Tuesday's Serials: "The Epic of Hades" by Lewis Morris (in English) - II

PHÆDRA

                                                   Then it was

A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen,

With passion in her eyes, and fear and pain

Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees

Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows

Himself the cause, yet now is powerless

To stay the wrong he would.

                                                    Seeing me gaze

In pity on her woe, she turned and spake

With a low wailing voice—

                                                  "Thou well mayst gaze

With horror on me, sir, for I am lost;

I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago,

Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood

Of him I loved, and found for recompense

But self-inflicted death and age-long woe,

Which purges not my sin. And yet not I

It was who did it, but the gods, who took

A woman's loveless heart and tortured it

With love as with a fire. It was not I

Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate 'twas which brought

My love and me together, Fate which barred

The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame

To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart,

Where no relief might come.

                                                     The King was old,

And I a girl. 'Tis an old tale which runs

Thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. He had spent

His sum of love long since, and I—I knew not

A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange

To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep

Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know

A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought

For pomp, or palace, or respect of men;

Nor always in the stately marriage bed,

Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down,

Nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers

Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot,

Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars,

Dwells all night and is blest.

                                                    My love, my life!

He was the old man's son, a fair white soul—

Not like the others, whom the fire of youth

Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained

Thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal

And pure as any maid. No wandering glance

He deigned for all the maidens young and fair

Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore,

Upon the high lawns wandering alone,

He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis,

Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath

From the unpolluted meads, where never herd

Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come,

But the bee sails upon unfettered wing

Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity

Waters them with soft dews; and yet he showed

Of all his peers most manly—heart and soul

A very man, tender and true, and strong

And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien

Fair as Apollo's self.

                                     It was at first

In Trœzen that I saw him, when he came

To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths

He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not

Whom 'twas I saw, nor that I held the place

Which was his mother's, only from the throng

Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart

Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance

Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs,

The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes

Tender yet full of passion, the thick locks

Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore

The down of early manhood, seemed to feed

My heart with short-lived joy.

                                                          For when he stood

Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire,

Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse

Of Aphrodité burn me, as it burned

My mother before me, and I dared not meet

His innocent, frank young eyes.

                                                         Said I then young?

Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known

The secret things of life, which age the soul

In a moment, writing on its front their mark

'Too early ripe;' and he was innocent,

My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms

I had defied the world.

                                          I turned away

Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails

High in mid air above the haunts of men,

Feeling some little dart within her breast,

Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks

Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt

Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool,

And pines until the end.

                                            Even from that day

I strove to gain his love. Nay, 'twas not I,

But the cruel gods who drove me. Day by day

We were together; for in days of old

Women were free, not pent in gilded jails

As afterwards, but free to walk alone,

For good or evil, free. I hardly took

Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found

My love at last: what matter if it were

A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed,

Stronger than heaven or hell. Day after day

I set myself to tempt him from his proud

And innocent way, for I had spurned aside

Care for the gods or men—all but my love.

 

   What need to tell the tale? Was it a sigh,

A blush, a momentary glance, which brought

Assurance of my triumph? It is long

Since I have lived, I cannot tell; I know

Only the penalty of death and hell

Which followed on my sin. I knew he loved.

It was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt

A boy and girl together. I was fair,

And Eros fired my eyes and lent my voice

His own soft tremulous tones. But when our souls

Trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned

His arms around me as we fled alone

To some free land of exile, lo! a scroll:

'Dearest, it may not be; I fear the Gods;

We dare not do this wrong. I go from hence

And see thy face no more. Farewell! Forget

The love we may not own; go, seek for both

Forgiveness from the gods.'

                                                     When I read the words,

The cruel words, methought my heart stood still,

And when the ebbing life returned I seemed

To have lost all thought of Love. Only Revenge

Dwelt with me still, the fiercer that I knew

My long-prized hope, which came so near success,

Snatched from me and for ever.

                                                            When I rose

From my deep swoon, I bade a messenger

Go, seek the King for me. He came and sate

Beside my couch, and all the doors were closed,

And all withdrawn. Then with the liar's art,

And hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy,

And all the subtle wiles a woman draws

From the armoury of hate, I did instil

The poison to his soul. Cunning devices,

Feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets,

And half confessions—these, with hateful skill

Confused together, drove the old man's soul

To frenzy; and I watched him, with a sneer,

Turn to a dotard thirsting for the life

Of his own child. But how to do the deed,

Yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate,

Who loved the Prince, I knew not.

                                                              Till one day

The old man, looking out upon the sea,

Besought the dread Poseidon to avenge

The treachery of his son. Even as we stood

Gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud

Rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud,

Which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue

To purple; and a swift wind rose and sang

Higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea

Grew ruffled, and within the circling bay

The tiny ripples, stealing up the sand,

Plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled

To misty surges thundering on the shore.

