Aphrodite
Zeus married me to Hephæstus. I was fresh from Cyprus——
a stranger at Olympus, marriageable, but unacquainted.
I was not timid. I was wary.
I was not bold. I was sure of myself.
I ignored no wheedler, scorned no aspirant, repulsed no aggressor;
yet responded with naught save parry of word or gesture——
at least for a little while, that I might learn the lay——
and to none exclusively, but to all alike, sportively, poisefully,
smiling on each warm want, but not encouraging it to grow.
There was Apollo, intuitive, perceptive, thrillingly impetuous, adorably jealous, later a kindly brother in beauty.
There was Hermes, unscrupulous, incorrigible, forcefully charming, surpassingly obliging, supremely swift of accomplishment.
There was Helios, glorious, mighty, but with little save glory and might to recommend him.
Not at all clever at love, he was too aggressive——
the only aggressor on whom I did not smile.
And there was Ares, irascible, unmanageable, misunderstood by all save me. Ah, yes, for me there was always Ares.
There was even Zeus himself. But, like Helios,
he was not clever at love. He was rather silly——
for one of his age, his power, his command, his fame.
He was conceited.
He was a bore.
I found him repellent even. But I dissembled, for Zeus is none other than Zeus. I was careful.
I knew that he must be handled with consummate tact——
not so much because of himself as because of Hera,
poor wifely Hera, grim, hungry, jealous, virtuously vengeful,
though not as yet suspicious of me.
Hera never once uttered my name with a sneer. The gods wondered.
Not always in secret, and never abashed, the august pair wrangled, wrangled continually, by divine right,
yet never once referred to my presence at Olympus. The gods marveled.
But Zeus grew ardent.
He was indiscreet.
He was growing dangerous.
I was beginning to lose my wits, when Hera came to me, came worriedly, wanting to borrow my Cyprian girdle.
So glad was I that I nearly laughed in her face.
I lent the girdle graciously, but with many a lofty admonition.
I allowed her to think that I did her a favor.
I was glad to be rid of her stupid husband.
I never used the Cyprian trapping. I did not need it.
I knew that the girdle worked its charm on Zeus, however, for early next morning
Hera returned the girdle by Hermes, dear dashing Hermes,
and for a day, a whole day, the august pair wrangled none whatever, but smiled comprehensively, one on the other.
Hermes and I smiled also, one on the other, smiled comprehensively,
and for a long time all went merrily at Olympus, with feasting and reveling in my honor.
But Zeus found out the affair of the girdle. Hera told him, in true matrimonial fashion, during a wrangle
caused by her having discovered him in disguise, on earth.
Zeus was piqued. He sulked. He stalked. He grew evasive, haughty, conspicuously moral,
and made a ruling that all gods must marry.
It was now that he gave me to Hephæstus——
lame of love as well as of leg——
deformed offspring of Hera, begotten thus as the result of a wrangle,
and hurled by her into Erebus, where I wish he had remained.
Zeus called him back not only to punish me, but also to annoy Hera.
Lauding the utilitarian æsthete, he gave him place, made useful beauty the fashion of the day.
Sure of myself, I knew that I could displace all this, and even nullify the ruling. I moved about serenely.
Hera fumed, raged. Wrangling rose anew, louder than ever before, and more protracted.
The gods remonstrated, clamored, all save Helios, who leered.
But Zeus persisted. It mattered little——
for nothing ever matters much, to me. I acquiesced.
I went with Hephæstus and said nothing.
I said very little to Hephæstus.
I ignored him.
I almost forgot him.
He limped about with complaints of my being erotically cold.
Ares told me.
We laughed together.
Hermaphroditus was born. There was much consternation, more pondering, and not a little gossip.
Hephæstus frowned. I smiled. I proclaimed to all Olympus
that Hermaphroditus was mine by my clever husband, the artisan, the inspired——
and was the first result of his groping for new forms of expression.
I glimpsed a twinkle in the eye of Apollo, the delightfully alert, the amusingly aware, the subtly scornful of all save me.
I carried the day.
I hate deformity.
I hate anvils.
I hate toilers and their perspiration.
I hate as beautifully as I love.
I hated Hephæstus.
But there was Ares. There was always Ares.
Of all Olympians he was the very first whom I ever looked on
I beheld him before I ever came to Olympus.
