Balaustion's Adventure/IV

So, he stood petting up his puny hate, Parent-wise, proud of the ill-favoured babe. Not long! A great hand, careful lest it crush, Startled him on the shoulder: up he stared, And over him, who stood but Herakles? There smiled the mighty presence, all one smile And no touch more of the world-weary God, Through the brief respite! Just a garland's grace About the brow, a song to satisfy Head, heart and breast, and trumpet-lips at once, A solemn draught of true religious wine. And, — how should I know? — half a mountain goat Torn up and swallowed down, — the feast was fierce But brief: all cares and pains took wing and flew, Leaving the hero ready to begin And help mankind, whatever woe came next. Even though what came next should be nought more Than the mean querulous mouth o' the man, remarked Pursing its grievance up till patience failed And the sage needs must rush out, as we saw, To sulk outside and pet his hate in peace. By no means would the Helper have it so: He who was just about to handle brutes In Thrace, and bit the jaws which breathed the flame, — Well, if a good laugh and a jovial word Could bridle age which blew bad humours forth, That were a kind of help, too!

"Thou, there!" hailed This grand benevolence the ungracious one — "Why look'st so solemn and so — thought-absorbed? To guests, a servant should not sour-faced be, But do the honours with a mind urbane. While thou, contrariwise, beholding here Arrive thy master's comrade, hast for him A churlish visage, all one beetle-brow — Having regard to grief that's out-of-door! Come hither, and so get to grow more wise! Things mortal — know'st the nature that they have? No, I imagine! whence could knowledge spring? Give ear to me, then! For all flesh to die, Is Nature's due; nor is there any one Of mortals with assurance he shall last The coming morrow: for, what's born of chance Invisibly proceeds the way it will, Not to be learned, no fortune-teller's prize. This, therefore, having heard and known through me, Gladden thyself! Drink! Count the day-by-day Existence thine, and all the other — chance! Ay, and pay homage also to, by far The sweetest of divinities for man, Kupris! Benignant Goddess will she prove! But as for aught else, leave and let things be! And trust my counsel, if I seem to speak To purpose — as I do, apparently. Wilt not thou, then, — discarding overmuch Moumfulness, do away with this shut door, Come drink along with me, be-garlanded This fashion? Do so, and, — I well know what, — From this stern mood, this shrunk-up state of mind, The pit-pat fall o' the flaggon-juice down throat, Soon will dislodge thee from bad harbourage! Men being mortal should think mortal-like: Since to your solemn, brow-contracting sort. All of them, — so I lay down law at least, — Life is not truly life but misery."

Whereto the man with softened surliness: "We know as much: but deal with matters, now. Hardly befitting mirth and revelry."

"No intimate, this woman that is dead: Mourn not too much! For, those o' the house itself, Thy masters live, remember!"

"Live indeed? Ah, thou know'st nought o' the woe within these walls!"

"I do — unless thy master spoke me false Somehow!"

"Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest, Too much, that master mine!" so muttered he.

"Was it improper he should treat me well, Because an alien corpse was in the way?"

"No alien, but most intimate indeed!"

"Can it be, some woe was, he told me not?"

"Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee — To us, our master's sorrow is a care."

"This word begins no tale of alien woe!"

"Had it been other woe than intimate, I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss."

"What! have I suffered strangely from my host?"

"Thou cam'st not at a fit reception-time: With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seest Shorn hair, black robes."

"But who is it that's dead? Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?"

"Admetos' wife, then! she has perished, guest!"

"How sayest? And did ye house me, all the same?"

"Ay: for he had thee in that reverence He dared not turn thee from his door away!"

"O hapless, and bereft of what a mate!"

"All of us now are dead, not she alone!"

"But I divined it! seeing, as I did, His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair, His countenance! Though he persuaded me. Saying it was a stranger's funeral He went with to the grave: against my wish, He forced on me that I should enter doors, Drink in the hall o' the hospitable man Circumstanced so! And do I revel yet With wreath on head? But — thou to hold thy peace, Nor tell me what a woe oppressed my friend! Where is he gone to bury her? Where am I To go and find her?"

"By the road that leads Straight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb, Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre."

