Tuesday 25 January 2022

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

SISYPHUS

                                             Then as I passed,

I marked against the hardly dawning sky

A toilsome figure standing, bent and strained,

Before a rocky mass, which with great pain

And agony of labour it would thrust

Up a steep hill. But when upon the crest

It poised a moment, then I held my breath

With dread, for, lo! the poor feet seemed to clutch

The hillside as in fear, and the poor hands

With hopeless fingers pressed into the stone

In agony, and the limbs stiffened, and a cry

Like some strong swimmer's, whom the mightier stream

Sweeps downward, and he sees his children's eyes

Upon the bank; broke from him; and at last,

After long struggles of despair, the limbs

Relaxed, and as I closed my fearful eyes,

Seeing the inevitable doom—a crash,

A horrible thunderous noise, as down the steep

The shameless fragment leapt. From crag to crag

It bounded ever swifter, striking fire

And wrapt in smoke, as to the lowest depths

Of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it

The miserable form whose painful gaze

I caught, as with the great rock whirled and dashed

Downward, and marking every crag with gore

And long gray hairs, it plunged, yet living still,

To the black hollow; and then a silence came

More dreadful than the noise, and a low groan

Was all that I could hear.

                                              When to the foot

Of the dark steep I hurried, half in hope

To find the victim dead—not recognizing

The undying life of Hell—I seemed to see

An aged man, bruised, bleeding, with gray hairs,

And eyes from which the cunning leer of greed

Was scarcely yet gone out.

                                                A crafty voice

It was that answered me, the voice of guile

Part purified by pain:

                                      "There comes not death

To those who live in Hell, nor hardly pause

Of suffering longer than may serve to make

The pain renewed, more piercing. Long ago,

I thought that I had cheated Death, and now

I seek him; but he comes not, nor know I

If ever he will hear me. Whence art thou?

Comest thou from earthly air, or whence? What power

Has brought thee hither? For I know indeed

Thou art not lost as I; for never here

I look upon a human face, nor see

The ghosts who doubtless here on every side

Suffer a common pain, only at times

I hear the echo of a shriek far off,

Like some faint ghost of woe which fills the pause

And interval of suffering; but from whom

The voice may come, or whence, I know not, only

The air teems with vague pain, which doth distract

The ear when for a moment comes surcease

Of agony, and the sense of effort spent

In vain and fruitless labour, and the pang

Of long-deferred defeat, which waits and takes

The world-worn heart, and maddens it when all—

Heaven, conscience, happiness, are staked and lost

For gains which still elude it.

                                                    Yet 'twas sweet,

A King in early youth, when pleasure is sweet,

To live the fair successful years, and know

The envy and respect of men. I cared

For none of youth's delights: the dance, the song,

Allured me not; the smooth soft ways of sense

Tempted me not at all. I could despise

The follies that I shared not, spending all

The long laborious days in toilsome schemes

To compass honour and wealth, and, as I grew

In name and fame, finding my hoarded gains

Transmuted into Power. The seas were white

With laden argosies, and all were mine.

The sheltering moles defied the wintry storms,

And all were mine. The marble aqueducts,

The costly bridges, all were mine. Fair roads

Wound round and round the hills—my work. The gods

Alone I heeded not, nor cared at all

For aught but that my eyes and ears might take,

Spurning invisible things, nor built I to them

Temple or shrine, wrapt up in life, set round

With earthly blessings like a god. I rose

To such excess of weal and fame and pride,

My people held me god-like. I grew drunk

With too great power, scoffing at men and gods,

Careless of both, but not averse to fling

To those too weak themselves, what benefits

My larger wisdom spurned.

                                                   Then suddenly

I knew the pain of failure. Summer storms

Sucked down my fleets even within sight of port.

A grievous blight wasted the harvest-fields,

Mocking my hopes of gain. Wars came and drained

My store, and I grew needy, knowing now

The hell of stronger souls, the loss of power

Wherein they exulted once. There comes no pain

Deeper than to have known delight of power,

And then to lose it all. But I, I would not

Sit tame beneath defeat, trimming my sails

To wait the breeze of Fortune—fickle breath

Which perhaps might breathe no more—but chose instead

By rash conceit and bolder enterprise

To win her aid again. I had no thought

Of selfish gain, only to be and act

As a god to those, feeding my sum of pride

With acted good.