I swept along the Ægean. I came to the Peloponnesus.
I noted commotion among mortals.
I saw the defiant arrayed against the threatening.
I heard loud utterances of hate.
I startled. I saw divinity appearing in the north, and approaching swiftly, now drawing near——
a virile youth in armor, his hard muscles menacingly straining;
his countenance livid with omnipotent rage, and drawn, though not distorted;
his eyes bloodshot, ecstatically savage, imperviously intent;
his lips exquisitely firm, parted slightly with oblivious excitement. It was Ares.
He wore his metal with as much ease as I my flimsy fabric.
He seemed all metal, his very flesh metallic, symmetrically cast——
his glance the glare of a burnished blade.
He glanced at me. I gasped. I was faint with the sight of him.
I would have fallen under his feet.
I would have let him trample me.
He passed me by without pausing.
But now
from a distance he glanced at me again. I thrilled.
He turned away. He uttered a call to the armies.
I also turned away. I went radiant to Olympus.
I found the gods weary of themselves. I found them frustrated.
I found no love at Olympus. I found lust, creative, dynamic, prodigal, but void of purpose——
its affairs ephemeral——
its methods bestial——
itself turning inverse for want of vision. Olympus wavered.
I came radiant with immortal incentive.
I came serene with immutable motive.
I brought love to Olympus. I brought kisses.
I kissed Ares first. I had fully intended to do so.
Ares was like no other god. He was hard of approach——
for he was hated, and was blindly cynical. He, too, hated.
He accepted hate in place of love. He was master of his mission.
I doubt, however, that he hated me. From the first he was rather like one embarrassed, or confused, or obtuse even——
for with hate dominant, rather than love,
and with the will to destroy ascendant, rather than that to create,
he may likely have never known lust. I had reason to think him virgin.
But the day came, ah, the day that I made the metal mellow.
The gods were all assembled, to hear old grievances vented——
there were no new ones, now, nor ever hopes of such——
and among the old ones that of Ares and Apollo, the mutually jealous.
Apollo, like a spoiled child, had flaunted the ægis. Ares had protested.
They met before the throne of Zeus. Apollo argued ably.
Ares uttered vehemently, denounced the other, accused him of aspiring to the very throne.
I feared for Apollo.
I stepped forward.
I took the face of the accuser in my hands, gently, but firmly.
I raised myself on tiptoe, and just as the lips opened to accuse further,
I placed my own against them, pressed them, leaving them open but helpless, inanimate, like metal itself.
They were as cold as metal. The flesh, as if with alarm,
turned ghastly, but now instantly crimson, and now ghastly again.
I withdrew my lips with a snap, a sounding snap.
The gods, all the while speechless, now sniggered.
Ares, all the while speechless, all the while rigid, motionless,
raised his arms to push me off. For some reason he did not do so,
but now raised them over his head, uttered a loud howl of rage, and disappeared, running.
Apollo laughed. I ran to him. I kissed him, too. The gods marveled. They were silenced.
I ran up the steps to the throne. I ran behind it. I leaned forward.
I kissed Zeus on the cheek. The gods gasped. Hera glowered.
I ran down the steps, and off, and after Ares.
I found him bowed with the shame of what he thought was defeat. He cursed me. I stood unmoved.
He accused me of having defeated him for the sake of Apollo. He uttered hate. I smiled.
I kissed him. He was obdurate.
I placed my head at his heart and my arms about him.
I felt the flesh turn cold. I felt it wince.
I felt the great hands clutch me, to repel me——
felt them relax and steal about me, and the great arms enfold me, cautiously,
as if discovering some new thing. I raised my face.
I saw the countenance pale, and now flush, and now pale again. The head sank down.
I closed my eyes. I felt the metallic lips touch mine, cautiously, fumblingly.
I let them fumble till they found themselves at rest——
cradled for the first time, the divine orphans, but not too late,
and there to nestle luxuriously and long, though too content for slumber. From that hour there was always Ares.
The gods gossiped, looked askance, now mentioned faulty taste, now whispered of my folly.
Zeus brooded, but made no comment. Hephæstus watched us,
meanwhile neglecting the forge, and spending much time with Pallas——
or trying to make his golden maidens palpitate. He made vague threats.
I discovered that Helios watched us for Hephæstus. I told Ares. I laughed at Helios.
