Chapter II · III

Oh, my friend! The sky is overcast, the air is cold, the day is mournful. Misty, grey melancholies float about...

Yet how much a phrase, a timely handshake, warms the soul! Farewell for now.

THE DEAF SATYR

(A GREEK TALE)

Near Olympus there dwelt a satyr, the ancient king of his forest. The gods had told him: “Enjoy yourself; the woods are yours; be a happy rogue, pursue nymphs, and play your flute.” The satyr amused himself.

One day, when Father Apollo was plucking his divine lyre, the satyr ventured forth from his domain, daring to ascend the sacred mountain and surprise the god of flowing hair. Apollo punished him by making him as deaf as a stone. In vain, from the bird-filled depths of the forest, did warbles pour forth and cooings arise. The satyr heard nothing. Philomela would come to sing above his tangled head, crowned with vine leaves, songs that arrested the streams and made pale roses flush crimson. He remained impassive, or burst into savage laughter, leaping lascivious and gleeful whenever he glimpsed through the leafy lattice some white, rounded hip caressed by the golden sunlight. All the beasts gathered around him as though around a master who must be obeyed.

Before his eyes, to entertain him, choruses of bacchantes danced, ablaze with mad frenzy, while near him adolescent fauns, like lovely ephebes, accompanied the harmony and caressed him reverently with their smiles; and though he heard neither voice nor the rattle of crotala, he found enjoyment in diverse ways. Thus did this bearded, goat-footed king spend his life.

He was a capricious satyr.

He had two courtly counselors: a lark and an ass. The lark lost her prestige once the satyr grew deaf. Formerly, whenever he grew weary of his lust and blew softly upon his flute, the lark would accompany him.

Later, in his vast forest—where he could not even hear the thunder of Olympus—the patient creature with long ears served him as a mount, while the lark, at the height of dawn, slipped from his grasp, soaring toward the heavens in song.

The forest was enormous. The lark claimed its canopy; the ass, its pasture. The lark was greeted by the first beams of aurora; she drank dew from the tender shoots; she awakened the oak, crying: “Old oak, awake!” She delighted in a kiss from the sun; she was beloved of the morning star. And the deep, vast blue knew that she, so tiny, existed beneath its immensity. The ass (though he had not conversed with Kant) was skilled in philosophy, according to common report. The satyr, watching him graze in the pasture and wag his ears with a grave air, held a high opinion of such a thinker. In those days the ass did not enjoy the far-flung renown he possesses today. As he chewed with his jaws, he could never have imagined that Daniel Heinsius would write in his praise in Latin, Passerat, Buffon, and the great Hugo in French, or Posada and Valderrama in Spanish.

Patiently, when flies bit him, he brushed them off with his tail, kicked out from time to time, and released beneath the forest vault the strange harmony of his throat. He was pampered there. As he took his siesta upon the dark, welcoming earth, sweet grasses and flowers breathed their scent upon him, and the great trees bent their foliage to give him shade.

In those days Orpheus the poet, appalled by the misery of mortals, resolved to flee to the woods, where trunks and stones would understand him and listen with ecstasy, and where he might tremble with harmony, love, and vitality at the sound of his instrument.

When Orpheus plucked his lyre, a smile bloomed on the Apolline face. Demeter felt joy. The palms showered their pollen, seeds burst open, and lions gently swayed their manes. Once a carnation took flight from its stem as a scarlet butterfly, and a star descended in fascination to become a fleur-de-lis.

What forest could be better than that of the satyr, whom he would enchant and where he would be regarded as a demigod? A forest of pure joy, dance, beauty, and voluptuousness; where nymphs and bacchantes were forever caressed and forever virginal; where grapes, roses, and the chime of sistra abounded, and where the goat-footed king danced before his fauns, drunken and grimacing like Silenus.

He set forth with his laurel crown, his lyre, his proud poet’s brow, erect and radiant.