 

   Then at the old man's elbow as I stood,

A deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill,

Answering, as now I know, my own black hate

And not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul

And bade me speak. 'The god has heard thy prayer,'

I whispered; 'See the surge which wakes and swells

To fury; well I know what things shall be.

It is Poseidon's voice sounds in the storm

And sends thy vengeance. Young Hippolytus

Loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand,

Hard by the rippled margin of the wave,

To urge his flying steeds. Bid him go forth—

He will obey—and see what recompense

The god will send his wrong.'

                                                     In the old man's eyes

A watery gleam of malice played awhile—

I hated him for it—and he bade his son

Drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke

His three young fiery steeds.

                                                        And still the storm

Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests

Plunged on the strand, and the high promontories

Resounded counter-stricken, and a mist

Of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding shore.

 

   Then saw I him come forth and bid them yoke

His untamed colts. I had not seen his face

Since that last day, but, seeing him, I felt

The old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate—

A storm of warring passions. Tho' I knew

What end should come, yet would I speak no word

That might avert it. The old man looked forth;

I think he had well-nigh forgotten all

The wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed,

All but the father's pride in the strong son,

Who was so young and bold. I saw a smile

Upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds

Were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand

Along the circling margin of the bay,

Flew, swift as light. A sudden gleam of sun

Flashed on the silver harness as it went,

Burned on the brazen axles of the wheels,

And on the golden fillets of the Prince

Doubled the gold. Sometimes a larger wave

Would dash in mist around him, and in fear

The rearing coursers plunged, and then again

The strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed

To where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay.

 

   And then he turned his chariot, a bright speck

Now seen, now hidden, but always, tho' the surge

Broke round it, safe; emerging like a star

From the white clouds of foam. And as I watched,

Speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath,

I saw the firm limbs strongly set apart

Upon the chariot, and the reins held high,

And the proud head bent forward, with long locks

Streaming behind, as nearer and more near

The swift team rushed—until, with a half joy,

It seemed as if my love might yet elude

The slow sure anger of the god, dull wrath

Swayed by a woman's lie.

                                                 But on the verge,

As I cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall

Swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves

Sank as it came, and to its toppling crest

The spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back,

Left dry the yellow shore. Onward it came,

Hoarse, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense,

Rearing its dreadful height. The chariot sped

Nearer and nearer. I could see my love

With the light of victory in his eyes, the smile

Of daring on his lips: so near he came

To where the marble palace-wall confined

The narrow strip of beach—his brave young eyes

Fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life,

Without a thought of death. I strove to cry,

But terror choked my breath. Then, like a bull

Upon the windy level of the plain

Lashing himself to rage, the furious wave,

Poising itself a moment, tossing high

Its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand

With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar.

                                                                       And when I looked,

The shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea

Of churning, seething foam—chariot and steeds

Gone, and my darling on the wave's white crest

Tossed high, whirled down, beaten, and bruised, and flung,

Dying upon the marble.

                                           My great love

Sprang up redoubled, and cast out my hate

And spurned all thought of fear; and down the stair

I hurried, and upon the bleeding form

I threw myself, and raised his head, and clasped

His body to mine, and kissed him on the lips,

And in his dying ear confessed my wrong,

And saw the horror in his dying eyes

And knew that I was damned. And when he breathed

His last pure breath, I rose and slowly spake—

Turned to a Fury now by love and pain—

To the old man who knelt, while all the throng

Could hear my secret: 'See, thou fool, I am

The murderess of thy son, and thou my dupe,

Thou and thy gods. See, he was innocent;

I murdered him for love. I scorn ye all,

Thee and thy gods together, who are deceived

By a woman's lying tongue! Oh, doting fool,

To hate thy own! And ye, false powers, which punish

The innocent, and let the guilty soul

Escape unscathed, I hate ye all—I curse,

I loathe you!'

                        Then I stooped and kissed my love,

And left them in amaze; and up the stair

Swept slowly to my chamber, and therein,

Hating my life and cursing men and gods,

I did myself to death.

                                      But even here,

I find my punishment. Oh, dreadful doom

Of souls like mine! To see their evil done

Always before their eyes, the one dread scene

Of horror. See, the dark wave on the verge

Towers horrible, and he—— Oh, Love, my Love!

Safety is near! quick! quicker! urge them on!

Thou wilt 'scape it yet!—Nay, nay, it bursts on him!

I have shed the innocent blood! Oh, dreadful gaze

Within his glazing eyes! Hide them, ye gods!

Hide them! I cannot bear them. Quick! a dagger!

I will lose their glare in death. Nay, die I cannot;

I must endure and live—Death brings not peace

To the lost souls in Hell."

                                           And her eyes stared,

Rounded with horror, and she stooped and gazed

So eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands

Upon her trembling forehead with such pain

As drives the gazer mad.