Balaustion's Adventure/I

About that strangest, saddest, sweetest song I, when a girl, heard in Kameiros once, And, after, saved my life by? Oh, so glad To tell you the adventure!

Petalé, Phullis, Charopé, Chrusion! You must know, This "after" fell in that unhappy time When poor reluctant Nikias, pushed by fate, Went faulteringly against Syracuse; And there shamed Athens, lost her ships and men, And gained a grave, or death without a grave. I was at Rhodes — the isle, not Rhodes the town, Mine was Kameiros — when the news arrived: Our people rose in tumult, cried "No more Duty to Athens, let us join the League, And side with Sparta, share the spoil, — at worst, Abjure a headship that will ruin Greece!" And so, they sent to Knidos for a fleet To come and help revolters. Ere help came, — Girl as I was, and never out of Rhodes The whole of my first fourteen years of life, But nourished with Ilissian mother's-milk, — I passionately cried to who would hear And those who loved me at Kameiros — "No! Never throw Athens off for Sparta's sake — Never disloyal to the life and light Of the whole world worth calling world at all! Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretched For feet to trample on, before the gate Of Diomedes or the Hippadai, Before the temples and among the tombs, Than tolerate the grim felicity Of harsh Lakonia! Ours the fasts and feasts, Choës and Chutroi; ours the sacred grove, Agora, Dikasteria, Poikilé, Pnux, Keramikos; Salamis in sight, Psuttalia, Marathon itself, not far! Ours the great Dionusiac theatre, And tragic triad of immortal fames, Aischulos, Sophokles, Euripides! To Athens, all of us that have a soul, Follow me!" And I wrought so with my prayer, That certain of my kinsfolk crossed the strait And found a ship at Kaunos; well-disposed Because the Captain — where did he draw breath First but within Psuttalia? Thither fled A few like-minded as ourselves. We turned The glad prow westward, soon were out at sea, Pushing, brave ship with the vermilion cheek, Proud for our heart's true harbour. But a wind Lay ambushed by Point Malea of bad fame, And leapt out, bent us from our course. Next day Broke stormless, and so next blue day and next. "But whither bound in this white waste?" We plagued The pilot's old experience: "Cos or Crete?" Because he promised us the land ahead. While we strained eyes to share in what he saw, The Captain's shout startled us; round we rushed: What hung behind us but a pirate-ship Panting for the good prize! "Row! harder row! Row for dear life!" the Captain cried: "'t is Crete, Friendly Crete looming large there! Beat this craft That's but a keles, one-benched pirate-bark, Lokrian, or that bad breed off Thessaly! Only, so cruel are such water-thieves, No man of you, no woman, child, or slave, But falls their prey, once let them board our boat!" So, furiously our oarsmen rowed and rowed; And when the oars flagged somewhat, dash and dip, As we approached the coast and safety, so That we could hear behind us plain the threats And curses of the pirate panting up In one more throe and passion of pursuit, — Seeing our oars flag in the rise and fall, I sprang upon the altar by the mast And sang aloft, — some genius prompting me, — That song of ours which saved at Salamis: "O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free, Free your wives, free your children, free the fanes O' the Gods, your fathers founded, — sepulchres They sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost!" Then, in a frenzy, so the noble oars Churned the black water white, that well away We drew, soon saw land rise, saw hills grow up, Saw spread itself a sea-wide town with towers, Not fifty stadia distant; and, betwixt A large bay and a small, the islet-bar, Even Ortugia's self — oh, luckless we! For here was Sicily and Syracuse: We ran upon the lion from the wolf. Ere we drew breath, took counsel, out there came A galley, hailed us. "Who asks entry here In war-time? Are you Sparta's friend or foe?" "Kaunians," — our Captain judged his best reply, "The mainland-seaport that belongs to Rhodes; Rhodes that casts in her lot now with the League, Forsaking Athens, — you have heard belike!" "Ay, but we heard all Athens in one ode Just now! we heard her in that Aischulos! You bring a boatful of Athenians here, Kaunians although you be: and prudence bids, For Kaunos' sake, why, carry them unhurt To Kaunos, if you will: for Athens' sake, Back must you, though ten pirates blocked the bay! We want no colony from Athens here, With memories of Salamis, forsooth, To spirit up our captives, that pale crowd I' the quarry, whom the daily pint of corn Keeps in good order and submissiveness." Then the grey Captain prayed them by the Gods, And by their own knees, and their fathers' beards, They should not wickedly thrust suppliants back, But save the innocent on traffic bound — Or, may be, some Athenian family Perishing of desire to die at home, — From that vile foe still lying on its oars, Waiting the issue in the distance. Vain! Words to the wind! And we were just about To turn and face the foe, as some tired bird Barbarians pelt at, drive with shouts away From shelter in what rocks, however rude, She makes for, to escape the kindled eye, Split beak, crook'd claw o' the creature, cormorant Or ossifrage, that, hardly baffled, hangs Afloat i' the foam, to take her if she turn. So were we at destruction's very edge, When those o' the galley, as they had discussed A point, a question raised by somebody, A matter mooted in a moment, — "Wait!" Cried they (and wait we did, you may be sure) "That song was veritable Aischulos, Familiar to the mouth of man and boy, Old glory: how about Euripides? The newer and not yet so famous bard, He that was born upon the battle-day While that song and the salpinx sounded him Into the world, first sound, at Salamis — Might you know any of his verses too?"