So said he, and therewith dismissed himself Inside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed, However, that he had adroitly spoilt The mirth of the great creature: oh, he marked The movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip, And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast, He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashed The myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot! And all the joy and wonder of the wine Withered away, like fire from off a brand The wind blows over — beacon though it be, Whose merry ardour only meant to make Somebody all the better for its blaze, And save lost people in the dark; quenched now!

Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried off The brand's edge, suddenly renews its bite, Tasting some richness caked i' the core o' the tree, — Pine, with a blood that's oil, — and triumphs up Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world: So, in a spasm and splendour of resolve, All at once did the God surmount the man.

"O much-enduring heart and hand of mine! Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus, That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns' child, Alkmené! for that son must needs save now The just-dead lady: ay, establish here I' the house again Alkestis, bring about Comfort and succour to Admetos so! I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled King of the corpses! I shall find him, sure, Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice: And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap Out of my lair, and seize — encircle him Till one hand join the other round about — There lives not who shall pull him out from me, Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go! But even say I miss the booty, — say, Death comes not to the boultered blood, — why then, Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place Of Koré and the king there, — make demand, Confident I shall bring Alkestis back, So as to put her in the hands of him My host, that housed me, never drove me off: Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke, Being a noble heart and honouring me! Who of Thessalians, more than this man, loves The stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece? Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile Whom he befriended, — native noble heart!"

So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh Approval of his human progeny, — One summons of the whole magnific frame, Each sinew to its service, — up he caught, And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag, Let the club go, — for had he not those hands? And so went striding off, on that straight way Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb. Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world! I think this is the authentic sign and seal Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad, And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts Into a rage to suffer for mankind, And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed After the blossom, ultimate of all. Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun? Surely it has no other end and aim Than to drop, once more die into the ground, Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there: And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy, More joy and most joy, — do man good again.

So, off strode to the struggle Herakles. When silence closed behind the lion-garb, Back came our dull fact settling in its place, Though heartiness and passion half-dispersed The inevitable fate. And presently In came the mourners from the funeral, One after one, until we hoped the last Would be Alkestis and so end our dream. Could they have really left Alkestis lone I' the way-side sepulchre! Home, all save she! And when Admetos felt that it was so, By the stand-still: when he lifted head and face From the two hiding hands and peplos' fold And looked forth, knew the palace, knew the hills, Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there, And no Alkestis any more again, Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him.

"O hateful entry, hateful countenance O' the widowed halls!" — he moaned. "What was to be? Go there? Stay here? Speak, not speak? All was now Mad and impossible alike; one way And only one was sane and safe — to die: Now he was made aware how dear is death, How loveable the dead are, how the heart Yearns in us to go hide where they repose, When we find sunbeams do no good to see, Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall. His wife had been to him the very pledge, Sun should be sun, earth — earth; the pledge was robbed, Pact broken, and the world was left no world." He stared at the impossible, mad life: Stood, while they bade "Advance — advance! Go deep Into the utter dark, thy palace-core!" They tried what they called comfort, "touched the quick Of the ulceration in his soul," he said, With memories, — "once thy joy was thus and thus!" True comfort were to let him fling himself Into the hollow grave o' the tomb, and so Let him lie dead along with all he loved.

One bade him note that his own family Boasted a certain father whose sole son, Worthy bewailment, died: and yet the sire Bore stoutly up against the blow and lived; For all that he was childless now, and prone Already to grey hairs, far on in life. Could such a good example miss effect? Why fix foot, stand so, staring at the house, Why not go in, as that wise kinsman would?

"O that arrangement of the house I know! How can I enter, how inhabit thee Now that one cast of fortune changes all? Oh me, for much divides the then from now! Then — with those pine-tree torches, Pelian pomp And marriage-hymns, I entered, holding high The hand of my dear wife; while many-voiced The revelry that followed me and her That's dead now, — friends felicitating both, As who were lofty-lineaged, each of us Born of the best, two wedded and made one; Now — wail is wedding-chant's antagonist, And, for white peplos, stoles in sable state Herald my way to the deserted couch!"

The one word more they ventured was "This grief Befell thee witless of what sorrow means, Close after prosperous fortune: but, reflect! Thou hast saved soul and body. Dead, thy wife — Living, the love she left. What's novel here? Many the man, from whom Death long ago Loosed the life-partner!"

