Part 3

As you have said, O Jason, let it be. I for my part am nothing loth to break A compact never in fair justice framed, Seeing how much one gave and one how much. For you, you thought: This maid has served me well, And yet may serve me. When I touch her palm The blood is set a-tingle in my veins; For these things I will make her body mine. And I, I stood before you, clean and straight, A woman some deemed fair and all deemed wise; A woman, yet no simple thing nor slight, By nature fashioned in no niggard mould; And looked into your eyes with eyes that spake: Lo, utterly, for ever, I am yours. And since that you, this gift I lavish laid Low at your feet, have lightly held and spurned-- I in my two arms, thus, shall gather it up So that your feet may not encounter it Which is not worthy for your feet to tread! Yet pause a moment, Jason. Haply now In some such wise as this your thoughts run on: I loved this woman for a little space; Alas, poor soul, she loved me but too well-- It is the way with women! Some, I think, Did deem her fierce; gods! she was meek enough, Content with what I gave; when I gave not Nothing importunate. Ah, Jason, pause. You never knew Medea. You forget, Because so long she bends the knee to you, She was not born to serfdom. I have knelt Too long before you. I have stood too long Suppliant before this people. You forget A redder stream flows in my Colchian veins Than the slow flood which courses round your hearts, O cold Corinthians, with whom I long have dwelt And never ere this day have known myself. Nor have ye known me. Now behold me free, Ungyved by any chains of this man wrought; Nothing desiring at your hands nor his. Free, freer than the air or winged birds; Strong, stronger than the blast of wintry storms; And lifted up into an awful realm Where is nor love, nor pity, nor remorse, Nor dread, but only purpose. There shall be A horror and a horror in this land; Woe upon woe, red blood and biting flame; Most horrid death and anguish worse than death; Deeds that shall make the shores of Hades sound With murmured terror; with an awful dread Shall move the generations yet unborn; A horror and a horror in the land.

JASON.

Shrew, triple-linked with Hell, get you within. Shame not my house! ’Tis your own harm you work.

[MEDEA _goes within_. JASON _moves off slowly_. ÆGEUS _and_ NIKIAS _go off conferring in whispers_.]

SCENE II.

[Time--_After an interval; the evening of the same day._ Scene--_A street. A crowd of people running to and fro._]

NIKIAS.

O horror, horror, have ye heard the tale?

ÆGEUS.

Alas, a bloody rumour reached mine ears Of awful purport: that the king lies dead--

NIKIAS.

And by his side, his daughter; both caught up In sudden toils of torment. With his grief Jason is all distraught; behold her deed, The swift and subtle tigress!

ÆGEUS.

Woe! Alas! Woe for the state, woe for our Kreon slain, For hapless Glaukê, for our Jason, woe! But three times woe for her that did the deed-- Her womanhood sham’d; her children basely wrong’d.

NIKIAS.

Hold back your pity till the tale be told, For never was there horror like to this. Ere now in Corinth, haply, you have heard How she did use for her crime’s instruments The tender boys sprung from great Jason’s loins; Bidding them bear the garments wrought in Hell As bridal gifts to grace the marriage morn Of gold-hair’d Glaukê. Serpent! Sorceress!

ÆGEUS.

Alas, consider; so the tigress springs When that her cubs are menaced. ’Twas her love That wrought the deed--evil, yet wrought for love.

NIKIAS.

Spare me such love. I never yet could deem, Ev’n ere the horror, that Medea held The love of human mothers in her breast. For I have seen her, when her children played Their innocent, aimless sports about her knees, Or held her gown across the market-place, Move all unheeding with her swart brows knit And fierce eyes fixed; not, as is mothers’ wont, Eager to note the winning infant ways, A-strain to catch the babbling treble tones Of soft lips clamouring for a kiss or smile. And once I marked her (’twas a summer’s morn) Turn suddenly and, stooping, catch and strain One tender infant to her breast. She held Her lips to his and looked into his eyes, Not gladly, as a mother with her child, But stirred by some strange passion; then the boy Cried out with terror, and Medea wept.

ÆGEUS.

Your tale is strange.

NIKIAS.

