Pierre Lous

There was not light enough in which to clearly see any creature or thing; it was twilight, the time of the gauzy haze that haunts our dreams.

Moonbeams were beginning to light up the blackest branches of trees: moonlight and the shine of flinching silver stars.

There were four young Corinthians reclining upon the ground near to three young men. They were deep in pleasant thought, but opened their eyes wide when the grave Melandryon said these words—

“I will tell you the story of the Swan and the little Nymph who lived upon the banks of the Eurotas. It is a story in praise of blissful shadows.” He half raised himself, and what he told his companions now follows.

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In those days there were no tombs by the roadside and no temples upon the hills. Men themselves scarce existed; there was not much talk of them. The earth was given up to the joy of the gods and the times favoured the birth of amazing divinities. It was the time of Echnida and the Chimera of PasiphÆ and the Minotaur. The young ones that there were went pale through the woods fearing to be waylaid by dragons. Nevertheless upon the humid banks of the river Eurotas, where the trees were so thick that one could not see the light, there lived an extraordinary young girl who was blue-tinted like the light of the night, mysterious as the moon and sweet as the Milky Way. That was why they had named her LÊda. She was in truth almost blue, for the blood of the iris was in her veins and not the blood of the rose that is in your own veins. Her lips shone with blue like her eyes. Her hair was so abundant that she sometimes seemed to have long wings. She loved only the water and the night. Her chief pleasure was to walk upon the soft springy spongy turf of the banks near the water. She could feel the cold moisture of the water but hardly see the water itself, and her naked feet had little shudders of pleasure and were softly moistened.

For she did not bathe in the river because of her fear of the jealous water-nymphs, and she did not want to give herself up to the water entirely. But she loved to moisten her body and hair with the sweet river-water. Sometimes she took up into her hands the freshness of the flood and poured it between her young breasts, watching it trickle down and run away. Sometimes she laid her full length down upon the bank and drank from the surface of the water slowly, sweetly. Then she seemed like a thirsty little animal. Such was chiefly her life: that and thinking upon the satyrs. Sometimes one came upon her unexpectedly but fled in affright, for they all thought her to be Phoebe, and austere to those who saw her naked. She would have liked to talk to them had they stayed near her. Their appearance filled her with astonishment. One night when she had gone for a short walk in the forest, because it had been raining and the ground was like a torrent, she approached one of these half-divine creatures as he slept and gazed upon him; but she, too, in her turn became horrified and quickly retraced her steps. Since that time she occasionally thought of the incident and was disturbed about things she did not understand. She began to gaze at herself and found herself mysterious. It was the time when she became sentimental and spent much time in weeping.

When the nights were clear she gazed at her reflection in the water. Once the thought came to her that it would be better for her to plait her hair like a serpent and so display the nape of her neck which the touch of her hand told her was beautiful. She chose a jewel for her hair and made herself a garland of the leaves of water-lilies and their blossoms.

At first she took pleasure in walking like this. But as she was alone there was none to gaze at her. Then she became unhappy and ceased to be amused.

Now her spirit did not know itself but her body awaited the beating of the Swan’s wings.

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One evening, as she was hardly awake and thought of continuing her dream, because a long streak of yellow daylight still flowed behind the darkness of the forest, her attention was attracted by the sound of the reeds near her and she saw the apparition of a Swan.

The beautiful bird was as white as a woman, splendid as the light and gleaming like a cloud. It seemed to be like a midday sky, its form and its winged spirit. That is why it was called Dzeus.

LÊda knew it to be looking at her as it flew and walked in turn. It circled around the nymph at a distance and looked sidelong at her. Even when it was almost touching her it still continued to approach, and rising on its red feet it stretched its graceful and undulating neck as high as possible before her young thighs.

LÊda’s astonished hands carefully grasped its little head and caressed it. The bird fluttered all its feathers, with its soft and feathery wings it gripped her naked legs and bent them; LÊda let herself fall upon the ground.

She covered her face with her two hands. She experienced neither fear nor shame but inexpressible joy and a beating of the heart which made her breasts tremble.

She did not realize or understand what was about to happen. She did not even understand why she was happy. She felt along her arms the supple neck of the Swan.

Why had it come? What had she done that it should come to her? Why had it not flown away like the other swans on the river or fled like the satyrs into the forest? From her earliest recollection she had always lived alone. For that reason her ideas were very limited and the events of that night were so disconcerting. This Swan she had neither called nor seen, for she was asleep. It had come.

She neither dared to look nor move lest it should fly away. She felt upon her flushed cheeks the freshness of the beating of its wings.

Soon it seemed to recoil and its caresses changed. She felt between her cool knees the warmth of the bird’s body.

She uttered a long sigh of bounteous delight, let fall backward with closed eyes her fevered head, and plucked the grass with convulsive fingers.

Then for a long while she remained motionless. At her first gesture her hand met the Swan’s beak. She sat up and saw the reflection of the great bird in the river. She wished to rise but the bird prevented her.

