embalmed for ever, wax flowers, antimacassars and all, for the delight of later and irreverent generations. But after all, perhaps the satirists of the day are its true embalmers: “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 god-dess-likc.” “Godlike pursuits cannot be expected to induce goddess-Jike manners,” said Juno “with a sneer. “Pray,” said Minerva, with a severe smile, “is there anything new in Greece?” “I have not been at all in society lately.” “No new edition of Homer? I admire him exceedingly.” “All about Greece interests me,” said Apollo, who, although handsome, was a somewhat melancholy and lackadaisical-looking personage, with his shirt collar thrown open and his long curls theatrically arranged. “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 Apollo. But the unfortunate young poet, “whose love of fame was only equalled by his horror of getting fat,” would take nothing but soda water and biscuits, two articles hard to find in Olympian larders. Having completely taken possession of Olympus, Ixion, who by the way had left earth because, in pushing an unreasonable father-in-law into a pit of redhot coals, he had at the same time

1 made that planet too warm for his own convenience, becomes involved in an intrigue with the Queen of Heaven, Juno, notable for flashing eyes and a showy taste in peacocks. It is mischievously furthered by Cupid, who transfixes both with his arrows, and makes them so late for dinner that the sublime rag* of Jupiter is at last drawn upon Ixion’s head. An unfortunate game of cards intensifies the trouble.' “Repiqued, as I am a god,” said Jupiter. “And I have been kept waiting for dinner. Accursed be this day. Is Ixion really talking to Juno? We will not endure this.” So, despite the vain efforts of Cupid to rescue his victims, Ixion is sacrificed to his host’s displeasure. “I protest,” said the King of Thessaly, “against this violation of th# most sacred rights.” “The marriage tie?” said Mercury. “The dinner-hour?” said Jove. And before the eyes of the swooning Juno, Hercules is bidden to hurl Ixion bound to a wheel, into the abyss, where he will revolve for ever and ever—a giddy end for a none-too steady monarch. But treat them as you will, seriouslj or in satire, the Olympians are far to< interesting a clan to be cast forth int< outer dustiness, and the sooner an author arises who will make them popular again In literary society, the better for literary society. ROBIN HYDE. I Wellington. ,

I and of some Jews. The next day lie I was taken to the gallows specially j erected for him amid the rejoicing of ] thousands of people. A last attempt ! was made to convert him, but as it also proved fruitless, he was drawn ! up the ladder by the hangmen. Cryi ing aloud, “Shema ’Yisrael,” he was i forced into a cage fastened at the top l and the rope that had been placed i around his neck was drawn. The rope was taken off after a quarter of an hour, and a chain was placed around his neck and the cage locked.” And the last line of the biography is: “His death is now admitted by modern historians to have been a judicial murder.” I.D.C.