But one day, while Ares and I were sitting together by the sea,
ensconced in the folds of a net that was dry and warm, obviously new, strangely soft of fiber,
Helios passed by, inscrutable, pretending not to see us. I grew uneasy. Suddenly, swiftly,
there appeared an arm of enormous power. It darted over us.
A hand of enormous power clutched at the net, drew it about us, raised us.
Hephæstus towered over us, holding us high. Hephæstus howled with glee.
Holding us high, he went howling to Olympus.
Ares cursed, kicked, struggled, but to no avail.
I lay quiet, lowly imploring Ares to be quiet.
Hephæstus held us up to the gaze of the gods. The gods laughed loud and long.
Hephæstus laughed hysterically. Ares moaned. I lay mute.
Hephæstus dropped us. Ares freed himself. He sprang at Hephæstus. I now sprang to my feet.
I touched the arm of Ares, merely touched it. He stood still, silent, but quivering. He glared.
I faced Hephæstus. I looked straight at him. I tittered. I laughed him to scorn.
I silenced him. I silenced the gods. Not a word did I utter,
but took Ares by the hand, calmly, and led him to the throne.
I did not go as a penitent. I did not kneel.
I looked unflinchingly at the godhead. There was no sound,
until, with a smile beaming on the countenance of the godhead,
there burst from him a gusty laugh, a detonation not unlike the sound of his own thunder,
the noise augmented by the laughter of the other gods, the greater, the lesser——
the Eumenides, the Musæ, the Mœræ. Even Atropos laughed.
All save Hephæstus laughed. Hephæstus looked at all, confused. He turned, confused, and left Olympus.
Not a word was uttered. Not a word was said of the affair thereafter.
The kiss from behind the throne had made me queen of Olympus.
I loved no god save Ares. But Demeter once remarked in my presence, archly, and of course insidiously,
that even the richest soil must have its ploughing, its harrowing,
if harvesting would ever be made worth while. Demeter was always trite.
But I knew that my love must be overturned, exposed——
even to the blasting leer of Helios. I pondered. I told Ares a secret.
At the time that Hera returned the girdle by Hermes,
Ares was captive, held by the Alœdæ. When Hermes brought the girdle to me,
I bribed him to rescue Ares. I let him name his price.
He stole the girdle for another bribe. I let him have the girdle.
But he rescued Ares. I told Ares all.
Ares grew livid. He stood silent. He left me. I pondered again.
I was not so sure of myself. I wept. I went to earth. I fled from Ares.
I had heard that the humble saw more clearly.
I had heard that the lowly were more grateful.
I sought the love of mortals. There was Anchises, beautiful as Apollo.
His bearing was that of Ares. His very stature was that of Ares.
His youth was mature. His flesh was ripe. His muscles were glossy——
darkening here and there to a glossy purple. He was desirable.
I was not sure that he was mortal. But he was.
He was frankly afraid of accepting my love. I put him at ease.
I gave him divine love. He rose to my love divinely.
Not even now was I sure that he was mortal. But he was.
To other men he told the tale of my indiscretion. I was infuriate.
I was about to change him into an ass, a real ass,
when Zeus blinded him with a bolt. I gloated.
I went to the summit of Ida. I wafted a kiss toward Olympus.
Anchises feared, but so did Adonis. Fear, the fear that I found on earth,
was given to mortals before my coming to Olympus, was infused omnividently
by altruistic Themis, profound Themis, who thought of balancing courage——
and of course of keeping mortals in their place. Fear of the gods was well,
and worked well, and fear of one another not less well;
but the force became rampant, a veritable spotted plague,
omnivorous, indiscriminate, unmanageable, now turning inward,
eating at all qualities alike, assuming many a belying aspect——
that of inveterate virtue as one, and as in Adonis——
and yet unable to hide the symptom, the subtle mark of a moral helotry
segregated from even the least of the lesser gods. Fear in gods gave balance.
Fear in mortals mocked the weight, ignored the inferior resistance.
Fear was ready with defiance of me. I infused new force into mortals.
But fear was too deeply seated. It enervated the force I gave, or repressed it, or assumed its aspect.
Anchises was fully aware that he feared. Adonis thought that he repulsed me.
