Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Of Death’s portentous passage through the door,

  Apollon stood a pitying moment-space:

  I caught one last gold gaze upon the night

  Nearing the world now: and the God was gone,

  And mortals left to deal with misery;

  As in came stealing slow, now this, now that

  Old sojourner throughout the country-side. 500

  Servants grown friends to those unhappy here:

  And, cloudlike in their increase, all these griefs

  Broke and began the over-brimming wail,

  Out of a common impulse, word by word.

  “Whatever means the silence at the door?

  Why is Admetos’ mansion stricken dumb?

  Not one friend near, to say if we should mourn

  Our mistress dead, or still Alkestis live

  And see the light here, Pelias’ child — to me,

  To all, conspicuously the best of wives 510

  That ever was toward husband in this world!

  Hears anyone or wail beneath the roof,

  Or hands that strike each other, or the groan

  Announcing all is done and nought to dread?

  Still not a servant stationed at the gates!

  O Paian, that thou would’st dispart the wave

  O’ the woe, be present! Yet, had woe o’erwhelmed

  The housemates, they were hardly silent thus:

  It cannot be, the dead is forth and gone.

  Whence comes thy gleam of hope? I dare not hope: 520

  What is the circumstance that heartens thee?

  How could Admetos have dismissed a wife

  So worthy, unescorted to the grave?

  Before the gates I see no hallowed vase

  Of fountain-water, such as suits death’s door;

  Nor any dipt locks strew the vestibule,

  Though surely these drop when we grieve the dead:

  Nor sounds hand smitten against youthful hand,

  The women’s way. And yet — the appointed time —

  How speak the word? — this day is even the day 530

  Ordained her for departing from its light.

  O touch calamitous to heart and soul!

  Needs must one, when the good are tortured so,

  Sorrow, — one reckoned faithful from the first.”

  Then their souls rose together, and one sigh

  Went up in cadence from the common mouth:

  How “Vainly — any whither in the world

  Directing or land-labour or sea-search —

  To Lukia or the sand-waste, Ammon’s seat —

  Might you set free their hapless lady’s soul 540

  From the abrupt Fate’s footstep instant now.

  Not a sheep-sacrificer at the hearths

  Of Gods had they to go to: one there was

  Who, if his eyes saw light still, — Phoibos’ son, —

  Had wrought so, she might leave the shadowy place

  And Hades’ portal; for he propped up Death’s

  Subdued ones, till the Zeus-flung thunder-flame

  Struck him: and now what hope of life to hail

  With open arms? For, all the king could do

  Is done already, — not one God whereof 550

  The altar fails to reek with sacrifice:

  And for assuagement of these evils — nought!”

  But here they broke off, for a matron moved

  Forth from the house: and, as her tears flowed fast,

  They gathered round. “What fortune shall we hear?

  To mourn indeed, if aught affect thy lord,

  We pardon thee: but, lives the lady yet,

  Or has she perished? — that we fain would know!”

  “Call her dead, call her living, each style serves,”

  The matron said: “though grave-wards bowed, she breathed; 560

  Nor knew her husband what the misery meant

  Before he felt it: hope of life was none:

  The appointed day pressed hard; the funeral pomp

  He had prepared too.”

  When the friends broke out,

  “Let her in dying know herself at least

  Sole wife, of all the wives ‘neath the sun wide,

  For glory and for goodness!” — “Ah, how else

  Than best? who controverts the claim?” quoth she:

  “What kind of creature should the woman prove

  That has surpassed Alkestis? — surelier shown 570

  Preference for her husband to herself

  Than by determining to die for him?

  But so much all our city knows indeed:

  Hear what she did indoors and wonder then!

  For, when she felt the crowning day was come,

  She washed with river-waters her white skin,

  And, taking from the cedar closets forth

  Vesture and ornament, bedecked herself

  Nobly, and stood before the hearth, and prayed:

  ‘Mistress, because I now depart the world, 580

  Falling before thee the last time, I ask —

  Be mother to my orphans! wed the one

  To a kind wife, and make the other’s mate

  Some princely person: nor, as I who bore

  My children perish, suffer that they too

  Die all untimely, but live, happy pair,

  Their full glad life out in the fatherland!’

  And every altar through Admetos’ house

  She visited and crowned and prayed before,

  Stripping the myrtle-foliage from the boughs, 590

  Without a tear, without a groan, — no change

  At all to that skin’s nature, fair to see,

  Caused by the imminent evil. But this done, —

  Reaching her chamber, falling on her bed,

  There, truly, burst she into tears and spoke:

  ‘O bride-bed, where I loosened from my life

  Virginity for that same husband’s sake

  Because of whom I die now — fare thee well!