Stranger is yet to come. How that the Colchian did send forth her sons, Innocent doers of most deadly deed, Has reached your knowledge. When the deed was done, And the dead king lay stretched upon the floor Clutching his daughter in a last embrace, Arose great clamour in the palace halls; Wailing and cries of terror; women’s screams; A rush of flying feet from hall to hall; The clanging fall of brazen instruments Upon the marble. The two tender boys, Half apprehending what thing had befallen, Fled forth unmarked, and all affrighted reached The house of Jason, where Medea stood Erect upon the threshold. From afar Sounded and surged the fiercely frighted roar Of the roused city, and, like waves of the sea, Grew nearer ev’ry beating of the pulse. Forth from the inmost chambers fled the slaves, Made fleet with sudden fear; the little ones With arms outspread rushed to the Colchian, And clung about her limbs and caught her robe, Hiding their faces. And Medea stood Calm as a carven image. As the sound Of wrath and lamentation drew more near, The pale lips seemed to smile. But when she saw Her children clinging round her, she stretched forth One strong, swart hand and put the twain away, And gathered up the trailing of her robe. I saw the deed, I, Nikias, with these eyes! Then spake she (Zeus! grant that I may not hear Such tones once more from human lips!). She spake: “I will not have ye, for I love ye not!” Then all her face grew alien. Those around Stood still, not knowing what she planned. Then she Forth from her gathered garment swiftly drew A thing that gleamed and glinted; in the air She held it poised an instant; then--O gods! How shall I speak it?--on the marble floor Was blood that streamed and spurted; blood that flow’d From two slain, innocent babes!

ÆGEUS.

O woful day!

NIKIAS.

Then brake a cry from all about: a wail Of lamentation. But above the sound A fierce long shriek, that froze the blood i’ the veins, Rang out and rose, cleaving the topmost cloud.

ÆGEUS.

O evil deed! O essence of all evil Stealing the shape of woman!

NIKIAS.

After that All is confusion; from all sides surged up The people, cursing, weeping. ’Thwart the din Each other moment the strained ear might catch Medea’s name, or Jason’s, or the King’s; And women wailed out “Glaukê” through their tears. Then sudden came a pause; the angry roar Died down into a murmur; and the throng Grew still, and rolled aside like a clov’n sea. And Jason strode between them till he reached His own home’s threshold where the twain lay dead, Long gazed he on their faces; then he turned To the hush’d people; turned to them and spake: (His face was whiter than the dead’s, his eyes Like to a creature’s that has looked on Hell) “Where is the woman?” Lo, and when they sought Medea, no eye beheld her. And no man Had looked upon her since that moment’s space When steel had flashed and blood foamed in the air. Then Jason stood erect and spake again: “Let no man seek this woman; blood enough Has stained our city. Let the furies rend Her guilty soul; nor we pollute our hands With her accursèd body....”

ÆGEUS.

Cease, my friend; It is enough. You judged this thing aright; This woman was dark and evil in her soul; Black to her fiend-heart’s root; a festering plague In our fair city’s midst.

NIKIAS.

Spake I not true?

[_Night; outside the city._ MEDEA _leaning against a rock_.]

Here let me rest; beyond men’s eyes, beyond The city’s hissing hate. Why am I here? Why have I fled from death? There’s sun on the earth, And in the shades no sun;--thus much I know; And sunlight’s good. Wake I, or do I sleep? I’m weary, weary; once I dream’d a dream Of one that strove and wept and yearned for love In a fair city. She was blind indeed. They say the woman had a fiend at heart, And afterwards--Hush, hush, I dream’d a dream. How cold the air blows; how the night grows dark, Wrapping me round in blackness. Darker too Grows the deep night within. I cannot see; I grope with weary hands; my hands are sore With fruitless striving. I have fought with the Fates And I am vanquished utterly. The Fates Yield not to strife; nay, nor to many prayers. Their ways are dark. One climbs the tree and grasps A handful of dead leaves; another walks, Heedless, beneath the branches, and the fruit Falls mellow at his feet. This is the end: I have dash’d my heart against a rock; the blood Is drain’d and flows no more; and all my breast Is emptied of its tears. Thus go I forth Into the deep, dense heart of the night--alone.

_Sinfonia Eroica._

(TO SYLVIA.)

