Some mirage of the ancient world comes to us with the picture. And laughter—laughter, which was "an essential element of the earlier worship of Dionysus," seems to be shaking the tendrils in some half literal, half symbolical fashion. The living curves, the little merry whirls and spirals are full of it.
The vine and the graver ivy crowned the white brow of Dionysus, plants dear to the Hamadryads, "spinning or weaving with airiest fingers, the foliage of the trees, the petals of the flowers, the skins of the fruits, the long thin stalks on which the poplar leaves are set so lightly that Homer compares them, in their constant motion, to the maids who sit spinning in the house of Alcinous."
And by road and river are great growths of reeds, the plant of Dionysus and the merry satyrs who make their pipes from the hollow stems.
It was surely this beautiful province of a beautiful land that inspired the first conscious determined effort towards the art of living that has been made by man since an evil fate had plunged him into the awful martyrdom of the Middle Ages. The spirit that came into being at that auspicious hour lingers like a presence. It is not due merely to bright sky and clear air. There are skies as blue and air as clear in lands where the very stones breathe forth tragedy. The Campagna of Rome is a case in point, nor is the siren country about the Bay of Naples untouched by this under-shadow.
Even here indeed, in Provence itself, the deep wound in the heart of Life inflicted by mediæval superstition has never quite ceased to bleed, and the country seems at moments to sadden and grow chill in the face of the sun; but this is the tribute paid to the spiritual Cæsar of the new Empire, and does not spring from the ancient genius of the country.
That genius presses upon the imagination, as if some hidden intelligence were playing the part of generous host, and sending forth the parting guest laden with gifts and valedictions.
These invisible hosts have no regard for any timid dread of enthusiasm and faith. They boldly whisper of a new Creed and Cult, a Temple of Happiness to be set up even in our own indignant land!
They are quite unabashed at the audacity of the proposition; at doubts and limitations they laugh.
But the leave-taking traveller knows that he is under a spell, and asks himself if these dreams of powers and destinies will live under grey skies, grey creeds and customs.
Here it is easy to believe in exquisite audacities.