Chapter 6

There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce, Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears, Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall Went out and shot her gaze into the murk Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift, But idly, waiting always for some lift In the close-wrapping fog that might discover The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover-- Lover and husband, master and lord of life, Coming at last to take a slave to wife. And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start, And thankt the Goddess for the balm they brought. Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought By hope and care and waiting, she was mild And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds Time past or time to come, but fills all needs With present kindness. She would laugh and talk, Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk The terrace 'neath the eyes of all her fate, And seem to heed what they might show or prate, As if her whole heart's heart were in this house And not at fearful odds and perilous. And should one speak of Paris, as to say, "Would that our lord might see thee go so gay About his house!" Gently she'd bend her head Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise, Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise Lit like a butterfly and quivered there. Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere At council with the chieftains, into the hall To Helen there, was come, adventuring all, Odysseus in the garb of countryman, A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip, And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came And louted low, and hailed her by her name, Among her maidens easy to be known, Though not so tall as most, and not full blown To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose; But like a summer wave her bosom flows Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face Seems pious as the moon in a blue space Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue Of early morning, gray through mist of blue. Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed Queen of them all, but by the right expressed In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold Upon her lips which Gods have. Nay, not cold, Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say All in a sigh, and with one word betray The passion of thy heart! But who can wis The fainting piercing message of thy kiss? O blest initiate--let him live to tell Thy godhead, show himself thy miracle! But when she saw him there with his head bowed And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed, And broad across the iris swam the black Until her eyes showed darkling. "Friend, your lack Tell me," she said, "and what is mine to give Is yours; but little my prerogative Here in this house, where I am not the queen You call me, but another name, I ween, Serves me about the country you are of, Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love. Yet are we all alike in evil plight, And should be tender of each other's right, And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done Upon us. Have you wife and little one Hungry at home? Have you a son afield? Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford To serve...." He said, "Nay, you can sheathe the sword, Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy. Lady, I come to end this war of Troy In your good pleasure." With her steady eyes Unwinking fixt, "Let you and me devise," Said she, "this happy end of bow and spear, So shall we serve the land. You have my ear; Speak then." "But so," he said, "these maidens have it. But we save Troy alone, or never save it." Turning she bid them leave her with a nod, And they obeyed. Swift then and like a God She seemed, with bright all-knowing eyes and calm Gesture of high-held head, and open palm To greet. "Laertes' son, what news bringst thou?" "Lady," he said, "the best. The hour is now. We stand within the heaven-establisht walls, We gird the seat. Within an hour it falls, The seat divine of Dardanos and Tros, After our ten years' travail and great loss Of heroes not yet rested, but to rest Soon." Then she laid her hand upon her breast To stay it. "Who are ye that stand here-by?" "Desperate men," he said, "prepared to die If thou wilt have it so. Chief is there none Beside the ships but Nestor. All are gone Forth in the Horse. Under thy covering hand Thou holdest all Achaia. Here we stand, Epeios, Pyrrhos, Antiklos, with these Cretan Idomeneus, Meriones, Aias the Lokrian, Teukros, Diomede Of the loud war-cry, next thy man indeed, Golden-haired Menelaus the robbed King, And Agamemnon by him, and I who bring This news and must return to take what lot Thou choosest us; for all is thine, God wot, To end or mend, to make or mar at will." A weighty utterance, but she heard the thrill Within her heart, and listened only that-- To know her love so near. So near he sat Hidden when she that toucht the Horse's flank Could have toucht him! "Odysseus!" her voice sank To the low tone of the soft murmuring dove That nests and broods, "Odysseus, heard my love My whisper of his name when close I stood And stroked the Horse?" "I heard and understood," He said, "and Lokrian Aias would have spoken Had I not clapt a hand to his mouth--else broken By garish day had been our house of dream, And our necks too. I heard a woman scream Near by and cry upon the Ruinous Face, But none made answer to her." Nought she says To that but "I am ready; let my lord Come when he will. Humbly I wait his word." "That word I bring," Odysseus said, "he comes. Await him here." Her wide eyes were the homes Of long desire. "Ah, let me go with thee Even as I am; from this dark house take me While Paris is abroad!" He shook his head. "Not so, but he must find thee here abed-- And Paris here." The light died out; a mask Of panic was her face, what time her task Stared on a field of white horror like blood: "Here! But there must be strife then!" "Well and good," Said he. Then she, shivering and looking small, "And one must fall?" she said; he, "One must fall." Reeling she turned her pincht face other way And muttered with her lips, grown cold and gray, Then fawning came at him, and with her hands Besought him, but her voice made no demands, Only her haunted eyes were quick, and prayed, "Ah, not to fall through me!" "By thee," he said, "The deed is to be done." She droopt adown Her lovely head; he heard her broken moan, "Have I not caused enough of blood-shedding, And enough women's tears? Is not the sting Sharp enough of the knife within my side?" No more she could. Then he, "Think not to avoid The lot of man, who payeth the full price For each deed done, and riddeth vice by vice: Such is the curse upon him. The doom is By God decreed, that for thy forfeit bliss In Sparta thou shalt pay the price in Troy, Dishonour for lost honour, pain for joy; By what hot thought impelled, by that alone Win back; by violence violence atone. If by chicane thou fleddest, by chicane Win back thy blotted footprints. Out again With all thine arts of kisses slow and long, Of smiles and stroking hands, and crooning song Whenas full-fed with love thou lulledst asleep; Renew thine eyebright glances, whisper and creep And twine about his neck thy wreathing arms: As we with spears so do thou with thy charms, Arm thee and wait the hour of fire and smoke To purge this robbery. Paris by the stroke Of him he robbed shall wash out his old cheat In blood, and thou, woman, by new deceit Of him redeem thy first. For thus God saith, Traitress, thou shalt betray thy thief to death." He ceased, and she by misery made wild And witless, shook, and like a little child Gazed piteous, and asked, "What must I do?" He answered, "Hold him by thee, falsely true, Until the King stand armed within the house Ready to take his blood-price. Even thus, By shame alone shalt thou redeem thy shame." And now she claspt his knee and cried his name: "Mercy! I cannot do it. Let me die Sooner than go to him so. What, must I lie With one and other, make myself a whore, And so go back to Sparta, nevermore To hold my head up level with my slaves, Nor dare to touch my child?" Said he, "Let knaves Deal knavishly till freedom they can win; And so let sinners purge themselves of sin." Then fiercely looking on her where she croucht Fast by his knees, his whole mind he avoucht: "How many hast thou sent the way of death By thy hot fault? What ghosts like wandering breath Shudder and wail unhouseled on the plain, Shreds of Achaian honour? What hearts in pain Cry the night through? What souls this very night Fare forth? Art thou alone to sup delight, Alone to lap in pleasantness, who first And only, with thy lecher and his thirst, Wrought all the harm? Only for thy smooth sake Did Paris reive, and Menelaus ache, And Hector die ashamed, and Peleus' son Stand to the arrow, and Aias Telamon Find madness and self-murder for the crown Of all his travail?" He eyed her up and down Sternly, as measuring her worth in scorn. "Not thus may traffic any woman born While men endure cold nights and burning days, Hunger and wretchedness." She stands, she says, "Enough--I cannot answer. Tell me plain What I must do." "At dark," he said, "we gain The Gates and open them. A trumpet's blast Will sound the entry of the host. Hold fast Thy Paris then. We storm the citadel, High Pergamos; that won, the horn will tell The sack begun. But hold thou Paris bound Fast in thine arms. Once more the horn shall sound. That third is doom for him. Release him then." All blank she gazed. "Unarmed to face armed men?" "Unarmed," he said, "to meet his judgment day."

