Helen in Egypt: Poetry (New Directions Paperbook)

by Hilda Doolittle

  Who will forget Helen?

  Oenone’s eyes are wild,

  flecked like a wild-cat,

  “adultress and witch,

  such prowl through the city streets”;

  then I remembered the gate,

  the silence,

  “heal me, Oenone”;

  “if you forget — Helen”;

  who will forget Helen?

  not Paris, feverish, with the wild eyes

  of Oenone, watching his death.

  [5]

  Paris says to Helen, “now it is dark upon Leuké,” so we imagine them together — we do not know where. But we see, through the eyes of Paris, an earlier Helen. It is a vibrant, violent Helen. This veil to which Paris refers, as well as that other, “caught on a fallen pilaster,” seems to have no occult significance, only that in both cases they suggest finality. It is true that the “woven veil by the portal” that Helen clutched to break her fall, was at the beginning of the drama. The shout “from the banquet-hall, ‘return the wanton to Greece’” was answered by the defiance of Paris and the Trojan war.

  Now it is dark upon Leuké,

  can you see, can you feel

  the woven veil by the portal

  that you clutched to break your fall?

  your hand was whiter than bone;

  as you clenched your fist,

  the knuckles shone, ivory;

  you were eaten away by fire;

  nothing could help you,

  not I, Paris, tearing the folds loose,

  drawing the curtain back,

  “they can not, they will not,”

  for a shout rose from the banquet-hall,

  “return the wanton to Greece”;

  do you remember how you tore

  from my arms and ran?

  but a sentry stood by the door;

  as you dived under his spear,

  barring the way; what hand

  stayed your death?

  what hand smothered your cry

  and dragged you back?

  what arm, stronger than Hercules,

  sustained you?

  it was a small room,

  yes, a taper was burning

  in an onyx jar;

  so you raged;

  even Oenone’s later,

  was a lesser anger.

  [6]

  “The veil caught on a fallen pilaster” marks the end of the drama, and an isolated moment in time, when Helen turns “at the stair-head.” Paris says, “you saw what I did not see, till I swerved.” In that moment before Philoctetes’ arrow pierces his shoulder, he has time to wonder why Helen hesitates. He says, “you saw what I did not see.” But he heard what she did not hear, if his inference has any meaning. Helen had gone.

  Why did you limp and turn

  at the stair-head and half turn back?

  you saw what I did not see,

  till I swerved; they knew

  that Philoctetes’ arrow spelt death,

  so they left me — dead;

  who will forget Helen?

  not the host, clanging their steel

  upon steel, as they rushed

  in sure pursuit of the quarry,

  Helena; “how do you know?”

  “ — she flashed as a star,

  then vanished into the air”;

  “ — it’s only a winding stair,

  a spiral, like a snail-shell”;

  “ — a trap — let the others go — ”

  “ — into the heart of earth,

  into the bowels of death — stand back — ”

  “ — it’s only the fumes

  from the camp fires without — ”

  “ — they have fired the turrets from below,

  we are ringed with fire;

  follow the others or go back?”

  “ — go back, go back, go back … ”

  I lived

  on my slice of Wall,

  while the Towers fell.

  [7]

  That is, “the story the harpers tell” says that “she was rapt away by Hermes, at Zeus’ command.” There were other stories. But Paris had seen the enemy, had heard their arguments. He had witnessed the confusion and panic and at the end, the blackened hollow of what had once been the famous “winding-stair, a spiral, like a snail-shell,” down which Helen had fled. Yes, Paris says, “Zeus had rapt you away,” but he adds, “the harpers never touch their strings to name Helena and Death.”

  And Helen? the story the harpers tell

  reached us, even here upon Leuké;

  how she was rapt away

  by Hermes, at Zeus’ command,

  how she returned to Sparta,

  how in Rhodes she was hanged

  and the cord turned to a rainbow,

  how she met Achilles — she met Achilles?

  bereft? left? a ghost or a phantom

  in Egypt? (you have told me the story);

  and Helena? I crawled to the marble ledge,

  but the stairs were blasted away,

  the Wall was black,

  the court-yard empty

  save for charred armour,

  the only sign of the host

  that had followed you down the stairs;

  yes, Zeus had rapt you away,

  but the harpers

  never touch their strings

  to name Helena and Death.

  [8]

  She died, he says, that is all there is about it. They meet here on Leuké. There is a mystery but it happens all the time. There is nothing new about it. A tree is struck down or blighted by the frost, it flowers again … “now it is dark upon Leuké.”