  Since nowise do I hate thee: me alone

  Hast thou destroyed; for, shrinking to betray 600

  Thee and my spouse, I die: but thee, O bed!

  Some other woman shall possess as wife —

  Truer, no! but of better fortune, say!’

  — So falls on, kisses it till all the couch

  Is moistened with the eyes’ sad overflow.

  But, when of many tears she had her fill,

  She flings from off the couch, goes headlong forth,

  Yet, — forth the chamber, — still keeps turning back

  And casts her on the couch again once more.

  Her children, clinging to their mother’s robe, 610

  Wept meanwhile: but she took them in her arms,

  And, as a dying woman might, embraced

  Now one and now the other: ‘neath the roof,

  All of the household servants wept as well,

  Moved to compassion for their mistress; she

  Extended her right hand to all and each,

  And there was no one of such low degree

  She spoke not to nor had an answer from.

  Such are the evils in Admetos’ house.

  Dying, — why, he had died; but, living, gains 620

  Such grief as this he never will forget!”

  And when they questioned of Admetos, “Well —

  Holding his dear wife in his hands, he weeps;

  Entreats her not to give him up, and seeks

  The impossible, in fine: for there she wastes

  And withers by disease, abandoned now,

  A mere dead weight upon her husband’s arm.

  Yet, none the less, although she breathe so faint,

  Her will is to behold the beams o’ the sun:

  Since never more again, but this last once, 630

  Shall she see sun, its circlet or its ray.

  But I will go, announce your presence, — friends

  Indeed; s
ince ‘t is not all so love their lords

  As seek them in misfortune, kind the same:

  But you are the old friends I recognize.”

  And at the word she turned again to go:

  The while they waited, taking up the plaint

  To Zeus again: “What passage from this strait?

  What loosing of the heavy fortune fast

  About the palace? Will such help appear, 640

  Or must we clip the locks and cast around

  Each form already the black peplos’ fold?

  Clearly the black robe, clearly! All the same

  Pray to the Gods! — like Gods’ no power so great!

  O thou king Paian, find some way to save!

  Reveal it, yea, reveal it! Since of old

  Thou found’st a cure, why, now again become

  Releaser from the bonds of Death, we beg,

  And give the sanguinary Hades pause!”

  So the song dwindled into a mere moan; 650

  Plow dear the wife, and what her husband’s woe;

  When suddenly —

  ”Behold, behold!” breaks forth:

  “Here is she coming from the house indeed!

  Her husband comes, too! Cry aloud, lament,

  Pheraian land, this best of women, bound —

  So is she withered by disease away —

  For realms below and their infernal king!

  Never will we affirm there ‘s more of joy

  Than grief in marriage; making estimate

  Both from old sorrows anciently observed, 660

  And this misfortune of the king we see —

  Admetos who, of bravest spouse bereaved,

  Will live life’s remnant out, no life at all!”

  So wailed they, while a sad procession wound

  Slow from the innermost o’ the palace, stopped

  At the extreme verge of the platform-front:

  There opened, and disclosed Alkestis’ self,

  The consecrated lady, borne to look

  Her last — and let the living look their last —

  She at the sun, we at Alkestis. 670

  For would you note a memorable thing?

  We grew to see in that severe regard, —

  Hear in that hard dry pressure to the point,

  Word slow pursuing word in monotone, —

  What Death meant when he called her consecrate

  Henceforth to Hades. I believe, the sword —

  Its office was to cut the soul at once

  From life, — from something in this world which hides

  Truth, and hides falsehood, and so lets us live

  Somehow. Suppose a rider furls a cloak 680

  About a horse’s head; unfrightened, so,

  Between the menace of a flame, between

  Solicitation of the pasturage,

  Untempted equally, he goes his gait

  To journey’s end: then pluck the pharos off!

  Show what delusions steadied him i’ the straight

  O’ the path, made grass seem fire and fire seem grass,

  All through a little bandage o’er the eyes!

  For certainly with eyes unbandaged now

  Alkestis looked upon the action here, 690

  Self-immolation for Admetos’ sake;

  Saw, with a new sense, all her death would do,

  And which of her survivors had the right,

  And which the less right, to survive thereby.

  For, you shall note, she uttered no one word

  Of love more to her husband, though he wept

  Plenteously, waxed importunate in prayer —

  Folly’s old fashion when its seed bears fruit.

  I think she judged that she had bought the ware

  O’ the seller at its value, — nor praised him, 700

  Nor blamed herself, but, with indifferent eye,

  Saw him purse money up, prepare to leave

  The buyer with a solitary bale —

  True purple — but in place of all that coin,

  Had made a hundred others happy too,

  If so willed fate or fortune! What remained

  To give away, should rather go to these

  Than one with coin to clink and contemplate.

  Admetos had his share and might depart,

  The rest was for her children and herself. 710

  (Charopé makes a face: but wait a while!)