My Love, my Love, it was a day in June, A mellow, drowsy, golden afternoon; And all the eager people thronging came To that great hall, drawn by the magic name Of one, a high magician, who can raise The spirits of the past and future days, And draw the dreams from out the secret breast, Giving them life and shape. I, with the rest, Sat there athirst, atremble for the sound; And as my aimless glances wandered round, Far off, across the hush’d, expectant throng, I saw your face that fac’d mine. Clear and strong Rush’d forth the sound, a mighty mountain stream; Across the clust’ring heads mine eyes did seem By subtle forces drawn, your eyes to meet. Then you, the melody, the summer heat, Mingled in all my blood and made it wine. Straight I forgot the world’s great woe and mine; My spirit’s murky lead grew molten fire; Despair itself was rapture. Ever higher, Stronger and clearer rose the mighty strain; Then sudden fell; then all was still again, And I sank back, quivering as one in pain. Brief was the pause; then, ’mid a hush profound, Slow on the waiting air swell’d forth a sound So wondrous sweet that each man held his breath; A measur’d, mystic melody of death. Then back you lean’d your head, and I could note The upward outline of your perfect throat; And ever, as the music smote the air, Mine eyes from far held fast your body fair. And in that wondrous moment seem’d to fade My life’s great woe, and grow an empty shade Which had not been, nor was not. And I knew Not which was sound, and which, O Love, was you.

_To Sylvia._

“O Love, lean thou thy cheek to mine, And let the tears together flow”-- Such was the song you sang to me Once, long ago.

Such was the song you sang; and yet (O be not wroth!) I scarcely knew What sounds flow’d forth; I only felt That you were you.

I scarcely knew your hair was gold, Nor of the heavens’ own blue your eyes. Sylvia and song, divinely mixt, Made Paradise.

These things I scarcely knew; to-day, When love is lost and hope is fled, The song you sang so long ago Rings in my head.

Clear comes each note and true; to-day, As in a picture I behold Your turn’d-up chin, and small, sweet head Misty with gold.

I see how your dear eyes grew deep, How your lithe body thrilled and swayed, And how were whiter than the keys Your hands that played....

Ah, sweetest! cruel have you been, And robbed my life of many things. I will not chide; ere this I knew That Love had wings.

You’ve robbed my life of many things-- Of love and hope, of fame and pow’r. So be it, sweet. You cannot steal _One_ golden hour.

_A Greek Girl._

I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead. A weary, weary weight of tears unshed Through the long day in my sad heart I bear; The horrid sun with all unpitying glare Shines down into the dreary weaving-room, Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom, And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me I smile hard smiles; while still continually The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:-- And now at length they talk of him that’s gone, Lightly lamenting that he died so soon-- Ah me! ere yet his life’s sun stood at noon. Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair, And some mislike the colour of his hair! Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair, What form, what hue, save Love’s own, did ye wear? I may not weep, not weep, for very shame. He loved me not. One summer’s eve he came To these our halls, my father’s honoured guest, And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent One love-glance into mine, I had been content, And deemed it great joy for one little life; Nor envied other maids the crown of wife: The long sure years, the merry children-band-- Alas, alas, I never touched his hand! And now my love is dead that loved not me.

Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she-- That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare, And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair; And who, unchecked by any thought of shame, May weep her tears, and call upon his name, With burning bosom prest to the cold ground, Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown’d, Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;-- No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis.

While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear Was my heart’s hunger; when the morn was fair, And I with other maidens in a line Passed singing through the city to the shrine, Oft in the streets or crowded market-place I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face; Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng; Or heard stray speeches as we passed along, In tones more dear to me than any song. These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart, Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart.

And now for ever has my sweet love gone; And weary, empty days I must drag on, Till all the days of all my life be sped, By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted. For if indeed we meet among the shades, How shall he know me from the other maids?-- Me, that had died to save his body pain!

Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain! O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone! O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on! That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep, Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.

_Magdalen._

All things I can endure, save one. The bare, blank room where is no sun; The parcelled hours; the pallet hard; The dreary faces here within; The outer women’s cold regard; The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;-- These things could I endure, and count No overstrain’d, unjust amount; No undue payment for such bliss-- Yea, all things bear, save only this: That you, who knew what thing would be, Have wrought this evil unto me. It is so strange to think on still-- That you, that _you_ should do me ill! Not as one ignorant or blind, But seeing clearly in your mind How this must be which now has been, Nothing aghast at what was seen. Now that the tale is told and done, It is so strange to think upon.

You were so tender with me, too! One summer’s night a cold blast blew, Closer about my throat you drew The half-slipt shawl of dusky blue. And once my hand, on a summer’s morn, I stretched to pluck a rose; a thorn Struck through the flesh and made it bleed (A little drop of blood indeed!) Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and bound Your handkerchief about the wound; Your voice came with a broken sound; With the deep breath your breast was riven; I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?