Adonis was even more beautiful than Anchises, even more virile,
at once virile and virgin, amusingly desirable, sadly desirable——
he, my own Adonis, immaculate dupe of mere aspect. I cried out in despair.
I cried out for one who should know no fear. I startled——
for out of the air there suddenly charged a wild boar. It lunged at Adonis.
I shuddered. I implored Adonis to flee. But Adonis gave battle.
He wounded the boar. I closed my eyes. I heard the struggle of body against body.
I heard a porcine shriek. I heard a human cry, the last cry of Adonis.
I opened my eyes. I beheld my dead Adonis masked in mutilation.
Ares now stood over Adonis. Ares was bleeding. The boar had vanished.
I ignored Ares. I gazed on Adonis. I wept. I wept long. I wept in the arms of Ares.
Do you know the Ares of the Ludovisi? That is he. That is Ares——
at ease, now sitting as he often sat, though only when alone with me.
It was the hour that Helios chose for his daily leer from Ogygia.
Ares was lost in dreams, but he gazed unwaveringly at Helios,
though perchance obliviously, while about his feet our baby played——
myself reclining nearby, gazing down on earth, but seeing nothing there,
and thinking of neither Hellas nor Olympus, but only of Ares, rash Ares,
genius of rash youth, at rest only to dream of rashness, and yet at rest,
his gentleness transfigured as I had often seen it before, but I alone.
There was no sound save the cooing of Eros at the feet of his father.
I could never forget that hour with its memorable spell, momentous even, and long afterwards——
even at that same hour, once when I was alone and lonely——
I divulged to a lonely suppliant with impotent chisel and impassive stone,
the secret of Ares in repose, the vision of the gentle Ares.
But Ares aroused. He spoke. He was weary of silence. He was weary of rest.
He had been quiet too long. He wanted excitement. He wanted action.
He longed for the vented hatred of men for men, the ensuing clash, the ecstatic din,
the uproar of the vengeful, the outcry of the brave, the blood of the best.
He said that his fanes were empty, his attributes ridiculed. He was ignored.
He wanted years and years of strife. He should never grow tired of battle.
I sent Eros away. I arose. I stood before Ares, my flameous hair
matching the jealous flush of Helios leering from Ogygia,
and myself dr
a stranger at Olympus, marriageable, but unacquainted.
I was not timid. I was wary.
I was not bold. I was sure of myself.
I ignored no wheedler, scorned no aspirant, repulsed no aggressor;
yet responded with naught save parry of word or gesture——
at least for a little while, that I might learn the lay——
and to none exclusively, but to all alike, sportively, poisefully,
smiling on each warm want, but not encouraging it to grow.
There was Apollo, intuitive, perceptive, thrillingly impetuous, adorably jealous, later a kindly brother in beauty.
There was Hermes, unscrupulous, incorrigible, forcefully charming, surpassingly obliging, supremely swift of accomplishment.
There was Helios, glorious, mighty, but with little save glory and might to recommend him.
Not at all clever at love, he was too aggressive——
the only aggressor on whom I did not smile.
And there was Ares, irascible, unmanageable, misunderstood by all save me. Ah, yes, for me there was always Ares.
There was even Zeus himself. But, like Helios,
he was not clever at love. He was rather silly——
for one of his age, his power, his command, his fame.
He was conceited.
He was a bore.
I found him repellent even. But I dissembled, for Zeus is none other than Zeus. I was careful.
I knew that he must be handled with consummate tact——
not so much because of himself as because of Hera,
poor wifely Hera, grim, hungry, jealous, virtuously vengeful,
though not as yet suspicious of me.
Hera never once uttered my name with a sneer. The gods wondered.
Not always in secret, and never abashed, the august pair wrangled, wrangled continually, by divine right,
yet never once referred to my presence at Olympus. The gods marveled.
But Zeus grew ardent.
He was indiscreet.
He was growing dangerous.
I was beginning to lose my wits, when Hera came to me, came worriedly, wanting to borrow my Cyprian girdle.
So glad was I that I nearly laughed in her face.
I lent the girdle graciously, but with many a lofty admonition.
I allowed her to think that I did her a favor.
I was glad to be rid of her stupid husband.
I never used the Cyprian trapping. I did not need it.
