Hardly befitting mirth and revelry.”
“No intimate, this woman that is dead:
Mourn not too much! For, those o’ the house itself, 1820
Thy masters live, remember!”
”Live indeed?
Ah, thou know’st nought o’ the woe within these walls!”
“I do — unless thy master spoke me false
Somehow!”
”Ay, ay, too much he loves a guest,
Too much, that master mine!” so muttered he.
“Was it improper he should treat me well,
Because an alien corpse was in the way?”
“No alien, but most intimate indeed!”
“Can it be, some woe was, he told me not?”
“Farewell and go thy way! Thy cares for thee — 1830
To us, our master’s sorrow is a care.”
“This word begins no tale of alien woe!”
“Had it been other woe than intimate,
I could have seen thee feast, nor felt amiss.”
“What! have I suffered strangely from my host?”
“Thou cam’st not at a fit reception-time:
With sorrow here beforehand: and thou seest
Shorn hair, black robes.”
”But who is it that’s dead?
Some child gone? or the aged sire perhaps?”
“Admetos’ wife, then! she has perished, guest!” 1840
“How sayest? And did ye house me, all the same?”
“Ay: for he had thee in that reverence
He dared not turn thee from his door away!”
“O hapless, and bereft of what a mate!”
“All of us now are dead, not she alone!”
“But I divined it! seeing, as I did,
His eye that ran with tears, his close-clipt hair,
His countenance! Though he persuaded me.
Saying it was a stranger’s funeral
He went with to the grave: against my wish, 1850
He forced on me that I should enter doors,
Drink in the hall o’ the hospitable man
Circumstanced so! And do I revel yet
With wreath on head? But — thou to hold thy peace,
Nor tell me what a woe oppressed my friend!
Where is he gone to bury her? Where am I
To go and find her?”
”By the road that leads
Straight to Larissa, thou wilt see the tomb,
Out of the suburb, a carved sepulchre.”
So said he, and therewith dismissed himself 1860
Inside to his lamenting: somewhat soothed,
However, that he had adroitly spoilt
The mirth of the great creature: oh, he marked
The movement of the mouth, how lip pressed lip,
And either eye forgot to shine, as, fast,
He plucked the chaplet from his forehead, dashed
The myrtle-sprays down, trod them underfoot!
And all the joy and wonder of the wine
Withered away, like fire from off a brand
The wind blows over — beacon though it be, 1870
Whose merry ardour only meant to make
Somebody all the better for its blaze,
And save lost people in the dark; quenched now!
Not long quenched! As the flame, just hurried off
The brand’s edge, suddenly renews its bite,
Tasting some richness caked i’ the core o’ the tree, —
Pine, with a blood that’s oil, — and triumphs up
Pillar-wise to the sky and saves the world:
So, in a spasm and splendour of resolve,
All at once did the God surmount the man. 1880
“O much-enduring heart and hand of mine!
Now show what sort of son she bore to Zeus,
That daughter of Elektruon, Tiruns’ child,
Alkmené! for that son must needs save now
The just-dead lady: ay, establish here
I’ the house again Alkestis, bring about
Comfort and succour to Admetos so!
I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled
King of the corpses! I shall find him, sure,
Drinking, beside the tomb, o’ the sacrifice: 1890
And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap
Out of my lair, and seize — encircle him
Till one hand join the other round about —
There lives not who shall pull him out from me,
Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!
But even say I miss the booty, — say,
Death comes not to the boultered blood, — why then,
Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place
Of Koré and the king there, — make demand,
Confident I shall bring Alkestis back, 1900
So as to put her in the hands of him
My host, that housed me, never drove me off:
Though stricken with sore sorrow, hid the stroke,
Being a noble heart and honouring me!
Who of Thessalians, more than this man, loves
The stranger? Who, that now inhabits Greece?
Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile
Whom he befriended, — native noble heart!”
So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh
Approval of his human progeny, — 1910
One summons of the whole magnific frame,
Each sinew to its service, — up he caught,
And over shoulder cast, the lion-shag,
Let the club go, — for had he not those hands?
And so went striding off, on that straight way
Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.
Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!
I think this is the authentic sign and seal
Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad,
And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts 1920
Into a rage to suffer for mankind,
And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed
After the blossom, ultimate of all.
Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?
Surely it has no other end and aim
Than to drop, once more die into the ground,
Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:
And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,
More joy and most joy, — do man good again.
