This is a chapter of Evergreen Stories by W. M. L. Hutchinson. It includes the following stories: King Midas and His Strange Adventures — Alcestis, the Noble Wife — The Real Helen — Cupid and Psyche — The Vision of Er
The old man called Silenus said not another word on the road to the city. The shepherds told him cheerfully that the king would assuredly put him to death, for the Valley of Roses was holy ground. They were sorry for him, but so it would be. They thought it most likely he would be flayed alive; however, he might only have his throat cut. Either way, he would not be able, unluckily, to join them in the carouse they meant to have with the handsome reward they expected for catching him. But the old man lurched along at a good round pace, saying nothing, and now and then laughing softly; so that they thought he was still too mazed with drink to understand them.
It was late at night when they led him into a great hall, with pillars of rose-pink marble and walls painted in gaudy colors with the scenes of a lion hunt. Clusters of pinewood torches in bronze stands filled the hall with their blaze and resinous odor. Here, on an ivory couch, King Midas was taking his pleasure, drinking wine out of a two-handled gold cup and listening to the music of a flute player. Several boon companions of the king reclined on couches near him, drinking from cups of silver. Cupbearers went noiselessly to and fro; behind the royal couch, a guard of spearmen stood stiffly. The great, bright hall was as quiet as the Valley of Roses, save for the melancholy music of the flute player — a slim, dark-eyed boy squatting on a leopard skin in the middle of the floor.
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The shepherds, kneeling before the king, told their tale with humble eagerness and much pointing to the strange figure they had dragged after them into the presence — the fat, half-naked old man whose arms were bound to his sides with trails of fading roses. He meanwhile stood patient, blinking owlishly in the torchlight as he had blinked in the sunshine, until they had been dismissed, curtly enough, but, to their visible ecstasy, with a silver ingot apiece. Then the king sat up and bent a frowning look on the prisoner; and the impassive bodyguard moved ever so slightly, as though expecting an order. There was a long pause.
“Unbind his arms!” said the king sharply; and when it was done, “Who and what are you?” he asked.
“A strayed reveler, Midas, just a strayed reveler,” answered the old man pleasantly, in his husky voice; and then, peering at the king out of his strange, light eyes — “I do not think much of your housekeeping!” he exclaimed. “Have you never a cup of wine to spare for a wanderer? Cottagers have given me that much — and without waiting to be asked for it, either. Well, I must help myself, it seems.”
With that, he stepped a trifle unsteadily to the couch nearest the king’s, took a full wine cup from the hand of its amazed occupant, sat down heavily beside him, and drained the cup at one draught.
“Cupbearer, fill,” he then said solemnly, holding the cup out at arm’s length. While one might count twenty, no one spoke or stirred; guests, guards, and slaves stared thunderstruck at this incredible stranger.
Midas suddenly burst out laughing. “Fill his cup,” he cried, “and you, Axius, make room for him beside you. This old toper is in the right, by Cybele; it must not be said that the king of Phrygia is less hospitable than peasant churls… And he has made me laugh, too, with his impudence. My housekeeping… ha, ha!”
“Lucky for you, friend,” whispered the courtier Axius as he made room for the new guest, “that our king takes your prank as a jest. You were a dead man else.”
The old man called Silenus lolled back on the embroidered cushions and took another long draught. “I am not so sure of that,” he murmured, “but there is no doubt about one thing — this is admirable wine.” And he again held out his cup to be filled.