DEIANIRA
And then I chanced
On a fair woman, whose sad eyes were full
Of a fixed self-reproach, like his who knows
Himself the fountain of his grief, and pines
In self-inflicted sorrow. As I spake
Enquiring of her grief, she answered thus:
"Stranger, thou seest
of all the shades below
The most unhappy. Others sought their love
In death, and found it, dying; but for me
The death that took me, took from me my love,
And left me comfortless. No load I bear
Like those dark wicked women, who have slain
Their Lords for lust or anger, whom the dread
Propitious Ones within the pit below
Punish and purge of sin; only unfaith,
If haply want of faith be not a crime
Blacker than murder, when we fail to trust
One worthy of all faith, and folly bring
No harder recompense than comes of scorn
And loathing of itself.
Ah,
fool, fool, fool,
Who didst mistrust thy love, who was the best,
And truest, manliest soul with whom the gods
Have ever blest the earth; so brave, so strong,
Fired with such burning hate of powerful ill,
So loving of the race, so swift to raise
The fearless arm and mighty club, and smite
All monstrous growths with ruin—Zeus himself
Showed scarce more mighty—and yet was the while
A very man, not cast in mould too fine
For human love, but ofttimes snared and caught
By womanish wiles, fast held within the net
His passions wove. Oh, it was grand to hear
Of how he went, the champion of his race,
Mighty in war, mighty in love, now bent
To more than human tasks, now lapt in ease,
Now suffering, now enjoying. Strong, vast soul,
Tuned to heroic deeds, and set on high
Above the range of common petty sins—
Too high to mate with an unequal soul,
Too full of striving for contented days.
Ah me, how well I do
recall the cause
Of all our ills! I was a happy bride
When that dark Até which pursues the steps
Of heroes—innocent blood-guiltiness—
Drove us to exile, and I joyed to be
His own, and share his pain. To a swift stream
Fleeing we came, where a rough ferryman
Waited, more brute than man. My hero plunged
In those fierce depths and battled with their flow,
And with great labour gained the strand, and bade
The monster row me to him. But with lust
And brutal cunning in his eyes, the thing
Seized me and turned to fly with me, when swift
An arrow hissed from the unerring bow,
Pierced him, and loosed his grasp. Then as his eyes
Grew glazed in death there came in them a gleam
Of what I know was hate, and he said, 'Take
This white robe. It is costly. See, my blood
Has stained it but a little. I did wrong:
I know it, and repent me. If there come
A time when he grows cold—for all the race
Of heroes wander, nor can any love
Fix theirs for long—take it and wrap him in it,
And he shall love again.' Then, from the strange
Deep look within his eyes I shrank in fear,
And left him half in pity, and I went
To meet my Lord, who rose from that fierce stream
Fair as a god.
Ah me,
the weary days
We women live, spending our anxious souls,
Consumed with jealous fancies, hungering still
For the belovèd voice and ear and eye,
And hungering all in vain! For life is more
To youthful manhood than to sit at home
Before the hearth to watch the children's ways
And lead the life of petty household care
Which doth content us women. Day by day
I pined in Trachis for my love, while he,
Now in some warlike exploit busied, now
Fighting some monster, now at some fair court,
Resting awhile till some new enterprise
Called him, returned not. News of treacheries
Avenged, friends succoured, dreadful monsters slain,
Came from him: always triumph, always fame,
And honour, and success, and reverence,
And sometimes, words of love for me who pined
For more than words, and would have gone to him
But that the toils of such high errantry
Asked more than woman's strength.
So
the slow years
Vexed me alone in Trachis, set forlorn
In solitude, nor hearing at the gate
The frank and cheering voice, nor on the stair
The heavy tread, nor feeling the strong arm
Around me in the darkling night, when all
My being ran slow. Last, subtle whispers came
Of womanish wiles which kept my Lord from me,
And one who, young and fair, a fresh-blown life
And virgin, younger, fairer far than I
When first he loved me, held him in the toils
Of scarce dissembled love. Not easily
Might I believe this evil, but at last
The oft-repeated malice finding me
Forlorn, and sitting imp-like at my ear,
Possessed me, and the fire of jealous love
Raged through my veins, not turned as yet to hate—
Too well I loved for that—but breeding in me
Unfaith in him. Love, setting him so high
And self so low, betrayed me, and I prayed,
Constrained to hold him false, the immortal gods
To make him love again.