  She saw things plain as Gods do: by one stroke

  O’ the sword that rends the life-long veil away.

  (Also Euripides saw plain enough:

  But you and I, Charopé! — you and I

  Will trust his sight until our own grow clear.)

  “Sun, and thou light of day, and heavenly dance

  O’ the fleet cloud-figure!” (so her passion paused,

  While the awe-stricken husband made his moan,

  Muttered now this now that inaptitude: 720

  “Sun that sees thee and me, a suffering pair,

  Who did the Gods no wrong whence thou should’st die!”)

  Then, as if, caught up, carried in their course,

  Fleeting and free as cloud and sunbeam are,

  She missed no happiness that lay beneath:

  “O thou wide earth, from these my palace roofs,

  To distant nuptial chambers once my own

  In that Iolkos of my ancestry!” —

  There the flight failed her. “Raise thee, wretched one!

  Give us not up! Pray pity from the Gods!” 730

  Vainly Admetos: for “I see it — see

  The two-oared boat! The ferryer of the dead,

  Charon, hand hard upon the boatman’s-pole,

  Calls me — even now calls — ‘Why delayest thou?

  Quick! Thou obstructest all made ready here

  For prompt departure: quick, then!’ “

  ”Woe is me!

  A bitter voyage this to undergo,

  Even i’ the telling! Adverse Powers above,

  How do ye plague us!”

  Then a shiver ran:

  “He has me — seest not? — hales me, — who is it? — 740

  To the hall o’ the Dead — ah, who but Hades’ self,

  He, with the wings there, glares at me, one gaze

  All that blue brilliance, under the eye-brow!

  What wilt thou do? Unhand me! Such a way

  I have to traverse, all unhappy one!”

  “Way — piteous to thy friends, but, most of all,

  Me and thy children: ours assuredly

  A common partnership in grief like this!”

  Whereat they closed about her; but “Let be!

  Leave, let me lie now! Strength forsakes my feet. 750

  Hades is here, and shadowy on my eyes

  Comes the night creeping. Children — children, now

  Indeed, a mother is no more for you!

  Farewell, O children, long enjoy the light!”

  “Ah me, the melancholy word I hear,

  Oppressive beyond every kind of death!

  No, by the Deities, take heart nor dare

  To give me up — no, by our children too

  Made orphans of! But rise, be resolute!

  Since, thou departed, I no more remain! 760

  For in thee are we bound up, to exist

  Or cease to be — so we adore thy love!”

  — Which brought out truth to judgment. At this word

  And protestation, all the truth in her

  Claimed to assert itself: she waved away

  The blue-eyed black-wing’d phantom, held in check

  The advancing pageantry of Hades there,

  And, with no change in her own countenance,

  She fixed her eyes on the protesting man,

  And let her lips unlock their sentence, — so! 770

  “Admetos, — how things go with me thou seest, —

  I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things

  I will should follow.
I — to honour thee,

  Secure for thee, by my own soul’s exchange,

  Continued looking on the daylight here —

  Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live,

  Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,

  And dwell i’ the dome with pomp and queenliness.

  I would not, — would not live bereft of thee,

  With children orphaned, neither shrank at all, 780

  Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.

  Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth,

  Both of these gave thee up; for all, a term

  Of life was reached when death became them well,

  Ay, well — to save their child and glorious die:

  Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained

  Of having other children in thy place.

  So, 1 and thou had lived out our full time,

  Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, would’st groan

  With children reared in orphanage: but thus 790

  Some God disposed things, willed they so should be.

  Be they so! Now do thou remember this,

  Do me in turn a favour — favour, since

  Certainly I shall never claim my due,

  For nothing is more precious than a life:

  But a fit favour, as thyself wilt say,

  Loving our children here no less than I,

  If head and heart be sound in thee at least.

  Uphold them, make them masters of my house,

  Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair, 800

  Who, being a worse wife than I, thro’ spite

  Will raise her hand against both thine and mine.

  Never do this at least, I pray to thee!

  For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame,

  To the old brood — a very viper she

  For gentleness! Here stand they, boy and girl;

  The boy has got a father, a defence

  Tower-like, he speaks to and has answer from:

  But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood

  Conclude itself in marriage fittingly? 810

  Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow

  Art thou to chance? with all to apprehend —

  Lest, casting on thee some unkind report,

  She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.

  For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed,

  Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing by

  Just when a mother’s presence helps the most!

  No, for I have to die: and this my ill

  Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yet

  The third day of the month, but now, even now, 820

  I shall be reckoned among those no more.

  Farewell, be happy! And to thee, indeed,

  Husband, the boast remains permissible

  Thou hadst a wife was worthy! and to you,

  Children, as good a mother gave you birth.”