                                 But evermore defeat

Dogged me, and evermore my people grew

To doubt me, seeing no more the wealth, the force,

Which once they worshipped. Then the lust of power

Loved, not for sake of others, but itself,

Grew on me, and the pride which can dare all,

Save failure only, seized me. Evil finds

Its ready chance. There were rich argosies

Upon the seas: I sank them, ship and crew,

In the unbetraying ocean. Wayfarers

Crossing the passes with rich merchandise

My creatures, hid behind the crags, o'erwhelmed

With rocks hurled downward. Yet I spent my gains

For the public weal, not otherwise; and they,

The careless people, took the piteous spoils

Which cost the lives of many, and a man's soul,

And blessed the giver. Empty venal blessings,

Which sting more deep than curses!

                                                                    For awhile

I was content with this, but at the last

A great contempt and hatred of them took me,

The base, vile churls! Why should I stain my soul

For such as those—dogs that would fawn and lick

The hand that fed them, but, if food should fail,

Would turn and rend me? I would none of them;

I would grow rich and happy, being indeed

Godlike in brain to such. So with all craft,

And guile, and violence I enriched me, loading

My treasuries with gold. My deep-laid schemes

Of gain engrossed the long laborious days,

Stretched far into the night. Enjoy, I might not,

Seeing it was all to do, and life so brief

That ere a man might gain the goal he would,

Lo! Age, and with it Death, and so an end!

For all the tales of the indignant gods,

What were they but the priests'? I had myself

Broken all oaths; long time deceived and ruined

With every phase of fraud the pious fools

Whom oath-sworn Justice bound; battened on blood

And what was I the worse? How should the gods

Bear rule if I were happy? Death alone

Was certain. Therefore must I haste to heap

Treasure sufficient for my need, and then

Enjoy the gathered good.

                                               But gradually

There came—not great disasters which might crush

All hope, but petty checks which did decrease

My store, and left my labour vain, and me

Unwilling to enjoy; and gradually

I felt the chill approach of age, which stole

Higher and higher on me, till the life,

As in a paralytic, left my limbs

And heart, and mounted upwards to my brain,

Its last resort, and rested there awhile

Ere it should spread its wings. But even thus,

Tho' powerless to enjoy, the insatiate greed

And thirst of power sustained me, and supplied

Life's spark with some scant fuel, till it seemed,

Year after year, as if I could not die,

Holding so fast to life. I grew so old

That all the comrades of my youth, my prime,

My age, were gone, and I was left alone

With those who knew me not, bereft of all

Except my master passion—an old man

Forlorn, forgotten of the gods and Death.

 

      So all the people, seeing me grow old

And prosperous, held me wise, and spread abroad

Strange fables, growing day by day more strange—

How I deceived the very gods. They thought

That I was blest, remembering not the wear

Of anxious thought, the growing sum of pain,

The failing ear and eye, the slower limbs,

Whose briefer name is Age: and yet I trow

I was not all unhappy, though I knew

It was too late to enjoy, and though my store

Increased not as my greed—nay, even sunk down

A little, year by year. Till, last of all,

When now my time was come and I had grown

A little tired of living, a trivial hurt

Laid me upon my bed; and as I mused

On my long life and all its villanies,

The wickedness I did, the blood I shed,

The guile, the frauds of years—they came with news,

One now, and now another; how my schemes

Were crushed, my enterprises lost, my toil

And labour all in vain. Day after day

They brought these tidings, while I longed to rise

And stay the tide of ill, and raved to know

I could not. At the last the added sum

Of evil, like yon great rock poised awhile

Uncertain, gathered into one, o'erwhelmed

My feeble strength, and left me ruined and lost,

And showed me all I was, and all the depth

And folly of my sin, and racked my brain,

And sank me in despair and misery,

And broke my heart and slew me.

