Balaustion's Adventure/II

There slept a silent palace in the sun, With plains adjacent and Thessalian peace — Pherai, where King Admetos ruled the land.

Out from the portico there gleamed a God, Apollon: for the bow was in his hand, The quiver at his shoulder, all his shape One dreadful beauty. And he hailed the house, As if he knew it well and loved it much: "O Admeteian domes, where I endured, Even the God I am, to drudge awhile, Accepting the slave's table thankfully. Do righteous penance for a reckless deed!" Then told how Zeus had been the cause of all, Raising the wrath in him which took revenge And slew those forgers of the thunderbolt Wherewith Zeus blazed the life from out the breast Of Phoibos' son Asklepios (I surmise, Because he brought the dead to life again) And so, for punishment, must needs go slave God as he was, with a mere mortal lord: — Told how he came to King Admetos' land, And played the ministrant, was herdsman there, Warding from him and his all harm away Till now; "For, holy as I am," said he, "The lord I chanced upon was holy too: Whence I deceived the Moirai, drew from death My master, this same son of Pheres, — ay, The Goddesses conceded him escape From Hades, when the fated day should fall, Could he exchange lives, find some friendly one Ready, for his sake, to content the grave. But trying all in turn, the friendly list, Why, he found no one, none who loved so much, Nor father, nor the aged mother's self That bore him, no, not any save his wife, Willing to die instead of him and watch Never a sunrise nor a sunset more: And she is even now within the house, Upborne by pitying hands, the feeble frame Gasping its last of life out; since to-day Destiny is accomplished, and she dies, And I, lest here pollution light on me, Leave, as ye witness, all my wonted joy In this dear dwelling. Ay, — for here comes Death Close on us of a sudden! who, pale priest Of the mute people, means to bear his prey To the house of Hades. The symmetric step! How he treads true to time and place and thing, Dogging day, hour and minute, for death's-due!"

And we observed another Deity, Half in, half out the portal, — watch and ward, — Eyeing his fellow: formidably fixed, Yet faultering too at who affronted him. As somehow disadvantaged, should they strive. Like some dread heapy blackness, ruffled wing, Convulsed and cowering head that is all eye, Which proves a ruined eagle who, too blind Swooping in quest o' the quarry, fawn or kid, Descried deep down the chasm 'twixt rock and rock, Has wedged and mortised, into either wall O' the mountain, the pent earthquake of his power; So lies, half hurtless yet still terrible, Just when — who stalks up, who stands front to front, But the great lion-guarder of the gorge, Lord of the ground, a stationed glory there! Yet he too pauses ere he try the worst O' the frightful unfamiliar nature, new To the chasm, indeed, but elsewhere known enough, Among the shadows and the silences Above i' the sky: so, each antagonist Silently faced his fellow and forbore, Till Death shrilled, hard and quick, in spite and fear:

"Ha, ha, and what may'st thou do at the domes, Why hauntest here, thou Phoibos? Here again At the old injustice, limiting our rights, Baulking of honour due us Gods o' the grave? Was 't not enough for thee to have delayed Death from Admetos, — with thy crafty art Cheating the very Fates, — but thou must arm The bow-hand and take station, press 'twixt me And Pelias' daughter, who then saved her spouse, — Did just that, now thou comest to undo, — Taking his place to die, Alkestis here?" But the God sighed "Have courage! All my arms, This time, are simple justice and fair words."

Then each plied each with rapid interchange:

"What need of bow were justice arms enough?"

"Ever it is my wont to bear the bow."

"Ay, and with bow, not justice, help this house!"

"I help it, since a friend's woe weighs me too."

"And now, — wilt force from me this second corpse?"

"By force I took no corpse at first from thee."

"How then is he above ground, not beneath?"

"He gave his wife instead of him, thy prey."

"And prey; this time at least, I bear below!"

"Go take her! — for I doubt persuading thee ..."

"To kill the doomed one? What my function else?"

"No! Rather, to despatch the true mature."

"Truly I take thy meaning, see thy drift!"

"Is there a way then she may reach old age?"

"No way! I glad me in my honours too!"

"But, young or old, thou tak'st one life, no more!"

"Younger they die, greater my praise redounds!"

"If she die old, — the sumptuous funeral!"

"Thou layest down a law the rich would like."

"How so? Did wit lurk there and 'scape thy sense?"