Now was thick silence broken; now no way For her to shift her task nor he his fate. Keenly she heeds. "'Tis Paris at the gate! What now? Whither away? Where wilt thou hide?" He lookt her in the face. "Here I abide What he may do. Was it not truth I spake That all Hellas lay in thy hand? Now take What counsel or what comfort may avail." Paris stood in the door and cried her Hail. "Hail to thee, Rose of the World!" then saw the man, And knit his brows upon him, close to scan His features; but Odysseus had his hood Shadowing his face. Some time the Trojan stood Judging, then said, "Thou seek'st? What seekest thou?" "A debt is owed me. I seek payment now." So he was told; but he drew nearer yet. "I would know more of thee and of thy debt," He said. And then Odysseus, "This thy strife Hath ruined all my fields which are my life, Brought murrain on my beasts, cold ash to my hearth, Emptiness to my croft. Hunger and dearth, Are these enough? Who pays me?" Then Paris, "I pay, but first will know what man it is I am to pay, and in what kind." So said, Snatching the hood, he whipt it from his head And lookt and knew the Ithacan. "Now by Zeus, Treachery here!" He swung his sword-arm loose Forth of his cloak and set hand to his sword; But Helen softly called him: "Hath my lord No word of greeting for his bondwoman?" Straightway he went to her, and left the man, And took her in his arms, and held her close. And light of foot, Odysseus quit the house.