                                                               Therefore 'tis

I spend the long, long centuries which have come

Between me and my sin, in such dread tasks

As that thou sawest. In the soul I sinned:

In body and soul I suffer. What I bade

My minions do to others, that of woe

I bear myself; and in the pause of ill,

As now, I know again the bitter pang

Of failure, which of old pierced thro' my soul

And left me to despair. The pain of mind

Is fiercer far than any bodily ill,

And both are mine—the pang of torture-pain

Always recurring; and, far worse, the pang

Of consciousness of black sins sinned in vain—

The doom of constant failure.

                                                        Will, fierce Will!

Thou parent of unrest and toil and woe,

Measureless effort! growing day by day

To force strong souls along the giddy steep

That slopes to the pit of Hell, where effort serves

Only to speed destruction! Yet I know

Thou art not, as some hold, the primal curse

Which doth condemn us; since thou bearest in thee

No power to satisfy thyself; but rather,

The spring of act, whereby in earth and heaven

Both men and gods do breathe and live and are,

Since Life is Act and not to Do is Death—

I do not blame thee: but to work in vain

Is bitterest penalty: to find at last

The soul all fouled with sin and stained with blood

In vain; ah, this is hell indeed—the hell

Of lost and striving souls!"

                                                  Then as I passed,

The halting figure bent itself again

To the old task, and up the rugged steep

Thrust the great rock with groanings. Horror chained

My parting footsteps, like a nightmare dream

Which holds us that we flee not, with wide eyes

That loathe to see, yet cannot choose but gaze

Till all be done. Slowly, with dreadful toil

And struggle and strain, and bleeding hands and knees,

And more than mortal strength, against the hill

He pressed, the wretched one! till with long pain

He trembled on the summit, a gaunt form,

With that great rock above him, poised and strained,

Now gaining, now receding, now in act

To win the summit, now borne down again,

And then the inevitable crash—the mass

Leaping from crag to crag. But ere it ceased

In dreadful silence, and the low groan came,

My limbs were loosed with one convulsive bound;

I hid my face within my hands, and fled,

Surfeit with horror.

 

 

CLYTÆMNESTRA

                                        Then it was again

A woman whom I saw, pitiless, stern,

Bearing the brand of blood—a lithe dark form,

And cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems

That argued her a Queen, and on her side

An ancient stain of gore, which did befoul

Her royal robe. A murderess in thought

And dreadful act, who took within the toils

Her kingly Lord, and slew him of old time

After burnt Troy. I had no time to speak

When she shrieked thus:

                                              "It doth repent me not

I would 'twere yet to do, and I would do it

Again a thousand times, if the shed blood

Might for one hour restore me to the kisses

Of my Ægisthus. Oh, he was divine,

My hero, with the godlike locks and eyes

Of Eros' self! What boots it that they prate

Of wifely duty, love of spouse or child,

Honour or pity, when the swift fire takes

A woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps

With fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies

In ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains

Of old affections, naught but the new flame

Which is unquenched desire?

                                                       It did not come,

My blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit

Of solitude and midnight loneliness,

And weary waiting for the tardy news

Of taken Troy. Long years I sate alone,

Widowed, within my palace, while my Lord

Was over seas, waging the accursèd war,

First of the file of Kings. Year after year

Came false report, or harder, no report

Of the great fleet. The summers waxed and waned,

The wintry surges smote the sounding shores,

And yet there came no end of it. They brought

Now hopeless failure, now great victories;

And all alike were false, all but delay

And hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks

The heart which suffering wrings not.

                                                                      So I bore

Long time the solitary years, and sought

To solace the dull days with motherly cares

For those my Lord had left me. My firstborn,

Iphigeneia, sailed at first with him

Upon that fatal voyage, but the young

Orestes and Electra stayed with me—

Not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes

The mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws

From the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love

It bore, ay, even tho' the sire be dear;

Much more, then, when he is a King indeed,

Mighty in war and council, but too high

To stoop to a woman's love. But she was gone,

Nor heard I tidings of her, knowing not

If yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare

The load of children, even as I had borne

Her in my opening girlhood, when I leapt

From child to Queen, but never loved the King.