"Who could buy substitutes would die old men."

"It seems thou wilt not grant me, then, this grace?"

"This grace I will not grant: thou know'st my ways."

"Ways harsh to men, hateful to Gods, at least!"

"All things thou canst not have: my rights for me!"

And then Apollon prophesied, — I think, More to himself than to impatient Death, Who did not hear or would not heed the while,— For he went on to say "Yet even so, Cruel above the measure, thou shalt clutch No life here! Such a man do I perceive Advancing to the house of Pheres now, Sent by Eurustheus to bring out of Thrace, The winter world, a chariot with its steeds! He indeed, when Admetos proves the host, And he the guest, at the house here, — he it is Shall bring to bear such force, and from thy hands Rescue this woman! Grace no whit to me Will that prove, since thou dost thy deed the same, And earnest too my hate, and all for nought!"

But how should Death or stay or understand? Doubtless, he only felt the hour was come, And the sword free; for he but flung some taunt — "Having talked much, thou wilt not gain the more! This woman, then, descends to Hades' hall Now that I rush on her, begin the rites O' the sword; for sacred to us Gods below, That head whose hair this sword shall sanctify!"

And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword, The uprush and the outburst, the onslaught Of Death's portentous passage through the door, Apollon stood a pitying moment-space: I caught one last gold gaze upon the night Nearing the world now: and the God was gone, And mortals left to deal with misery; As in came stealing slow, now this, now that Old sojourner throughout the country-side. Servants grown friends to those unhappy here: And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefs Broke and began the over-brimming wail, Out of a common impulse, word by word.

"Whatever means the silence at the door? Why is Admetos' mansion stricken dumb? Not one friend near, to say if we should mourn Our mistress dead, or still Alkestis live And see the light here, Pelias' child — to me, To all, conspicuously the best of wives That ever was toward husband in this world! Hears anyone or wail beneath the roof, Or hands that strike each other, or the groan Announcing all is done and nought to dread? Still not a servant stationed at the gates! O Paian, that thou would'st dispart the wave O' the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o'erwhelmed The housemates, they were hardly silent thus: It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone. Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope: What is the circumstance that heartens thee? How could Admetos have dismissed a wife So worthy, unescorted to the grave? Before the gates I see no hallowed vase Of fountain-water, such as suits death's door; Nor any dipt locks strew the vestibule, Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead: Nor sounds hand smitten against youthful hand, The women's way. And yet — the appointed time — How speak the word? — this day is even the day Ordained her for departing from its light. O touch calamitous to heart and soul! Needs must one, when the good are tortured so, Sorrow, — one reckoned faithful from the first."

Then their souls rose together, and one sigh Went up in cadence from the common mouth: How "Vainly — any whither in the world Directing or land-labour or sea-search — To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon's seat — Might you set free their hapless lady's soul From the abrupt Fate's footstep instant now. Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearths Of Gods had they to go to: one there was Who, if his eyes saw light still, — Phoibos' son, — Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy place And Hades' portal; for he propped up Death's Subdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flame Struck him: and now what hope of life to hail With open arms? For, all the king could do Is done already, — not one God whereof The altar fails to reek with sacrifice: And for assuagement of these evils — nought!" But here they broke off, for a matron moved Forth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast, They gathered round. "What fortune shall we hear? To mourn indeed, if aught affect thy lord, We pardon thee: but, lives the lady yet, Or has she perished? — that we fain would know!"

"Call her dead, call her living, each style serves," The matron said: "though grave-wards bowed, she breathed; Nor knew her husband what the misery meant Before he felt it: hope of life was none: The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pomp He had prepared too."