ELEVENTH STAVE

THE BEGUILING OF PARIS

Now Paris tipt her chin and turned her face Upwards to his that fondly he might trace The beauty of her budded lips, and stoop And kiss them softly; and fingered in the loop That held her girdle, and closer pressed, on fire, Towards her; for her words had stung desire Anew; and wooing in his fond boy's way, Whispered and lookt his passion; then to pray Began: "Ah, love, long strange to me, behold Thy winter past, and come the days of gold And pleasance of the spring! For in thine eyes I see his light and hail him as he flies! Nay, cloud him not, nor veil him"--for she made To turn her face, saying, "Ah, let them fade: The soul thou prisonest here is grayer far." But he would give no quarter now. "O star, O beacon-star, shine on me in the night That I may wash me in thy bath of light, Taking my fill of thee; so cleanséd all And healed, I rise renewed to front what call May be!" which said, with conquest in his bones And in his eyes assurance, in high tones He called her maids, bade take her and prepare The couch, and her to be new-wedded there; For long had they been strangers to their bliss. So by the altar standeth she submiss And watchful, praying silent and intense To a strange-figured Goddess, to his sense Who knew but Aphrodité. "Love, what now? Who is thy God? What secret rite hast thou?" For grave and stern above that altar stood Heré the Queen of Heaven. In dry mood She answered him, "Chaste wives to her do pray Before they couch, Blest be the strife! You say We are to be new-wedded. Pour with me Libation that we love not fruitlessly." So said, she took the well-filled cup and poured, And prayed, saying, "O Mother, not abhorred Be this my service of thee. Count it not Offence, nor let my prayers be forgot When reckoning comes of things done and not done By me thy child, or to me, hapless one, Unloving paramour and unloved wife!" "Heré, to thee for issue of the strife!" Cried Paris then, and poured. So Helen went And let her maids adorn her to his bent.

Then took he joy of her, and little guessed Or cared what she might give or get. Possest Her body by his body, but her mind Searcht terribly the issue. As one blind Explores the dark about him in broad day And fingers in the air, so as she lay Lax in his arms, her fainting eyes, aglaze For terror coming, sought escape all ways. Alas for her! What way for woman fair, Whose joy no fairer makes her than despair? Her burning lips that kisses could not cool, Her beating heart that not love made so full, The surging of her breast, her clinging hands: Here are such signs as lover understands, But fated Paris nowise. Her soul, distraught To save him, proved the net where he was caught. For more she anguisht lest love be his bane The fiercelier spurred she him, to make him fain Of that which had been ruinous to all. But all the household gathered on the wall While these two in discordant bed were plight, And watcht the Achaian fires. No beacon-light Showed by the shore, but countless, flickering, streamed Innumerable lights, wove, dipt and gleamed Like fireflies on a night of summer heat, Withal one way they moved, though many beat Across and back, and mingled with the rest. Anon a great glare kindled from the crest Of Ida, and was answered by a blaze Behind the ships, which threw up in red haze Huge forms of prow and beak. Then from the Mound Of Ilos fire shot up, from sacred ground, And out the mazy glory of moving lights One sped and flared, as of the meteorites In autumn some fly further, brighter courses. A chariot! They heard the thunder of the horses; And as they flew the torch left a bright wake. And thus to one another woman spake, "Lo, more lights race! They follow him, they near, Catch and draw level. Hark! Now you can hear The tramp of men!" Says one, "That baleful sheen Is light upon their spears. The Greeks, I ween, Are coming up to rescue or requite." But then her mate: "They mass, they fill the night With panic terror." True, that all night things Fled as they came. They heard the flickering wings Of countless birds in haste, and as they flew So fled the dark away. Light waxed and grew Until the dead of night was vivified And radiant opened out the countryside With pulsing flames of fire, which gleamed and glanced, Flickered, wavered, yet never stayed advance. As the sun rising high o'er Ida cold Beats a sea-path in flakes of molten gold, So stretcht from shore to Troy that litten stream That moved and shuddered, restless as a dream, Yet ever nearing, till on spear and shield They saw light like the moon on a drowned field, And in the glare of torches saw and read Gray faces, like the legions of the dead, Silent about the walls, and waiting there. But in the fragrant chamber Helen the fair Lay close in arms, and Paris slept, his head Upon her bosom, deep as any dead.

