Chapter 3

So in her high passion she rent herself And rocked, or hid her face upon the shelf Of the grim wall, lest he should see the whole Inexpiable sorrow of her soul. But he by pity pure made bountiful Lent her excuse, by every means to lull Her agony. Said he, "Of mortals who Can e'er withstand the way she wills them to, Kypris the forceful Goddess? Nay, dear child, Thou wert constrained." She said, "I was beguiled And clung to him until the day-dawn broke When I could read as in the roll of a book His open heart. And then my own heart reeled To know him craven, dog, not man, revealed A panting drudge of lust, who held me here Caged vessel. Nay, come close. I loved him dear, Too dear, I know; but never till he came Had known the leap of joy, the fire of flame Upon the heart he gave me, Paris the bright, Whose memory was music and his sight Fragrance, whose nearness made my footfall dance, Whose touch was fever, and his burning glance Faintness and blindness; in whose light my life Centred; who was the sun, and I, false wife, The foolish flower that turns whereso he wheels Over the broad earth's canopy, and steals Colour from his strong beam, but at the last Whenas the night comes and the day is past Droops, burnt at the heart. So loved I him, and so Waxed bold to dare the deed that brought this woe." And there she changed, and bitter was her cry: "Ah, lord, far better had it been to die Ere I had cast this pain on thee, and shame On me, and wrought such outrage on our name. Natheless I live----" "Ay, and give life!" he said; "Yet this thing more I'd have thee tell--what led Thy thought to me? From him, what turned thy troth-- Such troth as there could be?" She cried, "The oath! The oath ye sware before the Lords of Heaven, The sacrifice, the pledges taken and given When thou and Paris met upon the plain, And all the host sat down to watch you twain Do battle, which should have me. For my part, They took me forth to watch; as in the mart A heifer feels the giver of the feast Pinch in her flank, and hears the chaffer twist This way and that for so much fat or lean-- Even so was I, a queen, child of a queen." She bit her lip until the blood ran free, And in her eyes he markt deep injury Scald as the salt tears welled; but "Listen yet," She said: "Ye fought, and Paris fell beset Under thy spurning heel, yet felt no whit The bitterness as I must come to it; For she, his Goddess, hid him up in mists And brought him beat and broken from the lists Here to his chamber. But I stood and burned, Shameful to be by one lost, by one earned, A prize for games, a slave, a bandied thing-- Since as the oath was made so must I swing From bed to bed. But while I stood and wept, Melted in fruitless sorrow, up she crept For me, his Goddess, gliding like a snake, Who wreathed her arms and whispering me go make The nuptial couch, 'What oath binds love?' did say. Loathing him, I must go. He had his way, As well he might who paid that goodly price, Honour, truth, courage, all, to have his vice: The which forsook him when those fair things fled; For though my body hath lain in his bed, My heart abhors it. And now in truth I wis My lord's true heart is where my own heart is, The two together welded and made whole; And I will go to him and give my soul And shamed and faded body to his nod, To spurn or take; and he shall be my God." Whereat made virgin, as all women are By love's white purging fire which leaves no scar Where all was soiled and seamed before the torch Of Eros toucht the heart, and the keen scorch Lickt up the foul misuse of vase so fair As woman's body, Helen flusht and fair Leaned from the wall a fire-hued seraph's face And in one rapt long look gave and took Grace. Deep in her eyes he saw the light divine, Quick in him ran fierce joy of it like wine: Light unto light made answer, as a flag Answers when men tell tidings from one crag Unto another, and from peak to peak The good news flashes. Scarcely could he speak Measurable words, so high his wild thought whirled: "Bride, Goddess, Helen, O Wonder of the World, Shall I come for thee?" Her tender words came soft As dropping rose petals on garden croft Down from the wall's sheer height--"Come soon, come soon." And homing to the lines those drummed his tune.