 

      Thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last

There came a dreadful rumour—'She is dead,

Thy daughter, years ago. The cruel priests

Clamoured for blood; the stern cold Kings stood round

Without a tear, and he, her sire, with them,

To see a virgin bleed. They cut with knives

The taper girlish throat; they watched the blood

Drip slowly on the sand, and the young life

Meek as a lamb come to the sacrifice

To appease the angry gods.' And he, the King,

Her father, stood by too, and saw them do it,

The wickedness, breathing no word of wrath,

Till all was done! The cowards! the dull cowards!

I would some black storm, bursting suddenly,

Had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared

To waste an innocent life!

                                                  I had gone mad,

I know it, but for him, my love, my dear,

My fair sweet love. He came to comfort me

With words of friendship, holding that my Lord

Was bound, perhaps, to let her die—'The gods

Were ofttimes hard to appease—or was it indeed

The priests who asked it? Were there any gods?]

Or only phantoms, creatures of the brain,

Born of the fears of men, the greed of priests,

Useful to govern women? Had he been

Lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers

Who ever frighted cowards should have brought

His soul to such black depths.' I hearkening to him

As 'twere my own thought grown articulate,

Found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love—

Hate of my Lord, love of the voice which spoke

Such dear and comfortable words. And thus,

Love to a storm of passion growing, swept

My wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries

The hot sirocco all the bitter pools

Of salt among the sand. I never knew

True love before; I was a child, no more,

When the King cast his eyes on me. What is it

To have borne the weight of offspring 'neath the zone,

If Love be not their sire; or live long years

Of commerce, not of love? Better a day

Of Passion than the long unlovely years

Of wifely duty, when Love cometh not

To wake the barren days!

                                                And yet at first

I hesitated long, nor would embrace

The blessing that was mine. We are hedged round,

We women, by such close-drawn ordinances,

Set round us by our tyrants, that we fear

To overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds

Of custom; but at last Love, waking in me,

Burst all my chains asunder, and I lived

For naught but Love.

                                        My son, the young Orestes,

I sent far off; my girl Electra only

Remained, too young to doubt me, and I knew

At last what 'twas to live.

                                                So the swift years

Fleeted and found me happy, till the dark

Ill-omened day when Rumour, thousand-tongued,

Whispered of taken Troy; and from my dream

Of happiness, sudden I woke, and knew

The coming retribution. We had grown

Too loving for concealment, and our tale

Of mutual love was bruited far and wide

Through Argos. All the gossips bruited it,

And were all tongue to tell it to the King

When he should come. And should the cold proud Lord

I never loved, the murderer of my girl,

Come 'twixt my love and me? A swift resolve

Flashed through me pondering on it: Love for Love

And Blood for Blood—the simple golden rule

Taught by the elder gods.

                                                  When I had taken

My fixed resolve, I grew impatient for it,

Counting the laggard days. Oh, it was sweet

To simulate the yearning of a wife

Long parted from her Lord, and mock the fools

Who dogged each look and word, and but for fear

Had torn me from my throne—the pies, the jays,

The impotent chatterers, who thought by words

To stay me in the act! 'Twas sweet to mock them

And read distrust within their eyes, when I,

Knowing my purpose, bade them quick prepare

All fitting honours for the King, and knew

They dared not disobey—oh, 'twas enough

To wing the slow-paced hours.

                                                          But when at last

I saw his sails upon the verge, and then

The sea-worn ship, and marked his face grown old,

The body a little bent, which was so straight,

The thin gray hairs which were the raven locks

Of manhood when he went, I felt a moment

I could not do the deed. But when I saw

The beautiful sad woman come with him,

The future in her eyes, and her sad voice

Proclaimed the tale of doom, two thoughts at once

Assailed me, bidding me despatch with a blow

Him and his mistress, making sure the will

Of fate, and my revenge.