Now, some one of the Gods inspired this speech: Since ourselves knew what happened but last year — How, when Gulippos gained his victory Over poor Nikias, poor Demosthenes, And Syracuse condemned the conquered force To dig and starve i' the quarry, branded them — Freeborn Athenians, brute-like in the front With horse-head brands, — ah, "Region of the Steed"! — Of all these men immersed in misery, It was found none had been advantaged so By aught in the past life he used to prize And pride himself concerning, — no rich man By riches, no wise man by wisdom, no Wiser man still (as who loved more the Muse) By storing, at brain's edge and tip of tongue, Old glory, great plays that had long ago Made themselves wings to fly about the world, — Not one such man was helped so at his need As certain few that (wisest they of all) Had, at first summons, oped heart, flung door wide At the new knocking of Euripides, Nor drawn the bolt with who cried "Decadence! And, after Sophokles, be nature dumb!" Such, — and I see in it God Bacchos' boon To souls that recognized his latest child, He who himself, born latest of the Gods, Was stoutly held impostor by mankind, — Such were in safety: any who could speak A chorus to the end, or prologize, Roll out a rhesis, wield some golden length Stiffened by wisdom out into a line. Or thrust and parry in bright monostich, Teaching Euripides to Syracuse — Any such happy man had prompt reward: If he lay bleeding on the battle-field They staunched his wounds and gave him drink and food; If he were slave i' the house, for reverence They rose up, bowed to who proved master now, And bade him go free, thank Euripides! Ay, and such did so: many such, he said, Returning home to Athens, sought him out, The old bard in the solitary house, And thanked him ere they went to sacrifice. I say, we knew that story of last year!

Therefore, at mention of Euripides, The Captain crowed out "Euoi, praise the God! Oöp, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore! Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands, Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl! Euripides? Babai! what a word there 'scaped Your teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song! Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through, Has she been falUng thick in flakes of him! Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said. Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech! Now it was some whole passion of a play; Now, peradventure, but a honey-drop That slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there rose A star, before I could determine steer Southward or northward — if a cloud surprised Heaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail! —' She had at finger's end both cloud and star; Some thought that perched there, tame and tuneable, Fitted with wings; and still, as off it flew, 'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sang The meteoric poet of air and sea, Planets and the pale populace of heaven, The mind of man, and all that's made to soar!' And so, although she has some other name, We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower, Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns I' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree, Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose, You shall find food, drink, odour, all at once; Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow, And, never much away, the nightingale. Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again, Down to the verse that ends all, proverb-like. And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name!"

But I cried "Brother Greek! better than so, — Save us, and I have courage to recite The main of a whole play from first to last; That strangest, saddest, sweetest song of his, At Athens, in Glaukinos' archonship, But only this year reached our Isle o' the Rose. I saw it at Kameiros; played the same, They say, as for the right Lenean feast In Athens; and beside the perfect piece — Its beauty and the way it makes you weep, — There is much honour done your own loved God Herakles, whom you house i' the city here Nobly, the Temple wide Greece talks about! I come a suppliant to your Herakles! Take me and put me on his temple-steps. To tell you his achievement as I may, And, that told, he shall bid you set us free!"
 * which was taught, long years ago

Then, because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts, And poetry is power, — they all outbroke In a great joyous laughter with much love: "Thank Herakles for the good holiday! Make for the harbour! Row, and let voice ring. 'In we row, bringing more Euripides!' All the crowd, as they lined the harbour now, 'More of Euripides!' — took up the cry. We landed; the whole city, soon astir, Came rushing out of gates in common joy To the suburb temple; there they stationed me O' the topmost step: and plain I told the play, Just as I saw it; what the actors said, And what I saw, or thought I saw the while, At our Kameiros theatre, clean-scooped Out of a hill-side, with the sky above And sea before our seats in marble row: Told it, and, two days more, repeated it, Until they sent us on our way again With good words and great wishes.

