style="font-size:15px;"> A botanist? Ah, scarcely! A little arboriculture, the laurel; a little horticulture, the sun-flower. Those varieties seem entirely absent here, and I have no thought of replacing them.
Pan.
The last thing I should dream of suggesting would be a hortus siccus…
Phœbus.
And I was never a consistent collector. There are reeds everywhere, you fortunate goat-foot, but even in Olympus I was the creature of a fastidious selection.
Pan.
The current of the thick and punctual blood never left me liable to the distractions of choice.
Phœbus.
I congratulate you, Pan, upon your temperament, and I recommend to you a further pursuit of the attainable.
[Pan makes a profound obeisance and disappears in the woodland. Phœbus watches him depart, and then turns to the moon.]
Phœbus [alone].
His familiarity was not distasteful to me. It reminded me of days out hunting, when I have come suddenly upon him at the edge of the watercourse, and have shared his melons and his conversation. I anticipate for him some not unagreeable experiences. The lower order of divinities will probably adapt themselves with ease to our new conditions. They despaired the most suddenly, with wringing of hands as we raced to the sea, with interminable babblings and low moans and screams, as they clustered on the deck of that extraordinary vessel. But the science of our new life must be to forget or to remember. We must live in the past or forego the past. For Pan and his likes I conceive that it will largely resolve itself into a question of temperature – of temperature and of appetite. That orb is of a sinister appearance, but to do it justice it looks heated. My sister had a passion for coldness; she would never permit me to lend her any of my warmth. I cannot say that it is chilly here to-night. I am agreeably surprised.
[The veiled figure flits across again, and Pan once more crosses in close pursuit.]
Phœbus [as they vanish].
What an amiable vivacity! Yes; the lower order of divinities will be happy, for they will forget. We, on the contrary, have the privilege of remembering. It is only the mediocre spirits, that cannot quite forget nor clearly remember, which will have neither the support of instinct nor the solace of a vivid recollection.
[He seats himself. A noise of laughter rises from he marsh, and dies away. In the silence a bird sings.]
Phœbus.
Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill, the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very considerable skill in warbling. But the moon – what is happening to it? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This little bird's incantation has, without question, produced this fortunate effect. This little bird, halfway on the road between the nightingale and the cicada, is doubtless an enchanter, and one whose art possesses a more than respectable property. My sister's attention should be drawn to this highly interesting circumstance. Selene! Selene!
[He calls and waits. From the upper woods Selene slowly descends, wrapped in long white garments.]
Phœbus.
Sister, behold the throne that once was thine.
Selene.
And now, a rocking cinder, fouls the skies.
Phœbus.
A magian sweeps its filthy ash away.
Selene.
There is no magic in the bankrupt world.
Phœbus.
Nay, did'st thou hear this twittering peal of song?
Selene.
Some noise I heard; this glen is full of sounds.
Phœbus.
Fling back thy veil, and staunch thy tears, and gaze.
Selene.
At thee, my brother, not at my darkened orb.
Phœbus.
Gaze then at me. What seest thou in mine eyes?
Selene.
Foul ruddy gleams from what was lately pure.
Phœbus.
Nay, but thou gazest not. Look up, look at me!
Selene.
But on thy sacred eyeballs fume turns fire.
Phœbus.
Nay, then, turn once and see thy very moon.
Selene [turning round].
Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone.
Phœbus.
The wizard bird has sung the fumes away.
Selene.
Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more.
Phœbus [approaching her, and in a confidential tone].
I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you – yes, even of gratification, my sister – that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power of temporarily relieving it and raising it.
[Selene, manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on the left. Phœbus, turning again to the moon,]
I have observed that this species of mysterious agency has a very salutary effect upon the more melancholy of our female divinities. They are satisfied if they have the felicity of waiting for something which they cannot be certain of realising, and which they attribute to a cause impossible to investigate. [To Selene, raising his voice.] Whither do you go, my sister?
Selene.
I am searching for this little bird. I propose to discuss with it the nature of its extraordinary, and I am ready to admit its gratifying, control over the moon. I think it possible that I may concoct with it some scheme for our return. You shall, in that case, Phœbus, be no longer excluded from my domain.
Phœbus.
Let me urge you to do no such thing. The action of this little bird upon your unfortunate luminary is sympathetic, but surely very obscure. It would be a pity to inquire
