The Mask of Dionysus

I can hear the hum of chatter on the other side of the wall. A high-pitched laugh echoes above those voices. Anticipation of the events about to unfold before them is heavy, thick like the humidity in the air. And excitement, it vibrates through the body. They have waited long enough for what they are about to see. Am I ready? Do I know the words? Will I remember the lines? Do the mortals in their theatre seats know that even gods can forget sometimes? Will they blame the madness? The ecstasy? Both? I frown as I reach for the mask on the table next to me, the chaos around me somehow quieter than the hum in the auditorium. Why did I come? Why did I choose to relive –to recite—the very events I have spent millennia trying to push out of my mind?

I am a god, I remind myself, and gods can never forget.

I take the mask gently into my hands. My fingers slide over the exterior of the wood, over its carved features. Without turning it over, I know the features are distorted, the mouth wide, the eyes thin. Just by looking at the mask, the audience will know it is a comedy they are about to see. They want laughter, amusement. But is that what I want to give them? Is the tragedy of my beginning too much for them to watch played out before them? Will they want to see me for who I really am? Am I brave enough to share it? Would the mortals on the other side of the all be interested to hear it? I am Dionysus, the god of theatre, I could keep their attention with just one word.

But I still had doubts.

And I knew exactly where that doubt came from: I was the son of a mortal woman. Though my second birth from my father’s thigh made me a god in truth, there was a part of me that would always be mortal, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. One glance from Hera brought it out of the depths of my mind every tie. I had tried to embrace it a thousand times and failed. Could that be the reason I walked among mortals so regularly? To the point, I spent more time with them than at my father’s court? Why I had chosen a bride from among their number?

A prayer to Gaia fell off my tongue, a mere whisper I hope none but me can hear as I lift the mask up in a desperate attempt to hide away both the memories and the doubt that plague me. The madness Hera inflicted upon me seems preferable to the emptiness in my stomach that haunts me at this moment. I am the god all actors pray to before they perform. Yet not this night. For as long as I wear this mask I am about to tie around my head, I will be someone not even my beloved Ariadne would recognize.

The straps of the mask dig through my thick hair into my scalp. The memory of me fades with it. No more am I Dionysus, son of Zeus by the mortal princess Semele. I am a nameless actor the audience will forget by the morrow. My lungs gasp for a touch of air when my hands drop into my lap, the lines I’m destined to speak dance on my tongue. Will the audience members believe them? How could they if I did not?

To combat this worry, this inner torment, I let in the chaos around me. My fellow actors rehearsing their speeches, their words becoming louder and louder with each breath as if volume could make them sound more convincing. Would Dionysus dare to notice them if the god could hear them all the way on his throne on Olympus? Do I join my voice to theirs? Why should I even bother? The glory of the words I will recite on stage doesn’t belong to me, after all. It will be the playwright whose name will be remembered, not mine. It is their legacy I seek to elevate.

When their words do nothing to tame the emptiness in my gut, I listen to the shouting of the chorus, the men whose voices became one. They were more nameless than me, nobodies not even a cyclops could recall. Madness consumed the backstage, truth be told. How could I have ignored it, and for so long? The actors and the chorus, their voices compete for my attention, just as much as the murmur of voices and laughter from the auditorium. 

Why do I not feel my heart pounding furiously in my chest? My hands should be shaking, my breath uneasy. My eyes dart around backstage. The satyr Pan is the source of all panic yet nowhere do I see him. He would enjoy the theatre, I’m certain.  He is, they say, a member of Dionysus’ entourage.

“Forget the satyr,” I whisper.

The cue for my entrance to the stage draws near, I notice when the members of the chorus slowly start to vanish from both sight and from hearing. Soon only the other actors are backstage with me, their voices rehearsing lines they’ll never speak. I grin beneath my mask; the look on my face would be called wicked if anyone could see it. Perhaps there is a little mischief in my eyes, enough where the people around me might accuse me of having a little of Hermes inside of me. I’m tempted to thieve away something important to prove the accusation true. A chuckle escapes my throat, quiet enough that only I can hear it.

I’ve sat too long. I have lingered in this chair longer than I should. I might be accused of not taking my role seriously enough. This is a performance that will please Dionysus, I’m sure of it. How could it not? I’ve rehearsed it enough times. I rise from where I’ve been seated and step away from the chair. I join my fellow actors and go through the motions of the play we’ve all memorized one more time –at least until the director shouts my name. The time has come. I must perform. No longer can I hide within the safety the backstage has provided. I’ve hidden my story for so long behind the mask I wear, I can bear it no longer.

The impatient audience on the other side of the wall wants a comedy. I want a tragedy. I will give them both.