So, off strode to the struggle Herakles. 1930
When silence closed behind the lion-garb,
Back came our dull fact settling in its place,
Though heartiness and passion half-dispersed
The inevitable fate. And presently
In came the mourners from the funeral,
One after one, until we hoped the last
Would be Alkestis and so end our dream.
Could they have really left Alkestis lone
I’ the way-side sepulchre! Home, all save she!
And when Admetos felt that it was so, 1940
By the stand-still: when he lifted head and face
From the two hiding hands and peplos’ fold
And looked forth, knew the palace, knew the hills,
Knew the plains, knew the friendly frequence there,
And no Alkestis any more again,
Why, the whole woe billow-like broke on him.
“O hateful entry, hateful countenance
O’ the widowed halls!” — he moaned. “What was to be?
Go there? Stay here? Speak, not speak? All was now
Mad and impossible alike; one way 1950
And only one was sane and safe — to die:
Now he was made aware how dear is death,
How loveable the dead are, how the heart
Yearns in us to go hide where they repose,
When we find sunbeams do no good to see,
Nor earth rests rightly where our footsteps fall.
His wife had been to him the very pl
edge,
Sun should be sun, earth — earth; the pledge was robbed,
Pact broken, and the world was left no world.”
He stared at the impossible, mad life: 1960
Stood, while they bade “Advance — advance! Go deep
Into the utter dark, thy palace-core!”
They tried what they called comfort, “touched the quick
Of the ulceration in his soul,” he said,
With memories, — “once thy joy was thus and thus!”
True comfort were to let him fling himself
Into the hollow grave o’ the tomb, and so
Let him lie dead along with all he loved.
One bade him note that his own family
Boasted a certain father whose sole son, 1970
Worthy bewailment, died: and yet the sire
Bore stoutly up against the blow and lived;
For all that he was childless now, and prone
Already to grey hairs, far on in life.
Could such a good example miss effect?
Why fix foot, stand so, staring at the house,
Why not go in, as that wise kinsman would?
“O that arrangement of the house I know!
How can I enter, how inhabit thee
Now that one cast of fortune changes all? 1980
Oh me, for much divides the then from now!
Then — with those pine-tree torches, Pelian pomp
And marriage-hymns, I entered, holding high
The hand of my dear wife; while many-voiced
The revelry that followed me and her
That’s dead now, — friends felicitating both,
As who were lofty-lineaged, each of us
Born of the best, two wedded and made one;
Now — wail is wedding-chant’s antagonist,
And, for white peplos, stoles in sable state 1990
Herald my way to the deserted couch!”
The one word more they ventured was “This grief
Befell thee witless of what sorrow means,
Close after prosperous fortune: but, reflect!
Thou hast saved soul and body. Dead, thy wife —
Living, the love she left. What’s novel here?
Many the man, from whom Death long ago
Loosed the life-partner!”
Then Admetos spoke:
Turned on the comfort, with no tears, this time.
He was beginning to be like his wife. 2000
I told you of that pressure to the point,
Word slow pursuing word in monotone,
Alkestis spoke with; so Admetos, now,
Solemnly bore the burden of the truth.
And as the voice of him grew, gathered strength,
And groaned on, and persisted to the end,
We felt how deep had been descent in grief,
And with what change he came up now to light,
And left behind such littleness as tears.
“Friends, I account the fortune of my wife 2010
Happier than mine, though it seem otherwise:
For, her indeed no grief will ever touch,
And she from many a labour pauses now,
Renowned one! Whereas I, who ought not live,
But do live, by evading destiny,
Sad life am I to lead, I learn at last!
For how shall I bear going in-doors here?
Accosting whom? By whom saluted back,
Shall I have joyous entry? Whither turn?
Inside, the solitude will drive me forth, 2020
When I behold the empty bed — my wife’s —
The seat she used to sit upon, the floor
Unsprinkled as when dwellers loved the cool,
The children that will clasp my knees about,
Cry for their mother back: these servants too
Moaning for what a guardian they have lost!
Inside my house such circumstance awaits.
Outside, — Thessalian people’s marriage-feasts
And gatherings for talk will harass me,
With overflow of women everywhere; 2030
It is impossible I look on them —
Familiars of my wife and just her age!
And then, whoever is a foe of mine,
And lights on me — why, this will be his word —
‘See there! alive ignobly, there he skulks
That played the dastard when it came to die,
And, giving her he wedded, in exchange,
Kept himself out of Hades safe and sound,
The coward! Do you call that creature — man?
He hates his parents for declining death, 2040
Just as if he himself would gladly die!’
This sort of reputation shall I have,
Beside the other ills enough in store.