She wished to take a little water in the palm of her hand and moisten her flesh, but the Swan prevented her with its wing.

She clasped the bird in her arms and covered its thick feathers with kisses, making it set them up with her embraces. Then she stretched herself upon the river-bank and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning at daybreak a new sensation awakened her with a start: something seemed to become detached from her body. A large blue egg rolled in front of her and shone like a sapphire.

She wanted to take it and play with it or else cook it in the warm ashes as she had seen the satyrs do; but the Swan picked it up in its beak and placed it under a tuft of overhanging reeds. It stretched out its wings over the egg with its gaze fixed upon LÊda, and then with a movement of the wings slowly soared straight up into the sky to disappear in the growing daylight with the last white star.

---

LÊda hoped that the following night the Swan would come back to her, and she waited for it in the reeds by the river-side near the blue egg which was born of their miraculous union.

The Eurotas was covered with swans, but her Swan was not among them. She would have recognized it from a thousand, and even with her eyes shut would have perceived its approach. But it was very certain that the one was no longer there.

Then she took off her garland of water-lily leaves, dropped it into the stream, let down her hair and began to weep.

When after a time she dried her eyes a great Satyr was near her though she had not heard his approach.

Now she was no longer like Phoebe. She had lost her virginity. The satyrs were no longer afraid of her.

She leapt to her feet and drew back in affright.

The Satyr gently said to her: “Who are you?”

“I am LÊda,” she replied.

He was silent for a moment and then went on—

“Why are you different from the other nymphs? Why are you blue like the water and the night?”

“I do not know.”

He looked at her in great astonishment.

“What are you doing here all alone?”

“I am waiting for the Swan.”

She was looking at the river. “What Swan?” he asked.

“The Swan. I did not call it, I did not see it, but it appeared. I was so surprised. I will tell you.”

She told him what had happened and parted the reeds to show him the blue egg.

The Satyr understood. He began to laugh and gave her vulgar explanations, which she stopped by putting her hand over his mouth; then she cried—

“I do not wish to know. I will not know. Oh, you have told me. Oh! it is frightful! Now I shall not be able to love the Swan, and I shall die of unhappiness.”

He seized her by the arm in his passion.

“Do not touch me!” she cried through her tears. “Oh! how happy was I this morning! I did not realize how happy I was! Now if it return I shall not love it. Now you have told me! Ah! how wicked you are!”

He embraced her and caressed her hair.

“Oh, no! no! no!” she cried. “Do not do that! Oh if the Swan were to come back! Alas! alas! all is ended.”

She stood with staring eyes and open mouth without weeping but with hands trembling with fear.

“I would like to die. I do not even know whether I am mortal. I would like to die in the water, but I fear the naiads, lest they make me join them. Oh! what have I done!”

She sobbed bitterly in his arms. But a serious voice spake before her, and when she opened her eyes she saw the river god crowned with green leaves rising half out of the water and leaning upon a staff of light wood.

He said—

“You are quite right. But you have loved the symbol of all that is light and glorious, and you have been united to it.

“Of the symbol is born the symbol, and of the symbol will be born Beauty. It is in the blue egg which you have seen. Since the beginning of the world it has been called Helen; and the last man of all shall know of her existence.

“You were full of love because you were ignorant. For that let the blessed darkness be praised.

“But you are a woman, too, and bear in you the obscure being who would be simply himself, whose father has not foreseen him, and whose son does not know him. I will take the germ in my waters. It shall remain in obscurity.

“You were full of hatred because you learned the truth. I will make you forget it. For that let the blessed darkness be praised.”

She did not understand what the God had said, but she thanked him with tears.

She entered the bed of the river to purify herself from the Satyr, and when she returned to the bank she had lost every remembrance of her sorrow and her joy.

Melandryon spake no more. The women were all silent. But Rhea asked—

“What of Kaftor and Polydeukes? You have told us nothing of them. They were the brothers of Helen.”

“No, that is not true, they are not interesting. Helen alone was a child of the Swan.”

“Why, too, do you say that the Swan wounded her with its beak? That is not in the legend, nor is it likely. Then why do you say that LÊda was blue like water in the night? You have a reason for saying it.”

“Did you not hear the words of the River. Symbols must never be explained. They must not be understood. Have faith. Ah! do not doubt. The maker of the symbol has concealed a truth in it, but he need not explain it or what would be the use of the reader of symbols.

“One must not tear aside ceremonies, for they only conceal the invisible. We know that in these trees adorable nymphs are enclosed, and yet when the wood-cutter fells the trees they are dead. We know that behind us are dancing satyrs and divine nakedness but we need not turn round, for if we do all will have disappeared.

“The undulating reflection of the springs is actually the naiad. The buck standing in the midst of the does is the reality of the Satyr. One or other of you all is Aphrodite in reality. But we must not know it, we must not seek to find it out. Such is the condition of love and joy. Praise be to the blessed darkness for it.”