                                               Oh, it was strange

To see all happen as we planned; as 'twere

Some drama oft rehearsed, wherein each step,

Each word, is so prepared, the poorest player

Knows his turn come to do—the solemn landing—

The ride to the palace gate—the courtesies

Of welcome—the mute crowds without—the bath

Prepared within—the precious circling folds

Of tissue stretched around him, shutting out

The gaze, and folding helpless like a net

The mighty limbs—the battle-axe laid down

Against the wall, and I, his wife and Queen,[65]

Alone with him, waiting and watching still,

Till the woman shrieked without. Then with swift step

I seized the axe, and struck him as he lay

Helpless, once, twice, and thrice—once for my girl,

Once for my love, once for the woman, and all

For Fate and my Revenge!

                                                 He gave a groan,

Once only, as I thought he might; and then

No sound but the quick gurgling of the blood,

As it flowed from him in streams, and turned the pure

And limpid water of the bath to red—

I had not looked for that—it flowed and flowed,

And seemed to madden me to look on it,

Until my love with hands bloody as mine,

But with the woman's blood, rushed in, and eyes

Rounded with horror; and we turned to go,

And left the dead alone.

                                             But happiness

Still mocked me, and a doubt unknown before

Came on me, and amid the silken shows

And luxury of power I seemed to see

Another answer to my riddle of life

Than that I gave myself, and it was 'murder;'

And in my people's sullen mien and eyes,

'Murder;' and in the mirror, when I looked,

'Murder' glared out, and terror lest my son

Returning, grown to manhood, should avenge

His father's blood. For somehow, as 'twould seem,

The gods, if gods there be, or the stern Fate

Which doth direct our little lives, do filch

Our happiness—though bright with Love's own ray,

There comes a cloud which veils it. Yet, indeed,

My days were happy. I repent me not;

I would wade through seas of blood to know again

Those fierce delights once more.

                                                             But my young girl

Electra, grown to woman, turned from me

Her modest maiden eyes, nor loved to set

Her kiss upon my cheek, but, all distraught

With secret care, hid her from all the pomps

And revelries which did befit her youth,

Walking alone; and often at the tomb

Of her lost sire they found her, pouring out

Libations to the dead. And evermore

I did bethink me of my son Orestes,

Who now should be a man; and yearned sometimes

To see his face, yet feared lest from his eyes

His father's soul should smite me.

                                                                So I lived

Happy and yet unquiet—a stern voice

Speaking of doom, which long time softer notes

Of careless weal, the music that doth spring

From the fair harmonies of life and love,

Would drown in their own concord. This at times

Nay, day by day, stronger and dreadfuller,

With dominant accent, marred the sounds of joy

By one prevailing discord. So at length

I came to lose the Present in the dread

Of what might come; the penalty that waits

Upon successful sin; who, having sinned,

Had missed my sin's reward.

                                                      Until one day

I, looking from my palace casement, saw

A humble suppliant, clad in pilgrim garb,

Approach the marble stair. A sudden throb

Thrilled thro' me, and the mother's heart went forth

Thro' all disguise of garb and rank and years,

Knowing my son. How fair he was, how tall

And vigorous, my boy! What strong straight limbs

And noble port! How beautiful the shade

Of manhood on his lip! I longed to burst

From my chamber down, yearning to throw myself

Upon his neck within the palace court,

Before the guards—spurning my queenly rank,

All but my motherhood. And then a chill

Of doubt o'erspread me, knowing what a gulf

Fate set between our lives, impassable

As that great gulf which yawns 'twixt life and death

And 'twixt this Hell and Heaven. I shrank back,

And turned to think a moment, half in fear,

And half in pain; dividing the swift mind,

Yet all in love.

                           Then came a cry, a groan,

From the inner court, the clash of swords, the fall

Of a body on the pavement; and one cried,

'The King is dead, slain by the young Orestes,

Who cometh hither.' With the word, the door

Flew open, and my son stood straight before me,

His drawn sword dripping blood. Oh, he was fair

And terrible to see, when from his limbs,[70]

The suppliant's mantle fallen, left the mail

And arms of a young warrior. Love and Hate,

Which are the offspring of a common sire,

Strove for the mastery, till within his eyes

I saw his father's ghost glare unappeased

From out Love's casements.

