Olympian Nights

I Reach Mount Olympus

While travelling through the classic realms of Greece some years ago, sincerely desirous of discovering the lurking-place of a certain war which the newspapers of my own country were describing with some vividness, I chanced upon the base of the far-famed Mount Olympus.  Night was coming on apace and I was tired, having been led during the day upon a wild-goose chase by my guide, who had assured me that he had definitely located the scene of hostilities between the Greeks and the Turks.  He had promised that for a consideration I should witness a conflict between the contending armies which in its sanguinary aspects should surpass anything the world had yet known.  Whether or not it so happened that the armies had been booked for a public exhibition elsewhere, unknown to the talented bandit who was acting as my courier, I am not aware, but, as the event transpired, the search was futile, and another day was wasted.  Most annoying, too, was the fact that I dared not manifest the impatience which I naturally felt.  I am not remarkable as a specimen of the strong man; quite the reverse indeed, for, while I am by no means a weakling, I am no adept in the fistic art.  Hence, when my guide, Hippopopolis by name, as the sun sank behind the western hills, informed me that I was again to be disappointed, the fact that he stands six feet two in his stockings, when he wears them, and has a pleasing way of bending crowbars as a pastime, led me to conceal the irritation which I felt.

“It’s all right, Hippopopolis,” I said, swallowing my wrath.  “It’s all right.  We’ve had a good bit of exercise, anyhow, and that, after all, is the chief desideratum to a man of a sedentary occupation.  How many miles have we walked?”

“Oh, about forty-three,” he said, calmly.  “A short distance, your Excellency.”

“Very—­very short,” said I, rubbing my aching calves.  “In my own country I make a practice of walking at least a hundred every day.  It’s quite a pleasing stroll from my home in New York over to Philadelphia and back.  I hope I shall be able to show it you some day.”

“It will be altogether charming, Excellency,” said he.  “Shall we—­ah—­walk back to Athens now, or would you prefer to rest here for the night?”

“I—­I guess I’ll stay here, Hippopopolis,” I replied.  “This seems to be a very comfortable sort of a mountain in front of us, and the air is soft.  Suppose we rest in the soothing shade for the night?  It would be quite an adventure.”

“As your Excellency wishes,” he replied, tossing a bowlder into the air and catching it with ease as it came down.  “It is not often done, but it is for you to say.”

“What mountain is it, Hippopopolis?” I asked, turning and gazing at the eminence before us.

“It is Mount Olympus,” he answered.

“What?” I cried.  “Not the home of the gods?”

“The very same, your Excellency,” he acquiesced.  “At least, that is the report.  It is commonly stated hereabouts that the god-trust has its headquarters here.  As for myself, I have explored its every nook and cranny, but I never saw any gods on it.  It’s my private opinion that they’ve moved away; though there be those who claim that it is still occupied by the former rulers of destiny living incog. like other well-born rogues who desire to avoid notoriety.”

Hippopopolis is a decided democrat in his views, and has less respect for the King than he has for the peasant.

“I shouldn’t call them rogues exactly,” I ventured.  “Some of ’em were a pretty respectable lot.  There was Apollo and old Jupiter himself, and—­”

“Oh, you can’t tell me anything about them,” retorted Hippopopolis.  “I haven’t been born and bred in this country for nothing, your Excellency.  They were a bad lot all through.  Shall I prepare your supper?”

“If you please, Hippopopolis,” said I, throwing myself down beneath a huge tree and giving myself up to the reveries of the moment.  I did not deem it well to interpose too strongly between Hippopopolis and his views of the immortals just then.  He had always a glitter in his eye when any one ventured to controvert his assertions which made a debate with him a thing to be apprehended.  Still, I did not exactly like to yield, for, to tell the truth, the Olympian folk have always interested me hugely, and, while I would not of course endorse any one of them for a high public trust in these days, I have admired them for their many remarkable qualities.

“Of course,” said I, reverting to the question a few moments later, as Hippopopolis opened a box of sardines and set the bread a-toasting on the fire he had made.  “Of course, I should not venture to say that I, a stranger, know as much about the private habits of the gods as do you, who have been their neighbor; but that they are rogues is news to me.”

“That may be, too,” said Hippopopolis.  “People are often thought more of by strangers than by their own fellow-townsmen.  Even you, sir, I might suspect, who are by these simple Greeks supposed to be a sort of reigning sovereign in your own country, are not at home, perhaps, so large a hill of potatoes.  So with Jupiter and Apollo and Mercury, and the ladies of the court.  I haven’t a doubt that in the United States you think Jupiter a remarkably great man, and Apollo a musician, and Mercury a gentleman of some business capacity, but we Greeks know better.  And as for the ladies—­hum—­well, your Excellency, they are not received.  They are too bold and pushing.  They lack the refinements, and as for their beauty and accomplishments—­”

Hippopopolis here indulged in a gesture which betokened excessive scorn of the beauty and accomplishments of the ladies of Olympus.

“You have never seen these people, Hippopopolis?” I asked.

“I have been spared that necessity,” said he, “but I know all about them, and I assert to you upon my honor as a courier and the best guide in the Archipelago that Jupiter is the worst old roué a country ever had saddled upon it; Apollo’s music would drive you mad and make you welcome a xylophone duet; and as for Mercury’s business capacity, that is merely a capacity for getting away from his creditors.  Why shouldn’t a man wax rich if, after floating a thousand bogus corporations, selling the stock at par and putting the money into his own pocket, he could unfold his wings and fly off into the empyrean, leaving his stock and bond holders to mourn their loss?”

