Chapter 2

He in their love went sunning, took his ease In house and hall, at council or at feast, Careless of what was greatest or what least Of all his deeds, so only by his side She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride, The lovely harbour of his arms. But she, A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see, And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each If it might be her people's, and so hers, Poor alien!--Argive now herself she avers And proudly slave of Paris and no wife: Minion she calls herself; and when to strife Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges, And when to play he woos her with soft words, Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's, Towards that honoured mate who honoured her, Making her wife indeed, not paramour, Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall She watches every dawn for what dawn brings. And the strong spirit of her took new wings And left her lovely body in the arms Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms, And witless held a shell; but forth as light As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith, A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death Seems to the dying man a bedside guest, But to the watchers cannot be exprest. So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned, Renewing his day's torment in his sleep; Who presently starts up and sighing deep, Searches the entry, if haply in the skies The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow To tell all truth about her, and her woe And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips: "O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?" No answer hath she, but she looks him long And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more, But up and down he pads the beaten floor, And all that day his heart's wild crying hears, And can thank God for gracious dew of tears And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame. So came the next night, and with night she came, Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go Whence she had come. His need would have it so-- And her need. Never must she call in vain. Now takes he way alone over the plain Where dark yet hovers like a catafalque And all life swoons, and only dead thing walk, Uneasy sprites denied a resting space, That shudder as they flit from place to place, Like bats of flaggy wing that make night blink With endless quest: so do those dead, men think, Who fall and are unserved by funeral rite. These passes he, and nears the walls of might Which Godhead built for proud Laomedon, And knows the house of Paris built thereon, Terraced and set with gadding vines and trees And ever falling water, for the ease Of that sweet indweller he held in store. Thither he turns him quaking, but before Him dares not look, lest he should see her there Aglimmer through the dusk and, unaware, Discover her fill some mere homely part Intolerably familiar to his heart, And deeply there enshrined and glorified, Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied, Being called, and ever closer on he came As if no wrong nor misery nor shame Could harder be than not to see her--Nay, Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay Besmothered in his kisses--rather so Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go His round of lonely exile! Now he stands Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin, And motionless abides till day come in; Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe, Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls, Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls Of owl to owl from unseen towers. Afar A dog barked. High and hidden in the haar Which blew in from the sea a heron cried Honk! and he heard his wings, but not espied The heavy flight. Slow, slow the orb was filled With light, and with the light his heart was thrilled With opening music, faint, expectant, sharp As the first chords one picks out from the harp To prelude paean. Venturing all, he lift His eyes, and there encurtained in a drift Of sea-blue mantle close-drawn, he espies Helen above him watching, her grave eyes Upon him fixt, blue homes of mystery Unfathomable, eternal as the sea, And as unresting. So in that still place, In that still hour stood those two face to face.