I knew that the girdle worked its charm on Zeus, however, for early next morning
Hera returned the girdle by Hermes, dear dashing Hermes,
and for a day, a whole day, the august pair wrangled none whatever, but smiled comprehensively, one on the other.
Hermes and I smiled also, one on the other, smiled comprehensively,
and for a long time all went merrily at Olympus, with feasting and reveling in my honor.
But Zeus found out the affair of the girdle. Hera told him, in true matrimonial fashion, during a wrangle
caused by her having discovered him in disguise, on earth.
Zeus was piqued. He sulked. He stalked. He grew evasive, haughty, conspicuously moral,
and made a ruling that all gods must marry.
It was now that he gave me to Hephæstus——
lame of love as well as of leg——
deformed offspring of Hera, begotten thus as the result of a wrangle,
and hurled by her into Erebus, where I wish he had remained.
Zeus called him back not only to punish me, but also to annoy Hera.
Lauding the utilitarian æsthete, he gave him place, made useful beauty the fashion of the day.
Sure of myself, I knew that I could displace all this, and even nullify the ruling. I moved about serenely.
Hera fumed, raged. Wrangling rose anew, louder than ever before, and more protracted.
The gods remonstrated, clamored, all save Helios, who leered.
But Zeus persisted. It mattered little——
for nothing ever matters much, to me. I acquiesced.
I went with Hephæstus and said nothing.
I said very little to Hephæstus.
I ignored him.
I almost forgot him.
He limped about with complaints of my being erotically cold.
Ares told me.
We laughed together.
Hermaphroditus was born. There was much consternation, more pondering, and not a little gossip.
Hephæstus frowned. I smiled. I proclaimed to all Olympus
that Hermaphroditus was mine by my clever husband, the artisan, the inspired——
and was the first result of his groping for new forms of expression.
I glimpsed a twinkle in the eye of Apollo, the delightfully alert, the amusingly aware, the subtly scornful of all save me.
I carried the day.
I hate deformity.
I hate anvils.
I hate toilers and their perspiration.
I hate as beautifully as I love.
I hated Hephæstus.
But there was Ares. There was always Ares.
Of all Olympians he was the very first whom I ever looked on
I beheld him before I ever came to Olympus.
I swept along the Ægean. I came to the Peloponnesus.
I noted commotion among mortals.
I saw the defiant arrayed against the threatening.
I heard loud utterances of hate.
I startled. I saw divinity appearing in the north, and approaching swiftly, now drawing near——
a virile youth in armor, his hard muscles menacingly straining;
his countenance livid with omnipotent rage, and drawn, though not distorted;
his eyes bloodshot, ecstatically savage, imperviously intent;
his lips exquisitely firm, parted slightly with oblivious excitement. It was Ares.
He wore his metal with as much ease as I my flimsy fabric.
He seemed all metal, his very flesh metallic, symmetrically cast——
his glance the glare of a burnished blade.
He glanced at me. I gasped. I was faint with the sight of him.
I would have fallen under his feet.
I would have let him trample me.
He passed me by without pausing.
But now
from a distance he glanced at me again. I thrilled.
He turned away. He uttered a call to the armies.
I also turned away. I went radiant to Olympus.
I found the gods weary of themselves. I found them frustrated.
I found no love at Olympus. I found lust, creative, dynamic, prodigal, but void of purpose——
its affairs ephemeral——
its methods bestial——
itself turning inverse for want of vision. Olympus wavered.
I came radiant with immortal incentive.
I came serene with immutable motive.
I brought love to Olympus. I brought kisses.
I kissed Ares first. I had fully intended to do so.
Ares was like no other god. He was hard of approach——
for he was hated, and was blindly cynical. He, too, hated.
He accepted hate in place of love. He was master of his mission.
I doubt, however, that he hated me. From the first he was rather like one embarrassed, or confused, or obtuse even——
for with hate dominant, rather than love,
and with the will to destroy ascendant, rather than that to create,
he may likely have never known lust. I had reason to think him virgin.
But the day came, ah, the day that I made the metal mellow.
The gods were all assembled, to hear old grievances vented——
there were no new ones, now, nor ever hopes of such——
and among the old ones that of Ares and Apollo, the mutually jealous.
Apollo, like a spoiled child, had flaunted the ægis. Ares had protested.
They met before the throne of Zeus. Apollo argued ably.
Ares uttered vehemently, denounced the other, accused him of aspiring to the very throne.