  I am the first in all history

  to say, she died, died, died

  when the Walls fell;

  what mystery is more subtle than this?

  what spell is more potent?

  I saw the pomegranate,

  blighted by winter,

  I saw the flowering pomegranate

  and the cleft fruit on the summer branch;

  I wait for a miracle as simple,

  as inevitable as this …

  now it is dark upon Leuké.

  Book Three

  [1]

  So Paris in some setting, we may imagine, of former intimacy, tells Helen, “I was king.” His father was killed, “Hector was slain by Achilles.” The new king had inherited more than the ruined Walls. He said, “I lived on my slice of Wall, while the Towers fell.” With his will to live, was his will to remember Helen. So he seeks Oenone. That minor enchantress or “wise-woman” would heal him. But we know the lesser power or charm can not negate or “heal” the greater. It is only the greatest of all that can do this.

  I knew you had gone,

  I do not mean, the long road to Hades,

  (not so long),

  I knew you had gone,

  as I watched for the Wain, the Bear

  to climb over my ledge of Wall,

  I mean, I knew you had gone,

  gone utterly, as I watched for the dawn;

  when the sun came, I knew

  you were never satisfied,

  and strength came;

  I had not satisfied you;

  when she finds fulfillment,

  I said, she will come back;

  I was feverish, I called to Oenone,

  that wise-woman would heal me;

  how did I crawl or fall

  through the terraced breach?

  what sense lead me?

  I can not remember,

  only that it was empty,

  a blasted shell, my city, my Wall;

  I was king, Hector was slain by Achilles;

  my father was slain by Pyrrhus,

  Achilles’ son; Achilles?

  the stone was cool;

  how long had I lain there?

  [2]

  So, in extremis, the goddess appears to him. We can not believe that Aphrodite really wants him to forget Helen. It seems that she is testing him when s
he says, “I even I may recall you to life, if you forget — Helen.”

  She was fair,

  I had seen her before,

  once upon Ida;

  a tattered garment folded

  across my knee,

  as she bent over me;

  “you are poor”; “never richer,

  King of Troy, Lord of Illium;

  do you regret, now all is lost,

  the Judgement of Paris?”

  (did Oenone see her?)

  there was the lantern,

  on its peg by the door,

  I had taken to the sheep-fold;

  “we are old, Paris, you and I,

  but the mountain Ida is older;

  you will come back to Ida,

  your mother, you will reclaim

  the kingdom, Wolf-slayer;

  I even I may recall you to life,

  if you forget — Helen.”

  [3]

  Paris says to the apparition, “you are poor.” Paris had returned to his shepherd’s hut or cottage. “There was the lantern on its peg by the door, I had taken to the sheep-fold.” It was the shepherd Paris who was chosen by Fate to award the apple. The apparition asks, “do you regret, now all is lost, the Judgement of Paris?” Paris is now the dead or dying King, the Adonis of legend. As she “walked to the door,” the apparition whispered, “Leuké, the white island.” It is as if she were again offering Paris the most beautiful woman in the world — only this time, it is l’isle blanche.

  Wolf-slayer? it was my arrow

  that had found Achilles’ heel,

  so I laughed; he had slain

  Hector, my older brother

  and made me King;

  so I spoke to her,

  and Oenone stood opposite,

  dazed with wonder,

  “did you call me?”

  “no, I spoke to another

  of a far land (not so far),”

  for she whispered “Leuké, the white island,”

  as she walked to the door,

  yes, walked, lifting the latch softly;

  she did not vanish in fire,

  nor fade into the air,

  she was simple,

  being god-like and poor;

  who will forget Helen?

  not Paris, feverish, with the wild eyes

  of Oenone watching his death.

  [4]

  Again the veil motif, Paris calls it a scarf. Achilles had used both words for the “transparent folds … in the beginning.” The veil? the dream? Paris would convince Helen that Achilles “was never your lover.” Paris would “break this spell,” and “enter into a circle of new enchantment.”

  Was it Thetis

  who lured you from Egypt?

  or was it Aphrodite?

  no matter, there is one law;

  as the tides are drawn to the shore,

  the lover draws the beloved,

  as a magnet, a lode-stone, a lode-star;

  a path is made on the water

  for the caravel,

  (they called his bark, you said, a caravel),

  you drew Achilles to Egypt;

  I watched you upon the ramparts,

  I saw your scarf flutter

  out toward the tents;

  the wind? the will of Helena?

  the will of Aphrodite?

  no matter — there was no pulse in the air,

  yet your scarf flew,

  a visible sign,

  to enchant him,

  to draw him nearer;

  whoever could break this spell,

  would enter into a circle

  of new enchantment;

  he was father, brother,

  he was deserted husband,

  he was never your lover;

  do not answer me, Helen;

  you fell on his spear,

  like a bird out of the air.