THIRD STAVE

MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN

But when he had her there, sharp root of ill To him and his, safeguarded from him still, Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred, Behandled, too much lost and too much won, Mock image making horrible the sun That once had shown her pure for his demesne, And still revealed her lovely, and unclean-- Despair turned into stone what had been kind, And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind. "O ruinous face," said he, "O evil head, Art thou so early from the wicked bed? So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice? Or is it that in luxury thou art nice Become, and dalliest?" Low her head she hung And moved her lips. As when the night is young The hollow wind presages storm, his moan Came wailing at her. "Ten years here, alone, And in that time to have seen thee thrice!" But she: "Often and often have I chanced to see My lord pass." His heart leapt, as leaps the child Enwombed: "Hast thou--?" Faintly her quick eyes smiled: "At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake; So have time to myself when I can take New air, and old thought." As a man who skills To read high hope out of dark oracles, So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he: "Lady, O God! Now would that I could be Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought Gathering!" Silent stood she, memory-fraught, Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul, So harpt upon her heart. "Is this the whole That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here Alone to be?" She blushed and dared to peer Downward. "Is it so wonderful," she said, "If I desire it?" He: "Nay, by my head, Not so; but wonderful I think it is In any man to suffer it." The hiss Of passion stript all vesture from his tones And showed the King man naked to the bones, Man naked to the body's utterance. She turned her head, but felt his burning glance Scorch, and his words leap up. "Dost thou desire I leave thee then? Answer me that." "Nay, sire, Not so." And he: "Bid me to stay while sleeps Thy house," he said, "so stay I." Her eyes' deeps Flooded his soul and drowned him in despair, Despair and rage. "Behold now, ten years' wear Between us and our love! Now if I cast My spear and rove the snow-mound of thy breast, Were that a marvel?" Long she lookt and grave, Pondering his face and searching. "Not so brave My lord as that would prove him. Nay, and I know He would not do it." And the truth was so; And well he knew the reason: better she. Yet for a little in that vacancy Of silence and unshadowing light they stood, Those long-divided, speechless. His first mood With bitter grudge was choked, but hers was mild, As fearing his. At last she named the child, Asking, Was all well? Short he told her, Yes, The child was well. She fingered in her dress And watched her hand at play there. "Here," she said, "There is no child," and sighed. Into his dead And wasted heart there leaped a flame and caught His hollow eyes. "Rememberest thou naught, Nothing regrettest, nothing holdst in grief Of all our joy together ere that thief Came rifling in?" For all her answer she Lookt long upon him, long and earnestly; And misty grew her eyes, and slowly filled. Slowly the great tears brimmed, and slowly rilled Adown her cheeks. So presently she hid Those wells of grief, and hung her lovely head; And he had no more words, but only a cry At heart too deep for utterance, and too high For tears.