When the friends broke out, "Let her in dying know herself at least Sole wife, of all the wives 'neath the sun wide, For glory and for goodness!" — "Ah, how else Than best? who controverts the claim?" quoth she: "What kind of creature should the woman prove That has surpassed Alkestis? — surelier shown Preference for her husband to herself Than by determining to die for him? But so much all our city knows indeed: Hear what she did indoors and wonder then! For, when she felt the crowning day was come, She washed with river-waters her white skin, And, taking from the cedar closets forth Vesture and ornament, bedecked herself Nobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed: 'Mistress, because I now depart the world, Falling before thee the last time, I ask — Be mother to my orphans! wed the one To a kind wife, and make the other's mate Some princely person: nor, as I who bore My children perish, suffer that they too Die all untimely, but live, happy pair, Their full glad life out in the fatherland!' And every altar through Admetos' house She visited and crowned and prayed before, Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs, Without a tear, without a groan, — no change At all to that skin's nature, fair to see, Caused by the imminent evil. But this done, — Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed, There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke: 'O bride-bed, where I loosened from my life Virginity for that same husband's sake Because of whom I die now — fare thee well! Since nowise do I hate thee: me alone Hast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betray Thee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed! Some other woman shall possess as wife — Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!' — So falls on, kisses it till all the couch Is moistened with the eyes' sad overflow. But, when of many tears she had her fill, She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth, Yet, — forth the chamber, — still keeps turning back And casts her on the couch again once more. Her children, clinging to their mother's robe, Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms, And, as a dying woman might, embraced Now one and now the other: 'neath the roof, All of the household servants wept as well, Moved to compassion for their mistress; she Extended her right hand to all and each, And there was no one of such low degree She spoke not to nor had an answer from. Such are the evils in Admetos' house. Dying, — why, he had died; but, living, gains Such grief as this he never will forget!" And when they questioned of Admetos, "Well — Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps; Entreats her not to give him up, and seeks The impossible, in fine: for there she wastes And withers by disease, abandoned now, A mere dead weight upon her husband's arm. Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint, Her will is to behold the beams o' the sun: Since never more again, but this last once, Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray. But I will go, announce your presence, — friends Indeed; since 't is not all so love their lords As seek them in misfortune, kind the same: But you are the old friends I recognize."

And at the word she turned again to go: The while they waited, taking up the plaint To Zeus again: "What passage from this strait? What loosing of the heavy fortune fast About the palace? Will such help appear, Or must we clip the locks and cast around Each form already the black peplos' fold? Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same Pray to the Gods! — like Gods' no power so great! O thou king Paian, find some way to save! Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of old Thou found'st a cure, why, now again become Releaser from the bonds of Death, we beg, And give the sanguinary Hades pause!" So the song dwindled into a mere moan; Plow dear the wife, and what her husband's woe; When suddenly —

"Behold, behold!" breaks forth: "Here is she coming from the house indeed! Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament, Pheraian land, this best of women, bound — So is she withered by disease away — For realms below and their infernal king! Never will we affirm there 's more of joy Than grief in marriage; making estimate Both from old sorrows anciently observed, And this misfortune of the king we see — Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved, Will live life's remnant out, no life at all!"

So wailed they, while a sad procession wound Slow from the innermost o' the palace, stopped At the extreme verge of the platform-front: There opened, and disclosed Alkestis' self, The consecrated lady, borne to look Her last — and let the living look their last — She at the sun, we at Alkestis.

For would you note a memorable thing? We grew to see in that severe regard, — Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point, Word slow pursuing word in monotone, — What Death meant when he called her consecrate Henceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword — Its office was to cut the soul at once From life, — from something in this world which hides Truth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us live Somehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloak About a horse's head; unfrightened, so, Between the menace of a flame, between Solicitation of the pasturage, Untempted equally, he goes his gait To journey's end: then pluck the pharos off! Show what delusions steadied him i' the straight O' the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass, All through a little bandage o'er the eyes! For certainly with eyes unbandaged now Alkestis looked upon the action here, Self-immolation for Admetos' sake; Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do, And which of her survivors had the right, And which the less right, to survive thereby. For, you shall note, she uttered no one word Of love more to her husband, though he wept Plenteously, waxed importunate in prayer — Folly's old fashion when its seed bears fruit. I think she judged that she had bought the ware O' the seller at its value, — nor praised him, Nor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye, Saw him purse money up, prepare to leave The buyer with a solitary bale — True purple — but in place of all that coin, Had made a hundred others happy too, If so willed fate or fortune! What remained To give away, should rather go to these Than one with coin to clink and contemplate. Admetos had his share and might depart, The rest was for her children and herself. (Charopé makes a face: but wait a while!) She saw things plain as Gods do: by one stroke O' the sword that rends the life-long veil away. (Also Euripides saw plain enough: But you and I, Charopé! — you and I Will trust his sight until our own grow clear.)

"Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly dance O' the fleet cloud-figure!" (so her passion paused, While the awe-stricken husband made his moan, Muttered now this now that inaptitude: "Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair, Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou should'st die!") Then, as if, caught up, carried in their course, Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are, She missed no happiness that lay beneath: "O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs, To distant nuptial chambers once my own In that Iolkos of my ancestry!" — There the flight failed her. "Raise thee, wretched one! Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!"

Vainly Admetos: for "I see it — see The two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead, Charon, hand hard upon the boatman's-pole, Calls me — even now calls — 'Why delayest thou? Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready here For prompt departure: quick, then!' "

"Woe is me! A bitter voyage this to undergo, Even i' the telling! Adverse Powers above, How do ye plague us!"

Then a shiver ran: "He has me — seest not? — hales me, — who is it? — To the hall o' the Dead — ah, who but Hades' self, He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gaze All that blue brilliance, under the eye-brow! What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a way I have to traverse, all unhappy one!"

"Way — piteous to thy friends, but, most of all, Me and thy children: ours assuredly A common partnership in grief like this!" Whereat they closed about her; but "Let be! Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet. Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyes Comes the night creeping. Children — children, now Indeed, a mother is no more for you! Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!" "Ah me, the melancholy word I hear, Oppressive beyond every kind of death! No, by the Deities, take heart nor dare To give me up — no, by our children too Made orphans of! But rise, be resolute! Since, thou departed, I no more remain! For in thee are we bound up, to exist Or cease to be — so we adore thy love!"

— Which brought out truth to judgment. At this word And protestation, all the truth in her Claimed to assert itself: she waved away The blue-eyed black-wing'd phantom, held in check The advancing pageantry of Hades there, And, with no change in her own countenance, She fixed her eyes on the protesting man, And let her lips unlock their sentence, — so! "Admetos, — how things go with me thou seest, — I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things I will should follow. I — to honour thee, Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange, Continued looking on the daylight here — Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live, Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would, And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness. I would not, — would not live bereft of thee, With children orphaned, neither shrank at all, Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed. Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth, Both of these gave thee up; for all, a term Of life was reached when death became them well, Ay, well — to save their child and glorious die: Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained Of having other children in thy place. So, 1 and thou had lived out our full time, Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, would'st groan With children reared in orphanage: but thus Some God disposed things, willed they so should be. Be they so! Now do thou remember this, Do me in turn a favour — favour, since Certainly I shall never claim my due, For nothing is more precious than a life: But a fit favour, as thyself wilt say, Loving our children here no less than I, If head and heart be sound in thee at least. Uphold them, make them masters of my house, Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair, Who, being a worse wife than I, thro' spite Will raise her hand against both thine and mine. Never do this at least, I pray to thee! For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame, To the old brood — a very viper she For gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl; The boy has got a father, a defence Tower-like, he speaks to and has answer from: But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood Conclude itself in marriage fittingly? Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow Art thou to chance? with all to apprehend — Lest, casting on thee some unkind report, She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth. For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed, Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing by Just when a mother's presence helps the most! No, for I have to die: and this my ill Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yet The third day of the month, but now, even now, I shall be reckoned among those no more. Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed, Husband, the boast remains permissible Thou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you, Children, as good a mother gave you birth."

"Have courage!" interposed the friends, "For him I have no scruple to declare — all this Will he perform, except he fail of sense."

"All this shall be — shall be!" Admetos sobbed: "Fear not! And, since I had thee living, dead Alone wilt thou be called my wife: no fear That some Thessalian ever styles herself Bride, hails this man for husband in thy place! No woman, be she of such lofty line Or such surpassing beauty otherwise! Enough of children: gain from these I have, Such only may the Gods grant! since in thee Absolute is our loss, where all was gain. And I shall bear for thee no year-long grief. But grief that lasts while my own days last, love! Love! For my hate is she who bore me, now; And him I hate, my father: loving-ones Truly, in word not deed! But thou didst pay All dearest to thee down, and buy my life, Saving me so! Is there not cause enough That I who part with such companionship In thee, should make my moan? I moan, and more: For I will end the feastings — social flow O' the wine friends flock for, garlands and the Muse That graced my dwelling. Never now for me To touch the lyre, to lift my soul in song At summons of the Lybian flute; since thou From out my life hast emptied all the joy! And this thy body, in thy likeness wrought By some wise hand of the artificers, Shall lie disposed within my marriage-bed: This I will fall on, this enfold about, Call by thy name, — my dear wife in my arms Even though I have not, I shall seem to have — A cold delight, indeed, but all the same So should I lighten of its weight my soul! And, wandering my way in dreams perchance, Thyself wilt bless me: for, come when they will, Even by night our loves are sweet to see. But were the tongue and tune of Orpheus mine, So that to Koré crying, or her lord, In hymns, from Hades I might rescue thee — Down would I go, and neither Plouton's dog Nor Charon, he whose oar sends souls across, Should stay me till again I made thee stand Living, within the light! But, failing this, There, where thou art, await me when I die, Make ready our abode, my house-mate still! For in the self-same cedar, me with thee, Will I provide that these our friends shall place, My side lay close by thy side! Never, corpse Although I be, would I division bear From thee, my faithful one of all the world!"