  [5]

  Such love, “lightning out of a clear sky,” argues Paris, destroys not only the love-object but itself as well. And now we find, actually, that Paris and Helen are together in “this small room … this haven, this peace, this return, Adonis and Cytheraea.”

  Or he was lightning

  out of a clear sky,

  or hovering eagle

  to fall, to tear, to devour;

  you courted annihilation,

  but he could not vanquish you,

  nor could Helen destroy Helen;

  who laid the snare?

  was it Love, was it War?

  what is Helen without the spears,

  what is Love without arrows?

  this — flickering of pine-cones,

  this fragrance of pine-knots,

  this small room,

  no blaze of torches,

  no trumpet-note, no clamour of war-gear,

  this haven, this peace, this return,

  Adonis and Cytheraea.

  [6]

  But Paris is not wholly satisfied. He feels that Helen is still under the spell of “Egyptian incense wafted through infinite corridors.” He reminds her of her vow in Priam’s palace, “never, never to return” and their defiance of “Achilles and the thousand spears.” Again, he recalls the simple mystery of the “flowering pomegranate.” Helen, he tells us (and her) in Rhodes, is Dendritis, “Helena of the trees.”

  You died in Troy on the stairs,

  one does not die here;

  you slipped from a husk

  or a web, like a butterfly;

  they call you Dendritis in Rhodes,

  Helena of the trees;

  not lightning out of the clear skies,

  but waiting for the sap to rise;

  why, why do you yearn to return?

  I sense through the fragrance

  of pine-cones, Egyptian incense

  wafted through infinite corridors;

  why, why would you deny

  the peace, the sanctity

  of this small room,

  the lantern there by the door?

  why must you recall

  the white fire of unnumbered stars,

  rather than that single taper

  burning in an onyx jar,

  where you swore

  never, never to return,

  (“return the wanton to Greece”),

  where we swore together

  defiance of Achilles

  and the thousand spears,

  we alone would compel the Fates,

  we chosen of Cytheraea;

  can you forget the pact?

  why would you recall another?

  O Helena, tangled in thought,

  be Rhodes’ Helena, Dendritis,

  why remember Achilles?

  [7]

  He has asked, “why remember Achilles?” and apparently, Helen has turned on him with the accusation that it is he who has “recalled the past.” There is despair and envy in him, “hatred, fear of the Greeks.” There is that shadow, that prescience, even now in “this haven, this peace, this return.” He is “defeated even upon Leuké.” For her, there was “healing … death or awakening … the love of Achilles.” The final retort of Paris is, “I say he never loved you.”

  You say it is I, I who recall the host,

  the flight to the stair-head,

  the trampling of shod feet,

  the rasp of iron-edged sandals on marble,

  the shout, even before I turned, Helena,

  the arrow you saw before I swerved,

  the dart’s curve; then the long descent,

  the intricate spiral of the tower-stairs,

  rush down? turn back?

  you say it is I, I defeated even upon Leuké,

  you feel in me even now, the shadow, the prescience,

  envy, hatred, fear of the Greeks;

  you say I have recalled the past,

  and for that past, there was only one healing

  (appeasement, death or awakening,

  anodyne, incense) for the initiate,

  (after the inevi
table sequence of long tortures,

  long waiting), the Mysteries of Egypt;

  you say you did not die on the stairs,

  that the love of Achilles sustained you;

  I say he never loved you.

  [8]

  Helen appears “in rent veil.” When Aphrodite had appeared to him in his delirium, Paris had said, “a tattered garment folded across my knee, as she bent over me.” Now Helen’s garment or “veil” is “rent” Is the garment of the apparition synonymous with the “veil” of Helen? Is the “torn garment” in both cases, a symbol? Paris has accepted and must accept “a tattered garment” or an incomplete or partial manifestation of the vision, but Helen was suave and elegant, her “garment sheathed” her, as she “stepped from the painted prow.” He says, “your sandal shone silver, by that, I knew you who would know you anywhere.” But now, she has taken on the attributes of another. True, Paris had referred to himself and Helen as “Adonis and Cytheraea.” But now he turns on her, “do you dare impersonate Her?” Helen is leaving him. We feel that she has renounced, with her “silver sandals,” all claim to the world and her past affiliations with it. She walks, “barefoot toward the door.”