Olympian Nights

I am Dismissed

It was a very interesting programme for my further entertainment that Jupiter mapped out on our way back from the links, and I deeply regret that an untoward incident that followed later, for which I was unintentionally responsible, prevented its being carried out.  I was to have been taken off on a cruise on the inland sea, to where the lost island of Atlantis was to be found; a special tournament at ping-pong was to be held in my honor, in which minor planets were to be used instead of balls, and the players were to be drawn from among the Titans, who were retained to perform feats of valor, skill, and strength for Jupiter.  The forge of Vulcan was to be visited, and many of the mysteries of the centre of the earth were to be revealed, and, best of all, Jupiter himself had promised to give me an exhibition of his own skill as a marksman in the hurling of thunder-bolts, and I was to select the objects to be hit! Think of it!  What a chance lay here for a man to be rid of certain things on earth that he did not like!  What a vast amount of ugly American architecture one could be rid of in the twinkling of an eye!  What a lot of enemies and eyesores it was now in my power to have removed by an electrical process availed of in the guise of sport!  I spent an hour on that list of targets, and if only I had been allowed to prolong my stay in the home of the gods, the world itself would have benefited, for I was not altogether personal in my selection of things for Jupiter to aim at.  There was Tammany Hall, for instance, and the Boxers of China—­these led my list.  There were four or five sunlight-destroying, sky-scraping office buildings in New York and elsewhere; nuisances of every kind that I could think of were put down—­the headquarters of the Beef Trust and a few of its sponsors; the editorial offices of the peevish and bilious newspapers, which deny principles and right motives to all save themselves; a regiment of alleged humorists who make jokes about the mother-in-law and other sacred relations of life; an opera-box full of the people who hum every number of Wagner and Verdi through, and keep other people from hearing the singers; row after row of theatre-goers who come in late and trample over the virtuous folk who have arrived punctually; any number of theatrical managers who mistake gloom for amusement; three or four smirking matinée idols, whose talents are measured by the fit of their clothes, the length of their hair, and their ability to spit supernumeraries with a tin sword; cab-drivers who had overcharged me; insolent railway officials; the New York Central Tunnel—­indeed, the completed list stretches on to such proportions that it would require more pages than this book contains to present them in detail.  I even thought of including Hippopopolis in the list, but when I realized that it was entirely owing to his villany that I had enjoyed the delightful privilege of visiting the gods in their own abode, I spared him.  And to think that because of an unintentional error this great opportunity to rid the world, and incidentally myself, of much that is vexatious was wholly lost is a matter of sincere grief to myself.

It happened in this way:  Hardly had I returned to my delightful apartment at the hotel, when a messenger arrived bearing a superbly engraved command from Jupiter to dine with himself and Juno en famille.  It was a kind, courteous, and friendly note, utterly devoid of formality, and we were to spend the evening at cards.  Jupiter had indicated in the afternoon that he would like to learn bridge, and, inasmuch as I never travel anywhere without a text-book upon that fascinating subject, I had volunteered to teach him.  The dinner was given largely to enable me to do this, and, moreover, Jupiter was quite anxious to have me meet his family, and promised me that before the evening was over I should hear some music from the lyre of Apollo, meet all the muses, and enjoy a chafing-dish snack prepared by the fair hand of Juno herself.

“I’ll have Polyphemus up to give us a few coon songs if you like them,” he added, “and altogether I can promise you a delightful evening.  We drop all our state at these affairs, and I know you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“I shall feel a trifle embarrassed in the presence of so many gods and goddesses, I am afraid,” I put in.

“I’ll fix you out as to that,” Jupiter replied.  “I’ll change you for the time being into a god yourself, if you wish.”

I laughed at the idea.

“A high old god I’d make,” said I.

“You’d pass,” he observed, quietly.  “I’ll call you Pencillius, god of Chirography—­or would you rather come as Nonsensius, the newly discovered deity of Jocosity?”

“I think I’d rather be Zero, god of Nit,” said I, and it was so ordained.