So he stood sobbing: nowise insincere, But somehow child-like, like his children, like Childishness the world over. What was new In this announcement that his wife must die? What particle of pain beyond the pact He made, with eyes wide open, long ago — Made and was, if not glad, content to make? Now that the sorrow, he had called for, came, He sorrowed to the height: none heard him say, However, what would seem so pertinent, "To keep this pact, I find surpass my power: Rescind it, Moirai! Give me back her life, And take the life I kept by base exchange! Or, failing that, here stands your laughing-stock Fooled by you, worthy just the fate o' the fool Who makes a pother to escape the best And gain the worst you wiser Powers allot!" No, not one word of this: nor did his wife Despite the sobbing, and the silence soon To follow, judge so much was in his thought — Fancy that, should the Moirai acquiesce, He would relinquish life nor let her die. The man was like some merchant who, in storm, Throws the freight over to redeem the ship: No question, saving both were better still. As it was, — why, he sorrowed, which sufficed. So, all she seemed to notice in his speech Was what concerned her children. Children, too, Bear the grief and accept the sacrifice. Rightly rules nature: does the blossomed bough O' the grape-vine, or the dry grape's self, bleed wine?

So, bending to her children all her love, She fastened on their father's only word To purpose now, and followed it with this: "O children, now yourselves have heard these things — Your father saying he will never wed Another woman to be over you, Nor yet dishonour me!"

"And now at least I say it, and I will accomplish too!"

"Then, for such promise of accomplishment, Take from my hand these children!"

"Thus I take — Dear gift from the dear hand!"

"Do thou become Mother, now, to these children in my place!"

"Great the necessity I should be so, At least, to these bereaved of thee!"

"Child — child! Just when I needed most to live, below Am I departing from you both!"

"Ah me! And what shall I do, then, left lonely thus?"

"Time will appease thee: who is dead is nought."

"Take me with thee — take, by the Gods below!"

"We are sufficient, we who die for thee."

"O Powers, ye widow me of what a wife!"

"And truly the dimmed eye draws earthward now!"

"Wife, if thou leav'st me, I am lost indeed!"

"She once was — now is nothing, thou may'st say."

"Raise thy face nor forsake thy children thus!"

"Ah, willingly indeed I leave them not! But — fare ye well, my children!"

"Look on them — Look!"

"I am nothingness."

"What dost thou? Leav'st..."

"Farewell!" And in the breath she passed away. "Undone — me miserable!" moaned the king, While friends released the long-suspended sigh. "Gone is she: no wife for Admetos more!"

Such was the signal: how the woe broke forth, Why tell? — or how the children's tears ran fast, Bidding their father note the eye-lids' stare, Hands' droop, each dreadful circumstance of death.

"Ay, she hears not, she sees not: I and you, 'T is plain, are stricken hard and have to bear!" Was all Admetos answered; for, I judge, He only now began to taste the truth: The thing done lay revealed, which undone thing, Rehearsed for fact by fancy, at the best, Never can equal. He had used himself This long while (as he muttered presently) To practise with the terms, the blow involved By the bargain, sharp to bear, but bearable Because of plain advantage at the end. Now that, in fact not fancy, the blow fell — Needs must he busy him with the surprise. "Alkestis — not to see her nor be seen, Hear nor be heard of by her, any more To-day, to-morrow, to the end of time, — Did I mean this should buy my life?" thought he.

So, friends came round him, took him by the hand, Bade him remember our mortality, Its due, its doom: how neither was he first, Nor would be last, to thus deplore the loved.