Sudden there smote the blast of a great horn, Single, long-held and shuddering, and far-borne; And then a deathless silence. Paris stirred On that soft pillow, and listened while they heard Many men running frantically, with feet That slapt the stones, and voices in the street Of question and call--"Oh, who are ye that run? What of the night?" "O peace!" And some lost one Wailed like a woman, and her a man did curse, And there were scuffling, prayers, and then worse-- A silence. But the running ended not While Paris lay alistening with a knot Of Helen's loose hair twisting round his finger. "O love," he murmured low, "I may not linger. The street's awake. Alas, thou art too kind To be a warrior's bride." Sighing, she twined Her arm about his neck and toucht his face, And pressed it gently back to its warm place Of pillowing. And Paris kissed her breast And slept; but her heart's riot gave no rest As quaking there she lay, awaiting doom. Then afar off rose clamour, and the room Was fanned with sudden light and sudden dark, As on a summer night in a great park Blazed forth you see each tuft of grass or mound, Anon the drowning blackness, while the sound Of Zeus's thunder hardens every close: So here the chamber glared, then dipt, and rose That far confuséd tumult, and now and then The scurrying feet of passion-driven men. Thrilling she waited with sick certainty Of doom inexorable, while the struck city Fought its death-grapple, and the windy height Of Pergamos became a shambles. White The holy shrines stared on a field of blood, And with blank eyes the emptied temples stood While murder raved before them, and below And all about the city ran the woe Of women for their children. Then the flame Burst in the citadel, and overcame The darkness, and the time seemed of broad day. And Helen stared unwinking where she lay Pillowing Paris. Now glad and long and shrill The second trumpet sounds. They have the hill-- High Troy is down, is down! Starting, he wakes And turns him in her arms. His face she takes In her two hands and turns it up to hers. Nothing she says, nothing she does, nor stirs From her still scrutiny, nor so much as blinks Her eyes, deep-searching, of whose blue he drinks, And fond believes her all his own, while she Marvels that aught of his she e'er could be In times bygone. But now he is on fire Again, and urges on her his desire, And loses all the sense of present needs For him in burning Troy, where Priam bleeds Head-smitten, trodden on his palace-floor, And white Kassandra yieldeth up her flower To Aias' lust, and of the Dardan race Survive he only, renegade disgrace, He only and Aineias the wise prince. But now is crying fear abroad and wins The very household of the shameful lover; Now are the streets alive, for worse in cover Like a trapt rat to die than fight the odds Under the sky. Now women shriek to the Gods, And men run witlessly, and in and out The Greeks press, burning, slaying, and the rout Screameth to Heaven. As at sea the mews Pack, their wings battling, when some fresh wrack strews The tideway, and in greater haste to stop Others from prey, will let their morsel drop, And all the while make harsh lament--so here The avid spoilers bickered in their fear To be manœuvred out of robbery, And tore the spoil, and mangled shamefully Bodies of men to strip them, and in haste To forestall ravishers left the victims chaste. Ares, the yelling God, and Até white Swept like a snow-storm over Troy that night; And towers rockt, and in the naked glare Of fire the smoke climbed to the upper air; And clamour was as of the dead broke loose. But Menelaus his stern way pursues, And to the wicked house with chosen band Cometh, his good sword naked in his hand; And now, while Paris loves and holds her fast In arms, the third horn sounds a shattering blast, Long-held, triumphant; and about the door Gathers the household, to cry, to pray, to implore, And at the last break in and scream the truth-- "The Greeks! The Greeks! Save yourselves!" Then in sooth Starts Paris out of bed, and as he goes Sees in the eyes of Helen all she knows And all believes; and with his utter loss Of her rises the man in him that was Ere luxury had entered blood and bone Of him. No word he said, but let one groan, And turned his dying eyes to hers, and read Therein his fate, that to her he was dead, Long dead and cold in grave. Whereat he past Out of the door, and met his end at last As man, not minion. But the woman fair Lay on her face, half buried in her hair, Naked and prone beneath her saving sin, Not yet enheartened new life to begin.

ENVOY