That line of stars, dear reader, is the typographic equivalent of three wasted hours in the life of Ethan Parmley,—three empty unhappy hours spent in and about a silly old puddle smelling like an apothecary shop (I am using his own language now) with only a trio of idiotic swans to talk to. The Nymph of the Violet Eyes came not.
And yet he saw her that day, after all; caught a fleeting glimpse of her that at once assuaged and sharpened his hunger. He was on the porch of the Inn after dinner smoking, morosely, when a smart trap swept by from the direction of The Larches. It contained a coachman and two ladies. One of the ladies had violet eyes, though, as her head was turned away from him and partly hidden by a white parasol, he could not have proved it at the moment. As for the other, he couldn’t have said whether she was young or old, fair or dark. The pair of glistening, well-groomed bays left Ethan scant time for observation. In a twinkling the carriage and its precious burden were gone. And although he never left the porch for more than a minute at a time all the rest of that interminable summer afternoon he found no reward. There were other roads leading to The Larches.
The evening mail brought him a note from Vincent Graves:
“Farrell showed up here Monday with the car and your note. I tried to find out from him what you were up to, but he either didn’t know or exercised a discretion I never credited him with. I hope it is nothing more than sunstroke; folks have been known to recover from that with their minds almost as good as new. Anyhow, I am coming over in a few days to see for myself. I know all about mythology—accent on the myth. But look here, no poaching on my preserves! I finished third yesterday on time-allowance; would have done better if I hadn’t carried away my jib at the outer mark. No wind to speak of. Can’t you come on for Saturday’s race? We’ve had the car out once or twice. There’s something wrong with it. Farrell has it in hospital to-day. My compliments to her, but tell her I need you here.
“Yours,
“Vincent.”
After supper Ethan drew a chair to the open window of his room, set the lamp precariously on the bureau where the light would fall upon the portfolio in his lap, and replied to Vincent:
“My dear Vincent (he wrote), life moves sweetly in Arcadia. Clytie, she who beside her blossom-starred pool has so long gazed, enamored, upon the fiery Apollo, now hearkens to the wooing tones of green-garlanded Vertumnus. No more she fills the leafy hollow with her tears and soft reproaches, but reclined where shading branches defy the sun god’s fiercest rays, she smiles betimes upon Vertumnus. And he, bathing his heart in the warm blue pools of her eyes, forgets and forswears the too-coy Pomona. So, friend, runs the drama of Clytie the dawn-eyed Nymph of the Lotus Pool; of Apollo, radiant and unapproachable Lord of the Sun; and of Vertumnus, humble and enamored God of the Seasons. Friend, for love of me, petition fair Venus to aid my cause!
“And now Jove be with you! The night wind steals sweetly through Arcadia’s moonlit glades and bears to my nostrils the heart-stirring fragrance of lily and of lotus. It is Clytie’s breath upon my cheek. Ah, my friend, I weep for you that you can never know the love of a god for a nymph in Arcady! May Somnus, gentlest of the gods, send thee sweet dreams. Farewell.