[Illustration:  Hippopopolis EXPLAINS]

“Excuse me, Hippopopolis,” I put in, interrupting him fearlessly for the moment, “pray don’t try to deceive me by any such statement as that.  I don’t know very much, but I know something about Mercury, and when you say he puts other people’s money into his pockets, I am in a position to prove otherwise.  From five years of age up to the present time I have been brought up in a home where a bronze statue of Mercury, said to be the most perfect resemblance in all the statuary of the world, classic or otherwise, has been the most conspicuous ornament.  At ten I could reproduce on paper with my pencil every line, every shade, every curve, every movement of the effigy in so far as my artistic talent would permit, and I know that Mercury not only had no pocket, but wore no garments in which even so little as a change pocket could have been concealed.  Wherefore there must be some mistake about your charge.”

Hippopopolis laughed.

“Humph!” he said.  “It is very evident that you people over the sea have very superficial notions of things here.  When Mercury posed for that statue, like most of you people who have your photographs taken, he posed in full evening dress.  That is why there is so little of it in evidence.  But in his business suit, Mercury is a very different sort of a person.  Even in Olympus he’d have been ruled off the stock exchange if he’d ventured to appear there as scantily attired as he is in most of his statuary appearances.  You certainly are not so green as to suppose that that suit he wears in his statues is the whole extent of his wardrobe?”

“I had supposed so,” I confessed.  “It’s a trifle unconventional; but, then, he’s one of the gods, and, I presumed, could dress as he pleased.  Your gods are independent, I should imagine, of the mere decrees of fashion.”

“The more exalted one’s position, the greater the sartorial obligation,” retorted Hippopopolis, who, for a Greek and a guide, had, as will be seen, a vocabulary of most remarkable range.  “Just as it happens that our King here, like H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, has to be provided with seven hundred and sixty-eight suits of clothes so as to be properly clad at the variety of functions he is required to grace, so does a god have to be provided with a wardrobe of rare quality and extent.  For drawing-room tables, mantel-pieces, and pedestals, otherwise for statuary, Mercury can go about clad in just about half as much stuff as it would require to cover a fairly sized sofa-cushion and not arouse drastic criticism; but when he goes to business he is as well provided with pockets as any other speculator.”

“Another idol shattered!” I cried, in mock grief.  “But Apollo, Hippopopolis—­Apollo!  Do not tell me he is not a virtuoso of rare technique on the lyre!”

“His technique is more than rare,” sneered Hippopopolis.  “It is excessively raw.  It has been said by men who have heard both that Nero of Hades can do more to move an audience with his fiddle with two strings broken and his bow wrist sprained than Apollo can do with the aid of his lyre and a special dispensation of divine inspiration from Zeus himself.”

“There are various ways of moving audiences, Hippopopolis,” I ventured.  “Now Nero, I should say, could move an audience—­out of the hall—­in a very few moments.  In fact, I have always believed that that is why he fiddled when Rome was burning:  so that people would run out of the city limits before they perished.”

“It’s a very droll view,” laughed Hippopopolis, “and I dare say holds much of the truth; but Nero’s faulty execution is not proof of Apollo’s virtuosity.  For a woodland musicale given by the Dryads, say, to their friends, the squirrels and moles and wild-cats, and other denizens of the forest, Apollo will suffice.  The musical taste of a kangaroo might find the strumming of his lyre by Apollo to its liking, but for cultivated people who know a crescendo andante-arpeggio from the staccato tones of a penny whistle, he is inadequate.”

“You speak as if you had heard the god,” said I.

“I have not,” retorted Hippopopolis, “but I have heard playing by people, generally beginners, of whom the rural press has said that he—­or more often she—­has the touch of an Apollo, and, if that is true, as are all things we read in the newspapers, particularly the rural papers, which are not so sophisticated as to lie, then Apollo would better not attempt to play at one of our Athenian Courier Association Smokers.  I venture to assert that if he did he would have to be carried home with a bandage about his brow instead of a laurel, and his cherished lyre would become but a memory.”

I turned sadly to my supper.  I had found the mundane things of Greece disappointing enough, but my sorrow over Hippopopolis’s expert testimony as to the shortcoming of the gods was overwhelming.  It was to be expected that the country would fall into a decadent state sooner or later, but that the Olympians themselves were not all that they were cracked up to be by the mythologies had never suggested itself to me.  As a result of my courier’s words, I lapsed into a moody silence, which by eight o’clock developed into an irresistible desire to sleep.

“I’ll take a nap, Hippopopolis,” said I, rolling my coat into a bundle and placing it under my head.  “You will, I trust, be good enough to stand guard lest some of these gods you have mentioned come and pick my pockets?” I added, satirically.

“I will see that the gods do not rob you,” he returned, dryly, with a slight emphasis on the word “gods,” the significance of which I did not at the moment take in, but which later developments made all too clear.

Three minutes later I slept soundly.

At ten o’clock, about, I awoke with a start.  The fire was out and I was alone.  Hippopopolis had disappeared and with him had gone my watch, the contents of my pocket-book, my letter of credit, and everything of value I had with me, with the exception of my shirt-studs, which, I presume, would have gone also had they not been fastened to me in such a way that, in getting them, Hippopopolis would have had to wake me up.

To add to my plight, the rain was pouring down in torrents.