Then Admetos spoke: Turned on the comfort, with no tears, this time. He was beginning to be like his wife. I told you of that pressure to the point, Word slow pursuing word in monotone, Alkestis spoke with; so Admetos, now, Solemnly bore the burden of the truth. And as the voice of him grew, gathered strength, And groaned on, and persisted to the end, We felt how deep had been descent in grief, And with what change he came up now to light, And left behind such littleness as tears.

"Friends, I account the fortune of my wife Happier than mine, though it seem otherwise: For, her indeed no grief will ever touch, And she from many a labour pauses now, Renowned one! Whereas I, who ought not live, But do live, by evading destiny, Sad life am I to lead, I learn at last! For how shall I bear going in-doors here? Accosting whom? By whom saluted back, Shall I have joyous entry? Whither turn? Inside, the solitude will drive me forth, When I behold the empty bed — my wife's — The seat she used to sit upon, the floor Unsprinkled as when dwellers loved the cool, The children that will clasp my knees about, Cry for their mother back: these servants too Moaning for what a guardian they have lost! Inside my house such circumstance awaits. Outside, — Thessalian people's marriage-feasts And gatherings for talk will harass me, With overflow of women everywhere; It is impossible I look on them — Familiars of my wife and just her age! And then, whoever is a foe of mine, And lights on me — why, this will be his word — 'See there! alive ignobly, there he skulks That played the dastard when it came to die, And, giving her he wedded, in exchange, Kept himself out of Hades safe and sound, The coward! Do you call that creature — man? He hates his parents for declining death, Just as if he himself would gladly die!' This sort of reputation shall I have, Beside the other ills enough in store. Ill-famed, ill-faring, — what advantage, friends, Do you perceive I gain by life for death?" That was the truth. Vexed waters sank to smooth: 'T was only when the last of bubbles broke, The latest circlet widened all away And left a placid level, that up swam To the surface the drowned truth, in dreadful change. So, through the quiet and submission, — ay, Spite of some strong words — (for you miss the tone) The grief was getting to be infinite — Grief, friends fell back before. Their office shrank To that old solace of humanity — "Being born mortal, bear grief! Why born else?" And they could only meditate anew.

"They, too, upborne by airy help of song, And haply science, which can find the stars, Had searched the heights: had sounded depths as well By catching much at books where logic lurked, Yet nowhere found they aught could overcome Necessity: not any medicine served, Which Thracian tablets treasure, Orphic voice Wrote itself down upon: nor remedy Which Phoibos gave to the Asklepiadai; Cutting the roots of many a virtuous herb To solace overburdened mortals. None! Of this sole goddess, never may we go To altar nor to image: sacrifice She hears not. All to pray for is — "Approach! But, oh, no harder on me, awful one, Than heretofore! Let life endure thee still! For, whatsoe'er Zeus' nod decree, that same In concert with thee hath accomplishment. Iron, the very stuff o' the Chaluboi, Thou, by sheer strength, dost conquer and subdue; Nor, of that harsh abrupt resolve of thine, Any relenting is there!"

"O my king! Thee also, in the shackles of those hands, Not to be shunned, the Goddess grasped! Yet, bear! Since never wilt thou lead from underground The dead ones, wail thy worst! If mortals die, — The very children of immortals, too, Dropped 'mid our darkness, these decay as sure! Dear indeed was she while among us: dear, Now she is dead, must she for ever be: Thy portion was to clasp, within thy couch, The noblest of all women as a wife. Nor be the tomb of her supposed some heap That hides mortality: but like the Gods Honoured, a veneration to a world Of wanderers! Oft the wanderer, struck thereby, Who else had sailed past in his merchant-ship, Ay, he shall leave ship, land, long wind his way Up to the mountain-summit, till there break Speech forth "So, this was she, then, died of old To save her husband! now, a deity She bends above us. Hail, benignant one! Give good!" Such voices so will supplicate. But — can it be? Alkmené's offspring comes, Admetos! — to thy house advances here!"

I doubt not, they supposed him decently Dead somewhere in that winter world of Thrace — Vanquished by one o' the Bistones, or else Victim to some mad steed's voracity — For did not friends prognosticate as much? It were a new example to the point, That "children of immortals, dropped by stealth Into our darkness, die as sure as we!" A case to quote and comfort people with: But, as for lamentation, ai and pheu. Right-minded subjects kept them for their lord.