How strange, that _you_ should work my woe! How strange! I wonder, do you know How gladly, gladly I had died (And life was very sweet that tide) To save you from the least, light ill? How gladly I had borne your pain. With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,-- Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain.

Even if one had told me this, “A poison lurks within your kiss, Gall that shall turn to night his day:” Thereon I straight had turned away-- Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain--And never kiss’d your lips again.

At night, or when the daylight nears, I hear the other women weep; My own heart’s anguish lies too deep For the soft rain and pain of tears. I think my heart has turn’d to stone, A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast; Here, on my pallet-bed alone, I keep apart from all the rest. Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed, I often cannot sleep all night; The future and the past are dead, There is no thought can bring delight. All night I lie and think and think; If my heart were not made of stone, But flesh and blood, it needs must shrink Before such thoughts. Was ever known A woman with a heart of stone?

The doctor says that I shall die. It may be so, yet what care I? Endless reposing from the strife? Death do I trust no more than life. For one thing is like one arrayed, And there is neither false nor true; But in a hideous masquerade All things dance on, the ages through. And good is evil, evil good; Nothing is known or understood Save only Pain. I have no faith In God or Devil, Life or Death.

The doctor says that I shall die. You, that I knew in days gone by, I fain would see your face once more, Con well its features o’er and o’er; And touch your hand and feel your kiss, Look in your eyes and tell you this: That all is done, that I am free; That you, through all eternity, Have neither part nor lot in me.

_Christopher Found._

I.

At last; so this is you, my dear! How should I guess to find you here? So long, so long, I sought in vain In many cities, many lands, With straining eyes and groping hands; The people marvelled at my pain. They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad; What ails her, we should like to know, That she should be so wan and sad, And silent through the revels go?” They clacked with such a sorry stir! Was I to tell? were they to know That I had lost you, Christopher? Will you forgive me for one thing? Whiles, when a stranger came my way, My heart would beat and I would say: “Here’s Christopher!”--then lingering With longer gaze, would turn away Cold, sick at heart. My dear, I know You will forgive me for this thing. It is so very long ago Since I have seen your face--till now; Now that I see it--lip and brow, Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear; Last time was long ago; I know This thing you will forgive me, dear.

II.

There is no Heaven--this is the best; O hold me closer to your breast; Let your face lean upon my face, That there no longer shall be space Between our lips, between our eyes. I feel your bosom’s fall and rise. O hold me near and yet more near; Ah sweet; I wonder do you know How lone and cold, how sad and drear, Was I a little while ago; Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir; But I have found you, Christopher.

III.

If only you had come before! (This is the thing I most deplore) A seemlier woman you had found, More calm, by courtesies more bound, Less quick to greet you, more subdued Of appetite; of slower mood. But ah! you come so late, so late! This time of day I can’t pretend With slight, sweet things to satiate The hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend, I cannot blush and turn and tremble, Wax loth as younger maidens do. Ah, Christopher, with you, with you, You would not wish me to dissemble?

IV.

So long have all the days been meagre, With empty platter, empty cup, No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure, That if I crave--is it over-eager, The deepest draught, the fullest measure, The beaker to the brim poured up?

V.

Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above, Says, and would make the matter clear, That love divided is larger love;-- We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear. For you never wrote a verse, you see; And I--my verse is not fair nor new. Till the world be dead, you shall love but me, Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.

EPILOGUE.

Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did run Their purport. Idly seeking in the chest (You see it yonder), I had found them there: Some blotted sheets of paper in a case, With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.” Twice on the writing there was scored the date Of ten years back; and where the words had end Was left a space, a dash, a half-writ word, As tho’ the writer minded, presently The matter to pursue. I questioned her, That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine, Who, nothing loth, made answer. There had been Another lodger ere I had the rooms, Three months gone by--a woman. “Young, sir? No. Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day! A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends; Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers. Short in her temper--eyes would flash and flame At times, till I was frightened. Paid her rent Most regular, like a lady. Ten years back, They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years back The lady had a lover. Even then She must have been no chicken. Three months since She died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just. I did my best to tend her, yet indeed It’s bad for trade to have a lodger die. Her brother came, a week before she died: Buried her, took her things, threw in the fire The littered heaps of paper. Yes, the sheets, They must have been forgotten in the chest;-- I never knew her name was Adelaide.”

_A Dirge._