But
still he came not.
And still the maddening rumours worked, and still
'Fair, young, and a king's daughter,' the same words
Smote me and pierced me. Oh, there is no pain
In Hades—nay, nor deepest Hell itself,
Like that of jealous hearts, the torture-pain
Which racked my life so long.
Till one fair morn
There came a joyful message. 'He has come!
And at the shrine upon the promontory,
The fair white shrine upon the purple sea,
He waits to do his solemn sacrifice
To the immortal gods; and with him comes
A young maid beautiful as Dawn.'
Then I,
Mingling despair with love, rapt in deep joy
That he was come, plunged in the depths of hell
That she came too, bethought me of the robe
The Centaur gave me, and the words he spake,
Forgetting the deep hatred in his eyes,
And all but love, and sent a messenger
Bidding him wear it for the sacrifice
To the immortals, knowing not at all
Whom Fate decreed the victim.
Shall my soul
Forget the agonized message which he sent,
Bidding me come? For that accursèd robe,
Stained with the poisonous accursèd blood,
Even in the midmost flush of sacrifice
Clung to him a devouring fire, and ate
The piteous flesh from his dear limbs, and stung
His great soft soul to madness. When I came,
Knowing it was my work, he bent on me,
Wise as a god through suffering and the near
Inevitable Death, so that no word
Of mine was needed, such a tender look
Of mild reproach as smote me. 'Couldst not thou
Trust me, who never loved as I love thee?
What need was there of magical arts to draw
The love that never wavered? I have lived
As he lives who through perilous paths must pass,
And lifelong trials, striving to keep down
The brute within him, born of too much strength
And sloth and vacuous days; by difficult toils,
Labours endured, and hard-fought fights with ill,
Now vanquished, now triumphant; and sometimes,
In intervals of too long labour, finding
His nature grown too strong for him, falls prone
Awhile a helpless prey, then once again
Rises and spurns his chains, and fares anew
Along the perilous ways. Dearest, I would
That thou wert wedded to some knight who stayed
At home within thy gates, and were content
To see thee happy. But for me the fierce
Rude energies of life, the mighty thews,
The god-sent hate of Wrong, these drove me forth
To quench the thirst of battle. See, this maid,
This is the bride I destined for our son
Who grows to manhood. Do thou see to her
When I am dead, for soon I know again
The frenzy comes, and with it ceasing, death.
Go, therefore, ere I harm thee when my strength
Has lost its guidance. Thou wert rich in love,
Be now as rich in faith. Dear, for thy wrong
I do forgive thee.'
When
I saw the glare
Of madness fire his eyes, and my ears heard
The groans the torture wrung from his great soul,
I fled with broken heart to the white shrine,
And knelt in prayer, but still my sad ear took
The agony of his cries.
Then
I who knew
There was no hope in god or man for me
Who had destroyed my Love, and with him slain
The champion of the suffering race of men,
And knowing that my soul, though innocent
Of blood, was guilty of unfaith and vile
Mistrust, and wrapt in weakness like a cloak,
And made the innocent tool of hate and wrong,
Against all love and good; grown sick and filled
With hatred of myself, rose from my knees,
And went a little space apart, and found
A gnarled tree on the cliff, and with my scarf
Strangling myself, swung lifeless.
But in death
I found him not. For, building a vast pile
Of scented woods on Oeta, as they tell,
My hero with his own hand lighted it,
And when the mighty pyre flamed far and wide
Over all lands and seas, he climbed on it[165]
And laid him down to die; but pitying Zeus,
Before the swift flames reached him, in a cloud
Descending, snatched the strong brave soul to heaven,
And set him mid the stars.
Wherefore am I
Of all the blameless shades within this place
The most unhappy, if of blame, indeed,
I bear no load. For what is Sin itself,
But Error when we miss the road which leads
Up to the gate of heaven? Ignorance!
What if we be the cause of ignorance?
Being blind who might have seen! Yet do I know
But self-inflicted pain, nor stain there is
Upon my soul such as they bear who know
The dreadful scourge with which the stern judge still
Lashes their sins. I am forgiven, I know,
Who loved so much, and one day, if Zeus will,
I shall go free from hence, and join my Lord,
And be with him again."
And straight I seemed,
Passing, to look upon some scarce-spent life,
Which knows to-day the irony of Fate
In self-inflicted pain.