He came before the hairy, wild satyr, and to ask for hospitality, he sang. He sang of great Jove, of Eros and Aphrodite, of gallant centaurs and ardent bacchantes; he sang of the cup of Dionysus and the thyrsus cleaving the merry air, and of Pan, Emperor of the mountains, Sovereign of the forests, satyr-god who likewise knew how to sing. He sang of the intimacies of air and earth, the great mother. Thus he interpreted the melody of an Aeolian harp, the murmur of a grove, the hollow roar of a conch, and the harmonious notes welling from a syrinx. He sang of verse that descends from heaven and delights the gods, that which accompanies the barbiton in the ode and the beat in the paean. He sang of warm breasts of snow, of carved golden goblets, of the bird’s crop, and of the glory of the sun.

And from the very opening of his chant, the light shone with greater brilliance. The huge tree trunks stirred, roses shed their petals, and lilies bowed languidly as though in a sweet faint. For Orpheus made lions moan and pebbles weep with the music of his rhythmic lyre. The fiercest bacchantes fell silent and listened as in a dream. A virgin naiad, whom no look from the satyr had ever profaned, timidly drew near the singer and said: “I love you.” Philomela had flown down to alight upon the lyre like the Anacreontic dove. No echo remained save the voice of Orpheus. Nature felt the hymn. Venus, passing nearby, asked from afar with her divine voice: “Is Apollo here?”

And in all that vastness of wondrous harmony, the only one who heard nothing was the deaf satyr.

When the poet had finished, he asked him: “Does my song please you? If so, I shall remain with you in the forest.”

The satyr cast a glance at his two counselors. It was necessary for them to resolve what he himself could not comprehend. That glance sought an opinion.

“Lord,” said the lark, straining to summon the loudest voice from her throat, “let him who has sung thus dwell among us. Behold, his lyre is beautiful and mighty. He has offered you the greatness and rare light you have witnessed today in your forest. He has given you his harmony. Lord, I understand these matters. When bare dawn arrives and the world awakens, I soar into the deep heavens and pour from on high the invisible pearls of my trills, and amid the morning clarity my melody floods the air, becoming the delight of space. So I tell you that Orpheus has sung well, and is chosen of the gods. His music intoxicated the whole forest. Eagles drew near to wheel above our heads, flowering shrubs gently swung their mysterious censers, and bees abandoned their hives to come and listen. As for me, oh lord! were I in your place, I would bestow upon him my garland of vine leaves and my thyrsus. Two powers exist: the real and the ideal. What Hercules would accomplish with his wrists, Orpheus achieves with his inspiration. The robust god would shatter Mount Athos with a single blow. Orpheus, with the power of his triumphant voice, would tame the Nemean lion and the Erymanthian boar. Among men, some are born to forge metals, others to reap ears of wheat from the fertile soil, others to do battle in bloody wars, and others to teach, glorify, and sing. If I am your cupbearer and pour you wine, your palate rejoices; if I offer you a hymn, your soul rejoices.”

While the lark sang, Orpheus accompanied her on his instrument, and a vast, commanding lyric breeze blew through the fragrant green forest. The deaf satyr began to grow impatient. Who was this strange visitor? Why had the wild, voluptuous dance ceased before him? What were his two counselors saying?

Ah! The lark had sung, but the satyr heard nothing! At last, he turned his gaze upon the ass.

Was his opinion missing? Well then, before the vast, resonant forest, beneath the sacred blue, the ass shook his head from side to side, grave, stubborn, and silent, like a philosopher in meditation.

Then, with his cloven hoof, the satyr struck the earth, furrowed his brow in anger, and without understanding a thing, exclaimed, pointing Orpheus toward the edge of the forest:

“No...!”

The echo reached neighboring Olympus, and there, where the gods were jesting, resounded a chorus of tremendous laughter, later termed Homeric.

Orpheus departed sorrowfully from the forest of the deaf satyr, almost ready to hang himself from the first laurel tree he met upon his path.

He did not hang himself, but he married Eurydice.

THE NYMPH

(A PARISIAN TALE)

In the chateau recently acquired by Lesbia—that capricious, mischievous actress who has given the world so much to talk about with her extravagances—half a dozen friends were seated around the table. Our Aspasia presided, entertaining herself at the time by sucking, like a sweet-toothed child, a damp, white lump of sugar between her rosy fingertips. It was the hour of chartreuse. The glassware on the table looked like a dissolution of precious gems, and the light of the candelabra refracted through half-empty glasses where traces remained of Burgundy purple, boiling champagne gold, and liquid peppermint emerald.