Ay, he it was advancing! In he strode, And took his stand before Admetos, — turned Now by despair to such a quietude, He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time, The while his friend surveyed him steadily. That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strained Worst brute to breast was ever strangled yet? Somehow, a victory — for there stood the strength, Happy, as always; something grave, perhaps; The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front, Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dew The yellow hair o' the hero! — his big frame A-quiver with each muscle sinking back Into the sleepy smooth it leaped from late. Under the great guard of one arm, there leant A shrouded something, live and woman-like, Propped by the heart-beats 'neath the lion-coat. When he had finished his survey, it seemed, The heavings of the heart began subside, The helpful breath returned, and last the smile Shone out, all Herakles was back again, As the words followed the saluting hand.

"To friendly man, behoves we freely speak, Admetos! — nor keep buried, deep in breast, Blame we leave silent. I assuredly Judged myself proper, if I should approach By accident calamities of thine, To be demonstrably thy friend: but thou Told'st me not of the corpse then claiming care, That was thy wife's, but didst instal me guest I' the house here, as though busied with a grief Indeed, but then, mere grief beyond thy gate: And so, I crowned my head, and to the Gods Poured my libations in thy dwelling-place, With such misfortune round me. And I blame — Certainly blame thee, having suffered thus! But still I would not pain thee, pained enough: So let it pass! Wherefore I seek thee now, Having turned back again though onward bound, That I will tell thee. Take and keep for me This woman, till I come thy way again, Driving before me, having killed the king O' the Bistones, that drove of Thrakian steeds: In that case, give the woman back to me! But should I fare, — as fare I fain would not, Seeing I hope to prosper and return, — Then, I bequeath her as thy household slave. She came into my hands with good hard toil! For, what find I, when started on my course, But certain people, a whole country-side, Holding a wrestling-bout? as good to me As a new labour: whence I took, and here Come keeping with me, this, the victor's prize. For, such as conquered in the easy work, Gained horses which they drove away: and such As conquered in the harder, — those who boxed And wrestled, — cattle; and, to crown the prize, A woman followed. Chancing as I did, Base were it to forego this fame and gain! Well, as I said, I trust her to thy care: No woman I have kidnapped, understand! But good hard toil has done it: here I come! Some day, who knows? even thou wilt praise the feat!"

Admetos raised his face and eyed the pair: Then, hollowly and with submission, spoke, And spoke again, and spoke time after time, When he perceived the silence of his friend Would not be broken by consenting word. As a tired slave goes adding stone to stone Until he stop some current that molests, So poor Admetos piled up argument Vainly against the purpose, all too plain In that great brow acquainted with command.

"Nowise dishonouring, nor mid my foes Ranking thee, did I hide my wife's ill fate; But it were grief superimposed on grief, Should'st thou have hastened to another home. My own woe was enough for me to weep! But, for this woman, — if it so may be, — Bid some Thessalian, — I entreat thee, king! — Keep her, — who has not suffered like myself! Many of the Pheraioi welcome thee. Be no reminder to me of my ills! I could not, if I saw her come to live, Restrain the tear! Inflict on me, diseased, No new disease: woe bends me down enough! Then, where could she be sheltered in my house, Female and young too? For that she is young, The vesture and adornment prove. Reflect! Should such an one inhabit the same roof With men? And how, mixed up, a girl, with youths, Shall she keep pure, in that case? No light task To curb the May-day youngster, Herakles! I only speak because of care for thee. Or must I, in avoidance of such harm, Make her to enter, lead her life within The chamber of the dead one, all apart? How shall I introduce this other, couch This where Alkestis lay? A double blame I apprehend: first, from the citizens — Lest some tongue of them taunt that I betray My benefactress, fall into the snare Of a new fresh face: then, the dead one's self, — Will she not blame me likewise? Worthy, sure, Of worship from me! circumspect, my ways, And jealous of a fault, are bound to be. But thou, — O woman, whosoe'er thou art, — Know, thou hast all the form, art like as like Alkestis, in the bodily shape! Ah me! Take — by the Gods — this woman from my sight, Lest thou undo me, the undone before! Since I seem — seeing her — as if I saw My own wife! And confusions cloud my heart, And from my eyes the springs break forth! Ah, me Unhappy — how I taste for the first time My misery in all its bitterness!"

Whereat the friends conferred: "The chance, in truth, Was an untoward one — none said otherwise. Still, what a God comes giving, good or bad, That, one should take and bear with. Take her, then!"