I feared for Apollo.
I stepped forward.
I took the face of the accuser in my hands, gently, but firmly.
I raised myself on tiptoe, and just as the lips opened to accuse further,
I placed my own against them, pressed them, leaving them open but helpless, inanimate, like metal itself.
They were as cold as metal. The flesh, as if with alarm,
turned ghastly, but now instantly crimson, and now ghastly again.
I withdrew my lips with a snap, a sounding snap.
The gods, all the while speechless, now sniggered.
Ares, all the while speechless, all the while rigid, motionless,
raised his arms to push me off. For some reason he did not do so,
but now raised them over his head, uttered a loud howl of rage, and disappeared, running.
Apollo laughed. I ran to him. I kissed him, too. The gods marveled. They were silenced.
I ran up the steps to the throne. I ran behind it. I leaned forward.
I kissed Zeus on the cheek. The gods gasped. Hera glowered.
I ran down the steps, and off, and after Ares.
I found him bowed with the shame of what he thought was defeat. He cursed me. I stood unmoved.
He accused me of having defeated him for the sake of Apollo. He uttered hate. I smiled.
I kissed him. He was obdurate.
I placed my head at his heart and my arms about him.
I felt the flesh turn cold. I felt it wince.
I felt the great hands clutch me, to repel me——
felt them relax and steal about me, and the great arms enfold me, cautiously,
as if discovering some new thing. I raised my face.
I saw the countenance pale, and now flush, and now pale again. The head sank down.
I closed my eyes. I felt the metallic lips touch mine, cautiously, fumblingly.
I let them fumble till they found themselves at rest——
cradled for the first time, the divine orphans, but not too late,
and there to nestle luxuriously and long, though too content for slumber. From that hour there was always Ares.
The gods gossiped, looked askance, now mentioned faulty taste, now whispered of my folly.
Zeus brooded, but made no comment. Hephæstus watched us,
meanwhile neglecting the forge, and spending much time with Pallas——
or trying to make his golden maidens palpitate. He made vague threats.
I discovered that Helios watched us for Hephæstus. I told Ares. I laughed at Helios.
But one day, while Ares and I were sitting together by the sea,
ensconced in the folds of a net that was dry and warm, obviously new, strangely soft of fiber,
Helios passed by, inscrutable, pretending not to see us. I grew uneasy. Suddenly, swiftly,
there appeared an arm of enormous power. It darted over us.
A hand of enormous power clutched at the net, drew it about us, raised us.
Hephæstus towered over us, holding us high. Hephæstus howled with glee.
Holding us high, he went howling to Olympus.
Ares cursed, kicked, struggled, but to no avail.
I lay quiet, lowly imploring Ares to be quiet.
Hephæstus held us up to the gaze of the gods. The gods laughed loud and long.
Hephæstus laughed hysterically. Ares moaned. I lay mute.
Hephæstus dropped us. Ares freed himself. He sprang at Hephæstus. I now sprang to my feet.
I touched the arm of Ares, merely touched it. He stood still, silent, but quivering. He glared.
I faced Hephæstus. I looked straight at him. I tittered. I laughed him to scorn.
I silenced him. I silenced the gods. Not a word did I utter,
but took Ares by the hand, calmly, and led him to the throne.
I did not go as a penitent. I did not kneel.
I looked unflinchingly at the godhead. There was no sound,
until, with a smile beaming on the countenance of the godhead,
there burst from him a gusty laugh, a detonation not unlike the sound of his own thunder,
the noise augmented by the laughter of the other gods, the greater, the lesser——
the Eumenides, the Musæ, the Mœræ. Even Atropos laughed.
All save Hephæstus laughed. Hephæstus looked at all, confused. He turned, confused, and left Olympus.
Not a word was uttered. Not a word was said of the affair thereafter.
The kiss from behind the throne had made me queen of Olympus.
I loved no god save Ares. But Demeter once remarked in my presence, archly, and of course insidiously,
that even the richest soil must have its ploughing, its harrowing,
if harvesting would ever be made worth while. Demeter was always trite.
But I knew that my love must be overturned, exposed——
even to the blasting leer of Helios. I pondered. I told Ares a secret.
