XXIIIOLYMPUS—COURT FESTIVITIES
SAILING down the Adriatic, the Ionian Isles finally rose above the bosom of the sea; before them lay modern Greece, with its landscape and atmosphere still populated with the legendary divinities of ancient times. Mrs. Cultus adjusted her eye-glasses to catch first glimpse of Olympus, evidently under the impression that the Mountain of the Gods towered over Greece much as Fuji Yama does over Japan. She found it did, but not precisely as she had anticipated.
As to Adele and Paul, they were becoming more susceptible to impressions subtle, if not mystical, than ever before. Being in the region of the old-time divinities the influence of those deities at the Court of Olympus, whose especial duty was to direct love affairs, began to be felt. So potent was this influence that the lovers became intensely absorbed in watching for Aphrodite, lest she might rise from the sea at any turn of the tide. They had heard how, in modern times, she often arose at other points than Cyprus.
As the vessel proceeded southward, a new Olympus was constantly discovered and pointed out. This was great sport to Miss Winchester; such an accommodating guide-book mountain she had not before encountered.
“How many mountain resorts does our present Zeus keep up?” asked she of the Captain, a jolly sailor.
“Oh, wherever you see storm clouds around the highlands, there’s some fun going on.”
“Any court festivities, any Apollo bands or musical sands to entertain Court circles?”
“Apollo is not popular at this season—since rag-time came in, the lyrique and doggerel have gone out—the old accompaniment was too sleepy.”
“But I must hear Orpheus on a lute, or Pan give a toot.”
“Orpheus played last at a ball game,” said the Captain.
“Too dulcet?”
“Not enough wood wind and brassy; the boys said too lugubrious. They came to play ball, not to shed tears.”
“And poor Orpheus?”
“Went off with an organ grinder; now his name only appears on Club letter paper and headings for concert programmes. He manages to get into print, but he never plays.”
“How discouraging to art and musicians! Alas! alas! But apropos of games, what is the popular athletic sport now-a-days around Olympus?”
“Chasing quinine pills—a caddy holds the pills. You take the pills and then chase ’em ‘over the hills and far away.’”
“For the health, I presume?”
“Of course; the discus has gone out, but this later game makes more discussion than the discus ever did. Golf goes first-rate in Greek costume. You ought to see it. Scotchmen outdone.”
“How about ‘events’—athletic events?”
“Oh, events always occur in the Stadium.”
“Bless me, how exciting! But it sounds very stationary.”
“The victor generally does feel puffed up,” said the Captain. “During the last Olympiad a local divinity came down (from up the country) and accumulated such centrifugal force in running that he flew off to Thermopylæ or Marathon, some outside place or other, caught hold of the post there, swung himself round and slid into the Stadium in fine style.”
“What honors did he receive—laurel or oak wreath?”
“Think it was fig leaves,” remarked the sailor Captain, “butI am not sure. At any rate he was a hero. The town gave him free entrance to all the beer saloons for life, a new pair of sandals with wings and honors galore.”
“How appreciative! Discriminating public!”
“Sure! His name was engraved in the most honorable place possible.”
“How was that?”
“At the foot of the list of victors from B. C. 1776, or thereabouts, to A. D. 1896. He can no doubt stand the honor, but I doubt about the beer.”
“May I ask his name?”
“Name—his name—let me see, what was his name? It escapes me just at present. I’ll ask the steward some time, he’s up in such things,” and the Captain went off to superintend the passage of his vessel through the narrow channel between the islands and the mainland.
“There’s modern fame!” thought Miss Winchester. “After winning an Olympiad, to be labeled No. 3672, approx., name forgotten and soon marked ‘Unknown.’”