                                                    Then I knew my fate

And his—mine to be slain by my son's hand,

And his to slay me, since the Furies drave

Our lives to one destruction; and I took

His point within my breast.

                                                  But I praise not

The selfish, careless gods who wrecked our lives,

Making the King the murderer of his girl,

And me his murderess; making my son

The murderer of his mother and her love—

A mystery of blood!—I curse them all,

The careless Forces, sitting far withdrawn

Upon the heights of Space, taking men's lives

For playthings, and deriding as in sport

Our happiness and woe—I curse them all.

We have a right to joy; we have a right,

I say, as they have. Let them stand confessed

The puppets that they are—too weak to give

The good they feign to love, since Fate, too strong

For them as us, beyond their painted sky,

Sits and derides them, too. I curse Fate too,

The deaf blind Fury, taking human souls

And crushing them, as a dull fretful child

Crushes its toys and knows not with what skill

Those feeble forms are feigned.

                                                           I curse, I loathe,

I spit on them. It doth repent me not.

I would 'twere yet to do. I have lived my life.

I have loved. See, there he lies within the bath,

And thus I smite him! thus! Didst hear him groan?

Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet! What, living still?

Ah me! we cannot die! Come, torture me,

Ye Furies—for I love not soothing words—

As once ye did my son. Ye miserable

Blind ministers of Hell, I do defy you;

Not all your torments can undo the Past

Of Passion and of Love!"

                                              Even as she spake

There came a viewless trouble in the air,

Which took her, and a sweep of wings unseen,

And terrible sounds, which swooped on her and hushed

Her voice, and seemed to occupy her soul

With horror and despair; and as she passed

I marked her agonized eyes.

 

                                                      But as I went,

Full many a dreadful shape of lonely pain

I saw. What need to tell them? We are filled

Who live to-day with a more present sense

Of the great love of God, than those of old

Who, groping in the dawn of Knowledge, saw

Only dark shadows of the Unknown; or he,

First-born of modern singers, who swept deep

His awful lyre, and woke the voice of song,

Dumb for long centuries of pain. We dread

To dwell on those long agonies its sin

Brings on the offending soul; who hold a creed

Of deeper Pity, knowing what chains of ill

Bind round our petty lives. Each phase of woe,

Suffering, and torture which the gloomy thought

Of bigots feigns for others—all were there.

One there was stretched upon a rolling wheel,

Which was the barren round of sense, that still

Returned upon itself and broke the limbs

Bound to it day and night. Others I saw

Doomed, with unceasing toil, to fill the urns

Whose precious waters sank ere they could slake

Their burning thirst. Another shapeless soul,

Full of revolts and hates and tyrannous force,

The weight of earth, which was its earth-born taint,

Pressed groaning down, while with fierce beak and claw

The vulture of remorse, piercing his breast,

Preyed on his heart. For others, overhead,

Great crags of rock impending seemed to fall,

But fell not nor brought peace. I felt my soul

Blunted with horrors, yearning to escape

To where, upon the limits of the wood,

Some scanty twilight grew.

                                                  But ere I passed

From those grim shades a deep voice sounded near,

A voice without a form.

                                              "There is an end

Of all things that thou seest! There is an end

Of Wrong and Death and Hell! When the long wear

Of Time and Suffering has effaced the stain

Ingrown upon the soul, and the cleansed spirit,

Long ages floating on the wandering winds

Or rolling deeps of Space, renews itself

And doth regain its dwelling, and, once more

Blent with the general order, floats anew

Upon the stream of Things,[2] and comes at length,

After new deaths, to that dim waiting-place

Thou next shalt see, and with the justified

White souls awaits the End; or, snatched at once,[76]

If Fate so will, to the pure sphere itself,

Lives and is blest, and works the Eternal Work

Whose name and end is Love! There is an end

Of Wrong and Death and Hell!"

                                                            Even as I heard,

I passed from out the shadow of Death and Pain,

Crying, "There is an end!"

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