Of course, I accepted the invitation and was on hand at the palace, as I thought, promptly.  As a matter of fact, my watch having in some mysterious fashion been affected by the excitement of the adventure, got galloping away just as my own heart had done more than once.  The result was that, instead of arriving at the palace at eight o’clock, as I was expected to do, I got there at seven.  Of course, my exalted hosts were not ready to receive me, and there were no other guests to bear me company and keep me out of mischief in the drawing-room, where for an hour I was compelled to wait.  At first all went well.  I found much entertainment in the room, and on the centre-table, a beautiful bit of furniture, carved out of one huge amethyst, I discovered a number of books and magazines, which kept me tolerably busy for a half-hour.  There was a finely bound copy of Don’ts for the Gods, or Celestial Etiquette, in which I found many valuable hints on the procedure of Olympian society—­notably one injunction as to the use of finger-bowls, from which I learned that the gods in their lavishness have a bowl for each finger; and a little volume by Bacchus on Intemperance, which I wish I might publish for the benefit of my fellow-mortals.  All I remember about it at the moment of writing is that the author seriously enjoins upon his readers the wickedness of drinking more than sixty cocktails a day, and utterly deprecates the habit of certain Englishmen of drinking seven bottles of port at a sitting.  Bacchus seemed to think that, with the other wines incidental to a dinner, no one, not even an Englishman, should attempt to absorb more than five bottles of port over his coffee.  It struck me as being rather good advice.

Wearying of the reading at the end of a half-hour, I began a closer inspection of the room and its contents.  It was full of novelties, and, naturally, gorgeous past all description; but what most excited my curiosity was a small cabinet, not unlike a stereoscope in shape, which stood in one corner of the room.  It had a button at one side, over which was a gilt tablet marked “Push.”  On its front was the legend, “Drop a Nickel in the Slot, Push the Button, and See the Future.”  I followed the instructions eagerly.  The nickel was dropped, the button pushed, and, putting my eyes before the lenses, I gazed into the remotest days to come.  I had come across the Futuroscope, otherwise a kinetoscope with the gift of prophecy.  The coming year passed rapidly, and I saw what fate had in store for the world for the twelve months immediately ahead of me; then followed a decade, then a century, and then others, until, just as I was approaching the dread cataclysm which is to mark the end of all mortal things, I heard a quick, startled voice back of me.

It was that of Jupiter, and his tone was a strange mixture of wrath and regret.

“What on earth have you done?” he cried.

“Nothing, your Majesty,” said I, shaking all over as with the ague at the revelations I had just witnessed, “except getting a bird’s-eye view of what is to come.”

“I am sorry,” said he, gravely.  “It is not well that mortals should know the future, and your imprudent act is destructive of all the plans I have had for you.  You must leave us instantly, for that instrument is for the gods alone.  Moreover, the knowledge of that which you have seen—­”

Here his voice positively thundered, and the frown that came upon his brow filled me with awe and terror.

“All knowledge of what you have seen must be removed from your brain,” he added, grimly.

I was speechless with fear as the ruler of Olympus touched an electric button at the side of the room, and the two huge slaves, Gog and Magog, appeared.

“Seize him!” Jupiter commanded, sternly.

In an instant I was bound hand and foot.

“To the office of Dr. Æsculapius!” he commanded, and I was unceremoniously removed to the room wherein I had had my interview with the great doctor, where I was immediately etherized and my brain operated upon.  Precisely what was done to me I shall probably never know, but what I do know is that from that time to this all that I saw in that marvellous Futuroscope is a blank, although on all other subjects pertaining to my visit to the gods my recollection is perfectly clear.  It suffices to say that I lay for a long time in a stupor, and when finally I came to my senses again I found myself comfortably ensconced in my own bed, in my own home; not in Greece, but in America; suffering from a dull headache from which I did not escape for at least three hours.  Again and again and again have I tried to recall that wonderful picture of a marvellous future seen by my mortal eyes that night upon Olympus, that I might set it upon paper for others to read, but with each effort the dreadful pain in the top of my head returns and I find myself compelled to abandon the project.

So was my brief visit to Olympus begun and ended.  In its results it has perhaps been neither elevating nor remarkably instructive, but it has given me a better understanding of, and a better liking for, that great company of mythological beings who used to preside over the destinies of the Greeks.  They appeared more human than godlike to my eyes.  They were companionable to a degree, and for a time, at least, would prove congenial associates for a summer outing, but as a steady diet—­well, I am not at all surprised that, as men waxed more mature in years and in experience, these titanic members of the Olympian four hundred lost their power and became no greater factor in the life of the large society of mankind than any other group of people, equal in number and of seeming importance, whose days and nights are given over solely to pleasure and the morbid pursuit of notoriety.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note:  The author refers to a type of golf club as a “brassey” and also as a “brassie”.  Both spellings have been maintained in this document.