FIFTH STAVE

A COUNCIL OF THE ACHAIANS: THE EMBASSY OF ODYSSEUS

Now calleth he assembly of the chiefs, Princes and kings and captains, them whose griefs To ease his own like treasure had been lent; Who came and sat at board within the tent Of him they hailed host-father and their lord For this adventure, in aught else abhorred Of all true men. He sits above the rest, The fox-red Agamemnon, round his crest The circlet of his kingship over kings, And at his thigh the sword gold-hilted swings Which Zeus gave Atreus once; and in his heart That gnawing doubt which twice had checkt his start For high emprise, having twice egged him to it, As stout Odysseus knew who had to rue it. Beside him Nestor sat, Nestor the old, White as the winter moon, with logic cold Instilled, as if the blood in him had fled And in his veins clear spirit ran instead, Which made men reasons and not fired their sprites. And next Idomeneus of countless fights, Shrewd leader of the Cretans; by his side Keen-flashing Diomedes in his pride, The young, the wild in onset, whose war-shrill, Next after Peleus' son's, held all Troy still, And stayed the gray crows at their ravelling Of dead men's bones. Into debate full fling Went he, adone with tapping of the foot And drumming on the board. Had but his suit Been granted--so he said--the war were done And Troy a name ere full three years had gone: For as for Helen and her daintiness, Troy held a mort of women who no less Than she could pleasure night when work was over And men came home ready to play the lover; And in housework would better her. Let Helen Be laid by Paris, villain, and dead villain-- Dead long ago if he had taken the field Instead of Menelaus. Then no shield Had Kypris' golden body been, acquist With his sword-arm already, near the wrist! So Diomedes. Next him sat a man With all his woe to come, the Lokrian Aias, son of Oïleus, bearded swart, Pale, with his little eyes, and legs too short And arms too long, a giant when he sat, Dwarf else, and in the fight a tiger-cat. But mark his neighbour, mark him well: to him Falleth the lot to lay a charge more grim On woman fair than even Althaia felt Like lead upon her heartstrings, when she knelt And blew to flame the brand that held the life Of her own son; or Procne with the knife, Who slew and dressed her child to be a meal To his own father. But this man's thews were steel, And steely were the nerves about his heart, As they had need. Mark him, and mark the part He plays hereafter. Odysseus is his name, The wily Ithacan, deathless in his fame And in his substance deathless, since he goes Immortal forth and back wherever blows The thunder of thy rhythm, O blind King, First of the tribe of them with songs to sing, Fountain of storied music and its end-- For who the poet since who doth not tend To essay thy leaping measure, or call down Thy nodded approbation for his crown And all his wages? Other chiefs sat there In order due: as Pyrrhos, very fair And young, with high bright colour, and the hue Of evening in his eyes of violet-blue-- Son of Achilles he, and new to war. Then Antiklos and Teukros, best by far Of all the bowmen in the host. And last Menestheus the Athenian dikast, Who led the folk from Pallas's fair home. To them spake Menelaus, being come Into assembly last, and taken in hand The spokesman's staff: "Ye princes of our land, Adventurous Achaians, stout of heart, Good news I bring, that now we may depart Each to his home and kindred, each to his hearth And wife and children dear and well-tilled garth, Contented with the honour he has brought To me and mine, since I have what we've sought With bitter pain and loss. Yea, even now Hath Heré crowned your strife and earned my vow Made these ten years come harvest, having drawn The veil from off those eyes than which not dawn Holds sweeter light nor holier, once they see. Yea, chieftains, Helen's heart comes back to me; And fast she watches now hard by the wall Of the wicked house, and ere the cock shall call Another morn I have her in my arms Redeemed for Sparta, pure of Trojan harms, Whole-hearted and clean-hearted as she came First, before Paris and his deed of shame Threatened my house with wreck, and on his own Have brought no joy. This night, disguised, alone, I stand within the city, waiting day; Then when men sleep, all in the shadowless gray, Robbing the robber, I drop down with her Over the wall--and lo! the end of the war!" Thus great of heart and high of heart he spake, And trembling ceased. Awhile none cared to break The silence, like unto that breathless hush That holds a forest ere the great winds rush Up from the sea-gulf, bringing furious rain Like mist to drown all nature, blot the plain In one great sheet of water without form. So held the chiefs. Then Diomede brake in storm. Ever the first he was to fling his spear Into the press of battle; dread his cheer, Like the long howling of a wolf at eve Or clamour of the sea-birds when they grieve And hanker the out-scouring of the net Hidden behind the darkness and the wet Of tempest-ridden nights. "Princes," he cried, "What say ye to this wooer of his bride, For whom it seems ten nations and their best Have fought ten years to bring her back to nest? Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this You flung forth fortune--to ensure him his? And he made snug at home, we seek our lands Barer than we left them, with emptier hands, And some with fewer members, shed that he Might fare as soft and trim as formerly! Not so went I adventuring, good friend; Not so look I this business to have end: Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight, And so will live by day as thou by night, Sating my eyes with havoc on this race Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place Brought level with the herbage and the weed, That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed, And moles make palaces, and bats keep house. And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse As quit thy score by thieving from a thief And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief For Tydeus' son, who sees no end of strife But in his own or in his foeman's life." So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: "By that great shade Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made Who slew my father, think not so to have done With Troy and Priam; for Peleides' son Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast, Murdered and unacquit while that man's father Liveth." Then leapt up two, and both together Cried, "Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!" And Aias said, "Are there no women then In Troy, but only her? And are we men Or virgins of Athené?" And the dream Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam His shifting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips Behind his beard. Then stood that prince of ships And shipmen, great Odysseus; with one hand He held the staff, with one he took command; And thus in measured tones, with word intent Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement, Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight Clamour died down, even as the wind at night Falls and is husht at rising of the moon. "Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon Is strife of ten years rounded to a close, Neither so are men seated, friends or foes. For say thus lightly we renounced the meed Of our long travail, gave so little heed To our great dead as find in one man's joy Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy-- Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear, Stock without master, wasting year by year; Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs For sorrow, but the darkness covers all-- What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall, Or what beside a name, who let go by Ilios the rich for others' usury? And have the blessed Gods no say in this? Think you they be won over by a kiss-- Heré the Queen, she, the unwearied aid Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid? Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate, Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate, And for her towers abasement to the dust? Behold, O King, lust shall be paid with lust, And treachery with treachery, and for blood Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood Of our pent passion; break her gates in, raze The walls of her, cumber her pleasant ways With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil, Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things, Harness of flashing bronze, swords, meed of kings, Chariots and horses swifter than the wind Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall. So only shall ye close this agelong strife, Nor by redemption of a too fair wife, Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold, O Menelaus, may the tale be told! Nay, but by slaying of Achilles' slayer, By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer, By not withholding from the spoils of war Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall." He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all, Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum, One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb; One raging to be contraried, one torn By those two passions wherewith he was born, The lust for body's ease and lust of gain. Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men, Gentle his voice to hear. "Laertes' son," He said, but 'twas Nestor he looked upon, The wise old man who sat beside his chair, Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it, Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it From foe, or over friend made stronger claim: "Laertes' son," the king said, "all men's fame Reports thee just and fertile in device; And as the friend of God great is thy price To us of Argos; for without the Gods How should we look to trace the limitless roads That weave a criss-cross 'twixt us and our home? Go to now, some will stay and other some Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart, Not warfaring as men fare to the mart, To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout; But honour is the prize wherefor they go out, And having that, dishonoured are content To leave the foe--that is best punishment. Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth, Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth-- As if of blood enough had not been spilt!-- Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt, Noble Odysseus, seeking how compose His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer, Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her. Come, let this be the sum of our debate." "Content you," Menelaus said, "I wait Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus." Then said Odysseus, "Be it as you choose, Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say Let me win into Troy as best I may, Seek out the lovely lady of our land And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand The sentries, how the warders of the gates; The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits To crown our long endeavour. These things learned, Back to the ships I come ere yet are burned The watch-fires of the night, before the sun Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run Out of the golden gateways of the East." Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least.