And now came Paris from the house Into the sun, rosy and amorous, As when the sun himself from the sea-rim Lifteth, and gloweth on the earth grown dim With waiting; and he piped a low clear call As mellow as the thrush's at the fall Of day from some near thicket. At whose sound Rose up caught Helen and blushing turned her round To face him; but in going, ere she met The prince, her hand along the parapet She trailed, palm out, for sign to who below Rent at himself, nor had the wit to know In that dumb signal eloquence, and hope Therein beyond his sick heart's utmost scope. Throbbing he stood as when a quick-blown peat, Now white, now red, burns inly--O wild heat, O ravenous race of men, who'd barter Space And Time for one short snatch of instant grace! Withal, next day, drawn by his dear desire, When as the young green burned like emerald fire In the cold light, back to the tryst he came; But she was sooner there, and called his name Softly as cooing dove her bosom's mate; And showed her eyes to him, which half sedate To be so sought revealed her, half in doubt Lest he should deem her bold to meet the bout With too much readiness. But high he flaunted Her name towards the sky. "Thou God-enchanted, Thou miracle of dawn, thou Heart of the Rose, Hail thou!" On his own eloquence he grows The lover he proclaims. "O love," he saith, "I would not leave thee for a moment's breath, Nor once these ten long years had left thy side Had it been possible to stay!" She sighed, She wondered o'er his face, she looked her fill, Museful, still doubting, smiling half, athrill, All virgin to his praise. "O wonderful," She said, "Such store of love for one so foul As I am now!" O fatal hot-and-cold, O love, whose iris wings not long can hold The upper air! Sudden her thought smote hot On him. "Thou sayest! True it is, God wot! Warm from his bed, and tears for thy unworth; Warm from his bed, and tears to meet my mirth; Then back to his bed ere yet thy tears be dry!" She heard not, but she knew his agony Of burning vision, and kept back her tears Until his pity moved in tune with hers Towards herself. But he from thunderous brows Frowned on. "No more I see thee by this house, Except to slay thee when the hour decree An end to this vile nest of cuckoldry And holy vows made hateful, save thou speak To each my question sooth. Keep dry thy cheek From tears, hide up thy beauty with thy grief-- Or let him have his joy of them, thy thief, What time he may. Answer me thou, or vain Till thine hour strike to look for me again." With hanging head and quiet hanging hands, With lip atremble, as caught in fault she stands, Scarce might he hear her whispered message: "Ask, Lord, and I answer thee." Strung to his task: "Tell me now all," he said, "from that far day Whenas embracing thee, I stood to pray, And poured forth wine unto the thirsty earth To Zeus and to Poseidon, in whose girth Lie sea and land; to Gaia next, their spouse, And next to Heré, mistress of my house, Traitress, and thine, for grace upon my faring: For thou wert by to hear me, false arm bearing Upon my shoulder, glowing, lying cheek Next unto mine. Ay, and thou prayedst, with meek Fair seeming, prosperous send-off and return. Tell me what then, tell all, and let me learn With what pretence that dog-souled slaked his thirst In thy sweet liquor. Tell me that the first." Then Helen lifted up her head, and beamed Clear light upon him from her eyes, which seemed That blue which, lying on the white sea-bed And gazing up, the sunbeam overhead Would show, with green entinctured, and the warp Inwoven of golden shafts, blended yet sharp; So that a glory mild and radiant Transfigured them. Upon him fell aslant That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke It was as if the nightingale should croak In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak, So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak Dry matter and hard logic--as if she Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea Which was not hers to make; or as one faint And desperate lays down all his argument Like bricks upon a field, let who will make A house of them; so drily Helen spake With a flat voice. "Thou hadst been nine days gone, Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son, And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat, And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at I gave as fitting was. Then came the day I was beguiled. What more is there to say?" Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall Her eyes were. But the King said: "Tell me all. Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled, Or by thine own?" She shook her head and smiled Most sadly, pitying herself. "Who knoweth The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved Me then, and pleasured only where I moved About the house. And I had pleasure too To know of me he had it. Then we knew The day at hand when he must take the road And leave me; and its eve we close abode Within the house, and spake not. But I wept." She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept: "I was beguiled, beguiled." And then her lip She bit, and rueful showed her partnership In sinful dealing. But he, in his esteem Bleeding and raw, urged on. "To Kranai's deme He took thee then?" Speechless she bent her head Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played, And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade. So gazing, stood she silent, but the King Urged on. "From thence to Ilios, thou willing, He took thee?" Then, "I was beguiled," again She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night The low clouds break and shafted shows the light. "Ten years beguiled!" he said, "but now it seems Thou art----" She shook her head. "Nay, now come dreams; Nay, now I think, remember, now I see." "What callest thou to mind?" "Hermione," She said, "our child, and Sparta my own land, And all the honour that lay to my hand Had I but chosen it, as now I would"-- And sudden hid her face up in her hood, Her courage ebbed in grief, all hardness drowned In bitter weeping. Noble pity crowned The greater man in him; so for a space They wept together, she for loss; for grace Of gain wept he. "No more," he said, "my sweet, Tell me no more." "Ah, hear the whole of it Before my hour is gone," she cried. But he Groaning, "I dare not stay here lest I see Him take thee again." Both hands to fold her breast, She shook her head; like as the sun through mist Shone triumph in her eyes. "Have no more fear Of him or any----" Then, hearing a stir Within the house, her finger toucht her lip, And one fixt look she gave of fellowship Assured--then turned and quickly went her way; And his light vanisht with her for that day.