Oh, for me — A wealthy Syracusan brought a whole Talent and bade me take it for myself; I left it on the tripod in the fane, — For had not Herakles a second time Wrestled with Death and saved devoted ones? — Thank-offering to the hero. And a band Of captives, whom their lords grew kinder to Because they called the poet countryman, Sent me a crown of wild-pomegranate-flower: So, I shall live and die Balaustion now. But one — one man — one youth, — three days, each day, (If, ere I lifted up my voice to speak, I gave a downward glance by accident) Was found at foot o' the temple. When we sailed, There, in the ship too, was he found as well, Having a hunger to see Athens too. We reached Peiraieus; when I landed — lo, He was beside me. Anthesterion-month Is just commencing: when its moon rounds full, We are to marry. O Euripides! I saw the master: when we found ourselves (Because the young man needs must follow me) Firm on Peiraieus, I demanded first Whither to go and find him. Would you think? The story how he saved us made some smile: They wondered strangers were exorbitant In estimation of Euripides. He was not Aischulos nor Sophokles: — "Then, of our younger bards who boast the bay, Had I sought Agathon, or Iophon, Or, what now had it been Kephisophon? A man that never kept good company, The most unsociable of poet-kind, All beard that was not freckle in his face!" I soon was at the tragic house, and saw The master, held the sacred hand of him And laid it to my lips. Men love him not: How should they? Nor do they much love his friend Sokrates: but those two have fellowship: Sokrates often comes to hear him read, And never misses if he teach a piece. Both, being old, will soon have company, Sit with their peers above the talk. Meantime, He lives as should a statue in its niche; Cold walls enclose him, mostly darkness there, Alone, unless some foreigner uncouth Breaks in, sits, stares an hour, and so departs, Brain-stuffed with something to sustain his life, Dry to the marrow mid much merchandize. How should such know and love the man?

Why, mark! Even when I told the play and got the praise, There spoke up a brisk little somebody, Critic and whippersnapper, in a rage To set things right: "The girl departs from truth! Pretends she saw what was not to be seen, Making the mask of the actor move, forsooth! 'Then a fear flitted o'er the wife's white face,' — 'Then frowned the father,' — 'then the husband shook,' — 'Then from the festal forehead slipt each spray, 'And the heroic mouth's gay grace was gone;' — As she had seen each naked fleshly face. And not the merely-painted mask it wore!" Well, is the explanation difficult? What's poetry except a power that makes? And, speaking to one sense, inspires the rest, Pressing them all into its service; so That who sees painting, seems to hear as well The speech that 's proper for the painted mouth; And who hears music, feels his solitude Peopled at once — for how count heart-beats plain Unless a company, with hearts which beat, Come close to the musician, seen or no? And who receives true verse at eye or ear, Takes in (with verse) time, place, and person too, So, links each sense on to its sister-sense, Grace-like: and what if but one sense of three Front you at once? The sidelong pair conceive Thro' faintest touch of finest finger-tips, — Hear, see and feel, in faith's simplicity, Alike, what one was sole recipient of: Who hears the poem, therefore, sees the play.

Enough and too much! Hear the play itself! Under the grape-vines, by the streamlet-side, Close to Baccheion; till the cool increase, And other stars steal on the evening-star, And so, we homeward flock i' the dusk, we five! You will expect, no one of all the words O' the play but is grown part now of my soul, Since the adventure. 'T is the poet speaks: But if I, too, should try and speak at times, Leading your love to where my love, perchance, Climbed earlier, found a nest before you knew — Why, bear with the poor climber, for love's sake! Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite. The temple with the pillars at the porch! See you not something beside masonry? What if my words wind in and out the stone As yonder ivy, the God's parasite? Though they leap all the way the pillar leads, Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze, And serpentiningly enrich the roof, Toy with some few bees and a bird or two, — What then? The column holds the cornice up!