The Fourth Pig by Naomi Mitchison Marina Warner Read Free Book Online

me!”
    â€œWhy, Xanthias?”
    â€œOh, I don’t care. Let ’em be. ’t’s all right. You aren’t so bad. Bleeding parasite an’ all that. How d’you like your job, anyway? Posh life I don’t think!”
    â€œXanthias, I was the God who inspired men to frenzy and beauty and creation. Now all I can give are hollow dream-sweets, an hour’s padded escape. Because of me and my art the citizens are docile and without frenzy.”
    â€œDope, yes. Why couldn’t you give us better stories?”
    â€œIt wasn’t in my hands, Xanthias. I was only the artist, the one who becomes a God for the multitude. I was caught by the same thing which has caught you. I had to do what I was paid to do.”
    â€œDon’t say you didn’t have some choice!”
    â€œA little, a little. And I liked the worship. Difficult, if one has been a God, to give up all that … I was always easy-going … not like Apollo and Artemis and those nasty Spartans of theirs. Besides the Company gave the public the kind of pictures it liked. If it had been offered frenzy and a new vision, would it have taken them?”
    â€œSome of us would!”
    â€œNot enough to pay for a modern super-production, Xanthias. And you?”
    â€œWhen things were bad, I took a job in the brickyard, stoking the furnaces for the kilns. ’twasn’t even Union rates … And I’d been a good Union man before. But the bad times killed all that, Lord Dionysos. Will it always be bad times for us red-heads whenever there’s been a spell of good and we could take it easy for a moment, lift our heads, look about us?”
    â€œThat’s in the hands of the red-heads, Xanthias. If you have faith … though what the deuce you’re to have faith in … But perhaps Themis will wake up soon. What did they do to you at the brickyard, boy?”
    â€œIt was a sixty-five hour week and that’s too much on a furnace. Dried my lungs out, it did. And my heart began to go queer and I’d no stomach for my meals. But I kept at it. And then … Keep your hands on me, so I don’t cough. I’m fair sick of coughing.”
    â€œDo you think you are going to die, Xanthias?”
    â€œYes. And never marry my young lady. Nor nothing. Remember what … old who-was-it … said, takes away half a man’s manhood …”
    â€œThat was slavery.”
    â€œYou never worked me so hard as they did at the brick-kilns. Saturdays and all. And knowing all the time if I didn’t keep it up, there’d be a dozen knocking themselves over to get my job. And then it would be signing on again at the Labour … and how they look at you when you come after a job … trying to kid yourself you’re a man too. But you aren’t. You’re only a hand. If you’ve the luck to be that …”
    â€œWhat shall I do for you, Xanthias?”
    â€œThe doctor said I should have port wine …”
    â€œAnd haven’t you?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œMy dear boy, that kind of miracle’s child’s play. There … And some decoration for this rather uninviting room. So. How do you like that vine? Reminds one of dear old Attica. And quite disguises the damp patches on the wall which must be a trifle uncongenial from the sick-bed … And some pretty little kids to nibble the lowest leaves. And an oread or two to show a leg from behind the greenery!”
    â€œIf Bill were to see that he wouldn’t half laugh …”
    â€œShall we have some panthers? Gentle panthers to loop and slither round the vine stocks … come, my pretties … it’s dark and cool here under the vine, but outside there’s sun bright and hot and the quartz pebbles sparkling … What is it you hear, Xanthias?”
    â€œLord Dionysos, I hear the frogs. Lift me a little, put your arm behind me … be with me to the brink … Dionysos