FOURTH STAVE

THE APOLOGY OF HELEN

O singing heart, O twice-undaunted lover! O ever to be blest, twice blest moreover! Twice over win the world in one girl's eyes, Twice over lift her name up to the skies; Twice to hope all things, so to be twice born-- For he lives not who cannot front the morn Saying, "This day I live as never yet Lived striving man on earth!" What if the fret Of loss and ten years' agonizing snow Thy hairs or leave their tracery on thy brow, Each line beslotted by the demon hounds Hunting thee down o' nights? Laugh at thy wounds, Laugh at thy eld, strong lover, whose blood flows Clear from the fountain, singing as it goes, "She loves, and so I live and shall not die! Love on, love her: 'tis immortality." Once more before the sun he greeted her: She glowed her joy; her mood was calm and clear As mellow evening's whenas, like a priest, Rain has absolved the world, and golden mist Hangs over all like benediction. In her proud eyes sat triumph on a throne, To know herself beloved, her lover by, So near the consummation. Womanly She dallied with the moment when, all wife, Upon his breast she'd lie and cast her life, Cast body, soul and spirit in one gest Supreme of giving. Glorying in his quest Of her, now let her hide what he must glean, But not know yet. Ah, sweet to feel his keen Long eye-search, like the touch of eager fingers, And sweet to thrill beneath such hot blush-bringers; To fence with such a swordsman hazardous And sweet. "Belov'd, thou art glad of me!" Then thus Antiphonal to him she breathes, "Thou sayest!" "I see thy light and hail it!" "Thou begayest My poor light." "Knowest thou not that thou art loved?" "And am I loved then?" "If thou'ldst have it proved, Look in my eyes. Would thine were open book!" "Palimpsest I," she said, and would not look. But he was grappling now with truth, would have it, What though it cost him all his gain. She gave it, Looking him along. "O lady mine," he said, "Now are my clouds disperséd every shred; For thou art mine; I think thou lovest me. Speak, is that true?" She could not, or may be She would not hold her gaze, but let it fall, And watched her fingers idling on the wall, And so remained; but urged to it by the spell He cast, she whispered down, "I cannot tell Thee here, and thus apart"--which when he had In its full import drove him well-nigh mad With longing. "Call me and I come!" But fear Flamed in her eyes: "No, no, 'tis death! He's here At hand. 'Tis death for thee, and worse than death--" She ended so--"for both of us." And breath Failed him, for well he knew now what she meant, And sighed his thanks to Gods beneficent. Thereafter in sweet use of lovers' talk, In boon spring weather, whenas lovers walk Handfasted through the meadows pied, and wet With dew from flower and leaf, these lovers met-- Two bodies separate, one wild heart between, Day after day, these two long-severed been; And of this mating of the eye and tongue There grew desire passionate and strong For body's mating and its testimony, Hearts' intimacy, perfect, full and free. And Helen for her heart's ease did deny Her girdled Goddess of the beamy eye, Saying, "Come you down, Mistress of sleek loves And panting nights: your service of bought doves And honey-hearted wine may cost too dear. What hast thou done for me since first my ear With thy sly music thou didst sign and seal Apprentice to thy mystery, teach me feel Thy fierce divinity in the trembling touch Of open lips? Served I not thee too much In Kranai and in Sparta my demesne, Too much in wide-wayed Ilios, Eastern Queen? Yes, but it was too much a thousandfold, For what was I but leman bought and sold? "For woman craved what mercy hath man brought, What face a woman for a woman sought? What mercy or what face? And what saith she, The hunted, scornéd wretch? Boast that she be Coveted, hankered, spat on? One to gloat, The rest to snarl without! If man play goat, What must she play? Her glory is it to draw On greedy eye, sting greedy lip and paw, And find the crown of her desire therein? Hath she no rarer bliss than all this sin, Is she for dandling, kissing, hidden up For hungry hands to stroke or lips to sup? Hath she then nothing of her own, no mirth In honesty, nor eyes to worship worth, Nor pride except in that which makes men dogs, Nor loathing for the vice wherein, like logs That float beneath the sun, lie fair women Submiss, inert receptacles for sin? Is this her all? Hath she no heart, nor care Therefor? No womb, nor hope therein to bear Fruit of her heart's insurgence? Is her face, Are these her breasts for fondling, not to grace Her heart's high honour, swell to nurture it, That it too grow? Hath she no mother-wit, Nor sense for living things and innocent, Nor leap of joy for this good world's content Of sun and wind, of flower and leaf, and song Of bird, or shout of children as they throng The world of mated men and women? Nay, Persuade me not, O Kypris; but I say Evil hath been the lore which thou hast taught-- For many have loved my face, and many sought My breast, and thought it joy supping thereat Sweetness and dear delight; but out of that What hath there come to them, to me and all Mine but hot shame? Not milk, but bitter gall."