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  Juno just acknowledged the entrance of Ixion by a slight and haughty inclination of the head, and then resumed her employment. Minerva asked him his opinion of her amendment, of which he greatly approved. Apollo greeted him with a melancholy smile, and congratulated him on being mortal. Venus complimented him on his visit to Olympus, and expressed the pleasure that she experienced in making his acquaintance.

  “What do you think of Heaven?” inquired Venus, in a soft still voice, and with a smile like summer lightning.

  “I never found it so enchanting as at this moment,” replied Ixion.

  “A little dull? For myself, I pass my time chiefly at Cnidos: you must come and visit me there. ’Tis the most charming place in the world. ’Tis said, you know, that our onions are like other people’s roses. We will take care of you, if your wife comes.”

  “No fear of that. She always remains at home and piques herself on her domestic virtues, which means pickling, and quarrelling with her husband.”

  “Ah! I see you are a droll. Very good indeed. Well, for my part, I like a watering-place existence. Cnidos, Paphos, Cythera; you will usually find me at one of these places. I like the easy distraction of a career without any visible result. At these fascinating spots your gloomy race, to whom, by-the-bye, I am exceedingly partial, appear emancipated from the wearing fetters of their regular, dull, orderly, methodical, moral, political, toiling existence. I pride myself upon being the Goddess of Watering-places. You really must pay me a visit at Cnidos.”

  “Such an invitation requires no repetition. And Cnidos is your favourite spot?”

  “Why, it was so; but of late it has become so inundated with invalid Asiatics and valetudinarian Persians, that the simultaneous influx of the handsome heroes who swarm in from the islands to look after their daughters, scarcely compensates for the annoying presence of their yellow faces and shaking limbs. No, I think, on the whole, Paphos is my favourite.”

  “I have heard of its magnificent luxury.”

  “Oh! ’tis lovely! Quite my idea of country life. Not a single tree! When Cyprus is very hot, you run to Paphos for a sea-breeze, and are sure to meet every one whose presence is in the least desirable. All the bores remain behind, as if by instinct.”

  “I remember when we married, we talked of passing the honeymoon at Cythera, but Dia would have her waiting-maid and a bandbox stuffed between us in the chariot, so I got sulky after the first stage, and returned by myself.”

  “You were quite right. I hate bandboxes: they are always in the way. You would have liked Cythera if you had been in the least in love. High rocks and green knolls, bowery woods, winding walks, and delicious sunsets. I have not been there much of late,” continued the Goddess, looking somewhat sad and serious, “since: but I will not talk sentiment to Ixion.”

  “Do you think, then, I am insensible?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you are right. We mortals grow callous.”

  “So I have heard. How very odd!” So saying, the Goddess glided away and saluted Mars, who at that moment entered the hall. Ixion was presented to the military hero, who looked fierce and bowed stiffly. The King of Thessaly turned upon his heel. Minerva opened her album, and invited him to inscribe a stanza.

  “Goddess of Wisdom,” replied the King, “unless you inspire me, the virgin page must remain pure as thyself. I can scarcely sign a decree.”

  “Is it Ixion of Thessaly who says this; one who has seen so much, and, if I am not mistaken, has felt and thought so much? I can easily conceive why such a mind may desire to veil its movements from the common herd, but pray concede to Minerva the gratifying compliment of assuring her that she is the exception for whom this rule has been established.”

  “I seem to listen to the inspired music of an oracle. Give me a pen.”

  “Here is one, plucked from a sacred owl.”

  “So! I write. There! Will it do?”

  Minerva read the inscription:-

  I HAVE SEEN THE WORLD, AND MORE THAN THE WORLD: I HAVE STUDIED THE HEART OF MAN, AND NOW I CONSORT WITH IMMORTALS. THE FRUIT OF MY TREE OF KNOWLEDGE IS PLUCKED, AND IT IS THIS, ‘ADVENTURES ARE TO THE ADVENTUROUS’

  Written in the Album of Minerva, by Ixion in Heaven.

  “’Tis brief,” said the Goddess, with a musing air, “but full of meaning. You have a daring soul and pregnant mind.”

  “I have dared much: what I may produce we have yet to see.”

  “I must to Jove,” said Minerva, “to council. We shall meet again. Farewell, Ixion.”

  “Farewell, Glaucopis.”

  The King of Thessaly stood away from the remaining guests, and leant with folded arms and pensive brow against a wreathed column. Mars listened to Venus with an air of deep devotion. Euterpe played an inspiring accompaniment to their conversation. The Queen of Heaven seemed engrossed in the creation of her paper peacocks.

  Ixion advanced and seated himself on a couch, near Juno. His manner was divested of that reckless bearing and careless coolness by which it was in general distinguished. He was, perhaps, even a little embarrassed. His ready tongue deserted him. At length he spoke.

  “Has your Majesty ever heard of the peacock of the Queen of Mesopotamia?”

  “No,” replied Juno, with stately reserve; and then she added with an air of indifferent curiosity, “Is it in any way remarkable?”

  “Its breast is of silver, its wings of gold, its eyes of carbuncle, its claws of amethyst.”

  “And its tail?” eagerly inquired Juno.

  “That is a secret,” replied Ixion. “The tail is the most wonderful part of all.”

  “Oh! tell me, pray tell me!”

  “I forget.”

  “No, no, no; it is impossible!” exclaimed the animated Juno. “Provoking mortal!” continued the Goddess. “Let me entreat you; tell me immediately.”

  “There is a reason which prevents me.”

  “What can it be? How very odd! What reason can it possibly be? Now tell me; as a particular, a personal favour, I request you, do tell me.”

  “What! The tail or the reason? The tail is wonderful, but the reason is much more so. I can only tell one. Now choose.”

  “What provoking things these human beings are! The tail is wonderful, but the reason is much more so. Well then, the reason; no, the tail. Stop, now, as a particular favour, pray tell me both. What can the tail be made of and what can the reason be? I am literally dying of curiosity.”

  “Your Majesty has cut out that peacock wrong,” remarked Ixion. “It is more like one of Minerva’s owls.”

  “Who care about paper peacocks, when the Queen of Mesopotamia has got such a miracle!” exclaimed Juno; and she tore the labours of the morning to pieces, and threw away the fragments with vexation. “Now tell me instantly; if you have the slightest regard for me, tell me instantly. What was the tail made of?”

  “And do you not wish to hear the reason?”

  “That afterwards. Now! I am all ears.” At this moment Ganymede entered, and whispered to the Goddess, who rose in evident vexation, and retired to the presence of Jove.

  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 re-entered 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 good-natured 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.

&nb
sp; 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 good-natured 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.