SIXTH STAVE

HELEN AND PARIS; ODYSSEUS AND HELEN

Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors And windows open wide, wanders the floors And all the passage ways about the house, Keen marshal of the sun, or serious The cool gray light of morning 'gins to peer Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee Nor full-flood glory of the day to be When round about the hill the sun shall swim And burn a sea-path--so demure and slim Went Helen on her business with swift feet And light, yet recollected, and her sweet Secret held hid, that she was loved where need Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed-- Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, passion white Of lovers knit in Heré's holy light! But while in early morn she wonned alone And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone, And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes: Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies. Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred She paced the hall soft-footed up and down, Lightly and feverishly with quick frown Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird That on the winter grass is aye deterred His food-searching by hint of unknown snare In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare; Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide Beat from her heart against her shielded side-- Now closely girdled went she like a maid-- And then slipt to the window, where she stayed But minutes three or four; for soon she past Out to the terrace, there to be at last Downgazing on her glory, which her king Reflected up in every motioning And flux of his high passion. Only here She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess What deeds must do ere that could come to pass. To her the instant homage held all joy-- And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy Beside the bliss of that? Or Paris, what Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot To have risked all the world and ten years loved This woman, now to find her nothing moved By what he had done with her, what desired To do? And more she chilled the less he tired, And more he ventured less she cared recall What was to her of nothing worth, or all: All if the King required it of her, nought If he who now could take it. It was bought, And his by bargain: let him have it then; But let it be for giving once again, And all the rubies in the world's deep heart Could fetch no price beside it. Yet apart She brooded on the man who held her chained, Minister to his pleasure, and disdained Him more the more herself she must disparage, Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage, So old, incredible, so flat, so stale, No more to be recalled than old wife's tale; And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low, Not villain and not hero, who would go Midway 'twixt baseness and nobility, And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more Than all the world, and made his mind a whore To minister his heart's need, for a price. All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet, Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret; But lift on wings of her exalted mood, She let him touch and finger what he would, Unconscious of his being--as he saw, And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw Of his esteem, "Ah, cruel art thou turned," Would cry, "Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned, Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!" With which to clasp her closer was he fain, To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be The plucker of such chords of such a rote; And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat, Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done. "Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun My worship!" So he said; but she, "They fade, But are not yet so old as thou hast made The soul thou pinnest here beneath my breasts Which you have loved too well." His hand he rests Over one fair white bosom like a cup, And leaning, of her lips his own must sup; But she will not, but gently doth refuse it, Without a reason, save she doth not choose it. Then when he flung away, she sat alone And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one Perturbéd bosom; and her fingers wove White webs as far afield her wits did rove Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair, So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there, A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh. But all the while she writhed within the mesh Of circumstance, and fiercely flamed her rage: "O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage For this sleek master's handling!" So she fumed What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow, And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill That knew, which said, "A true man loveth me still."