The conversation flowed with the enthusiasm of thoroughbred artists after a fine meal. We were all artists, more or less; there was even an obese scholar sporting the grand knot of a monstrous cravat upon his immaculate shirt-front.

Someone remarked: “Ah, yes, Frémiet!” And from Frémiet the talk moved to his animals, his master chisel, and two bronze hounds near us—one sniffing out the quarry’s trail, the other, as if watching the huntsman, lifting its neck and holding the slender line of its tail stiff and erect. Who brought up Myron? The scholar, who recited Anacreon’s epigram in Greek: “Herdsman, take your kine further off to graze, lest thinking Myron’s cow is breathing, you drive her away with yours.”

Lesbia finished sucking her sugar, and with a silvery laugh:

“Bah! Satires for me! I would love to breathe life into my bronzes, and if that were possible, my lover would be one of those hairy demigods. I assure you that even more than satyrs I adore centaurs; and I would gladly let myself be carried off by one of those robust monsters, if only to hear the laments of the deceived swain playing his mournful flute.”

The scholar interrupted:

“Satyrs and fauns, hippocentaurs and sirens, have existed just as truly as salamanders and the Phoenix bird.”

We all laughed; but amid the chorus of chuckles, Lesbia’s laugh rang out irresistible and enchanting, her lovely, flushed face radiant with pleasure.

“Yes,” the scholar continued, “by what right do we moderns deny facts affirmed by the ancients? The gigantic dog seen by Alexander, as tall as a man, is just as real as the Kraken lurking in the ocean depths. Saint Anthony the Abbot, at the age of ninety, went in search of the old hermit Paul, who lived in a cave. Do not laugh, Lesbia. The saint journeyed through the wilderness leaning on his staff, not knowing where to find the one he sought. After much walking, do you know who gave him directions for the path? A centaur—‘half man and half horse,’ says an author. He spoke as though angered, and fled so swiftly that the saint soon lost sight of him; so the monster galloped away, mane flying and belly hugging the ground.”

“On that same journey Saint Anthony saw a satyr: ‘a little man of strange shape, standing beside a brook, with hooked nose, rough, wrinkled brow, and the lower part of his misshapen body ending in goat feet.’”

“Neither more nor less,” said Lesbia. “Monsieur de Cocureau, future member of the Institute!”

The scholar went on:

“Saint Jerome asserts that in the time of Constantine the Great a living satyr was brought to Alexandria, his body being preserved after death.”

“Moreover, the Emperor of Antioch saw one.”

Lesbia had refilled her glass with peppermint, moistening her tongue in the green liqueur as a cat might do.

“Albertus Magnus states that in his time two satyrs were captured in the mountains of Saxony. Euricus Zormannus assures us that in Tartary there were men with only one foot, and only one arm upon the chest. Vincent of Beauvais saw in his time a monster brought to the King of France; it had the head of a dog (Lesbia laughed). Its thighs, arms, and hands were as hairless as our own (Lesbia wriggled like a tickled schoolgirl); it ate cooked meat and drank wine with great relish.”

“Colombine!” Lesbia called. And Colombine arrived—a lapdog looking like a tuft of cotton. Her mistress took her, and amid bursts of laughter from all: “Look, the monster had your face!”

And she kissed it on the mouth, while the little creature shivered and flared its nostrils with apparent bliss.

“And Phlegon of Tralles,” the scholar concluded elegantly, “affirms the existence of two kinds of hippocentaurs, one of them like elephants.”

“Enough scholarship,” Lesbia said. And she finished her liqueur.

I was happy. I had not opened my lips. “Oh!” I exclaimed, “nymphs for me! I long to gaze upon that naked beauty of forests and springs, even if, like Actaeon, I were torn to pieces by hounds. But nymphs do not exist!”

That merry concert concluded with a great flight of laughter and guests.

“And yet!” Lesbia whispered to me, burning me with her faun-like eyes and keeping her voice low so only I would hear: “nymphs do exist, and you shall see them!”