Ill-famed, ill-faring, — what advantage, friends,
Do you perceive I gain by life for death?”
That was the truth. Vexed waters sank to smooth:
‘T was only when the last of bubbles broke,
The latest circlet widened all away
And left a placid level, that up swam
To the surface the drowned truth, in dreadful change. 2050
So, through the quiet and submission, — ay,
Spite of some strong words — (for you miss the tone)
The grief was getting to be infinite —
Grief, friends fell back before. Their office shrank
To that old solace of humanity —
“Being born mortal, bear grief! Why born else?”
And they could only meditate anew.
“They, too, upborne by airy help of song,
And haply science, which can find the stars,
Had searched the heights: had sounded depths as well 2060
By catching much at books where logic lurked,
Yet nowhere found they aught could overcome
Necessity: not any medicine served,
Which Thracian tablets treasure, Orphic voice
Wrote itself down upon: nor remedy
Which Phoibos gave to the Asklepiadai;
Cutting the roots of many a virtuous herb
To solace overburdened mortals. None!
Of this sole goddess, never may we go
To altar nor to image: sacrifice 2070
She hears not. All to pray for is — “Approach!
But, oh, no harder on me, awful one,
Than heretofore! Let life endure thee still!
For, whatsoe’er Zeus’ nod decree, that same
In concert with thee hath accomplishment.
Iron, the very stuff o’ the Chaluboi,
Thou, by sheer strength, dost conquer and subdue;
Nor, of that harsh abrupt resolve of thine,
Any relenting is there!”
”O my king!
Thee also, in the shackles of those hands, 2080
Not to be shunned, the Goddess grasped! Yet, bear!
Since never wilt thou lead from underground
The dead ones, wail thy worst! If mortals die, —
The very children of immortals, too,
Dropped ‘mid our darkness, these decay as sure!
Dear indeed was she while among us: dear,
Now she is dead, must she for ever be:
Thy portion was to clasp, within thy couch,
The noblest of all women as a wife.
Nor be the tomb of her supposed some heap 2090
That hides mortality: but like the Gods
Honoured, a veneration to a world
Of wanderers! Oft the wanderer, struck thereby,
Who else had sailed past in his merchant-ship,
Ay, he shall leave ship, land, long wind his way
Up to the mountain-summit, till there break
Speech forth “So, this was she, then, died of old
To save her husband! now, a deity
She bends above us. Hail, benignant one!
&nbs
p; Give good!” Such voices so will supplicate. 2100
But — can it be? Alkmené’s offspring comes,
Admetos! — to thy house advances here!”
I doubt not, they supposed him decently
Dead somewhere in that winter world of Thrace —
Vanquished by one o’ the Bistones, or else
Victim to some mad steed’s voracity —
For did not friends prognosticate as much?
It were a new example to the point,
That “children of immortals, dropped by stealth
Into our darkness, die as sure as we!” 2110
A case to quote and comfort people with:
But, as for lamentation, ai and pheu.
Right-minded subjects kept them for their lord.
Ay, he it was advancing! In he strode,
And took his stand before Admetos, — turned
Now by despair to such a quietude,
He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time,
The while his friend surveyed him steadily.
That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strained
Worst brute to breast was ever strangled yet? 2120
Somehow, a victory — for there stood the strength,
Happy, as always; something grave, perhaps;
The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front,
Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dew
The yellow hair o’ the hero! — his big frame
A-quiver with each muscle sinking back
Into the sleepy smooth it leaped from late.
Under the great guard of one arm, there leant
A shrouded something, live and woman-like,
Propped by the heart-beats ‘neath the lion-coat. 2130
When he had finished his survey, it seemed,
The heavings of the heart began subside,
The helpful breath returned, and last the smile
Shone out, all Herakles was back again,
As the words followed the saluting hand.
“To friendly man, behoves we freely speak,
Admetos! — nor keep buried, deep in breast,
Blame we leave silent. I assuredly
Judged myself proper, if I should approach
By accident calamities of thine, 2140
To be demonstrably thy friend: but thou
Told’st me not of the corpse then claiming care,
That was thy wife’s, but didst instal me guest
I’ the house here, as though busied with a grief
Indeed, but then, mere grief beyond thy gate:
And so, I crowned my head, and to the Gods
Poured my libations in thy dwelling-place,
With such misfortune round me. And I blame —
Certainly blame thee, having suffered thus!
But still I would not pain thee, pained enough: 2150
So let it pass! Wherefore I seek thee now,
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 145