At the time that Hera returned the girdle by Hermes,
Ares was captive, held by the Alœdæ. When Hermes brought the girdle to me,
I bribed him to rescue Ares. I let him name his price.
He stole the girdle for another bribe. I let him have the girdle.
But he rescued Ares. I told Ares all.
Ares grew livid. He stood silent. He left me. I pondered again.
I was not so sure of myself. I wept. I went to earth. I fled from Ares.
I had heard that the humble saw more clearly.
I had heard that the lowly were more grateful.
I sought the love of mortals. There was Anchises, beautiful as Apollo.
His bearing was that of Ares. His very stature was that of Ares.
His youth was mature. His flesh was ripe. His muscles were glossy——
darkening here and there to a glossy purple. He was desirable.
I was not sure that he was mortal. But he was.
He was frankly afraid of accepting my love. I put him at ease.
I gave him divine love. He rose to my love divinely.
Not even now was I sure that he was mortal. But he was.
To other men he told the tale of my indiscretion. I was infuriate.
I was about to change him into an ass, a real ass,
when Zeus blinded him with a bolt. I gloated.
I went to the summit of Ida. I wafted a kiss toward Olympus.
Anchises feared, but so did Adonis. Fear, the fear that I found on earth,
was given to mortals before my coming to Olympus, was infused omnividently
by altruistic Themis, profound Themis, who thought of balancing courage——
and of course of keeping mortals in their place. Fear of the gods was well,
and worked well, and fear of one another not less well;
but the force became rampant, a veritable spotted plague,
omnivorous, indiscriminate, unmanageable, now turning inward,
eating at all qualities alike, assuming many a belying aspect——
that of inveterate virtue as one, and as in Adonis——
and yet unable to hide the symptom, the subtle mark of a moral helotry
segregated from even the least of the lesser gods. Fear in gods gave balance.
Fear in mortals mocked the weight, ignored the inferior resistance.
Fear was ready with defiance of me. I infused new force into mortals.
But fear was too deeply seated. It enervated the force I gave, or repressed it, or assumed its aspect.
Anchises was fully aware that he feared. Adonis thought that he repulsed me.
Adonis was even more beautiful than Anchises, even more virile,
at once virile and virgin, amusingly desirable, sadly desirable——
he, my own Adonis, immaculate dupe of mere aspect. I cried out in despair.
I cried out for one who should know no fear. I startled——
for out of the air there suddenly charged a wild boar. It lunged at Adonis.
I shuddered. I implored Adonis to flee. But Adonis gave battle.
He wounded the boar. I closed my eyes. I heard the struggle of body against body.
I heard a porcine shriek. I heard a human cry, the last cry of Adonis.
I opened my eyes. I beheld my dead Adonis masked in mutilation.
Ares now stood over Adonis. Ares was bleeding. The boar had vanished.
I ignored Ares. I gazed on Adonis. I wept. I wept long. I wept in the arms of Ares.
Do you know the Ares of the Ludovisi? That is he. That is Ares——
at ease, now sitting as he often sat, though only when alone with me.
It was the hour that Helios chose for his daily leer from Ogygia.
Ares was lost in dreams, but he gazed unwaveringly at Helios,
though perchance obliviously, while about his feet our baby played——
myself reclining nearby, gazing down on earth, but seeing nothing there,
and thinking of neither Hellas nor Olympus, but only of Ares, rash Ares,
genius of rash youth, at rest only to dream of rashness, and yet at rest,
his gentleness transfigured as I had often seen it before, but I alone.
There was no sound save the cooing of Eros at the feet of his father.
I could never forget that hour with its memorable spell, momentous even, and long afterwards——
even at that same hour, once when I was alone and lonely——
I divulged to a lonely suppliant with impotent chisel and impassive stone,
the secret of Ares in repose, the vision of the gentle Ares.
But Ares aroused. He spoke. He was weary of silence. He was weary of rest.
He had been quiet too long. He wanted excitement. He wanted action.
He longed for the vented hatred of men for men, the ensuing clash, the ecstatic din,
the uproar of the vengeful, the outcry of the brave, the blood of the best.
He said that his fanes were empty, his attributes ridiculed. He was ignored.
He wanted years and years of strife. He should never grow tired of battle.
I sent Eros away. I arose. I stood before Ares, my flameous hair
matching the jealous flush of Helios leering from Ogygia,
and myself dr
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