Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CLYTAEMNESTRA IN PARIS, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CLYTAEMNESTRA IN PARIS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I seemed to pace the dreadful corridors
Last Line: "how long?"" I cried, ""how long?"
Subject(s): Murder; Paris, France; Women


I SEEMED to pace the dreadful corridors
Of a still foreign prison, blank and white,
And in a bare and solitary cell
To find a lonely woman, soft of voice
And mild of eye, who never till life's end
Should pass those frowning gates. Methought I asked her
The story of her crime, and what hard fate
Left her, so gentle seeming, fettered there,
Hopeless, a murderess at whose very name
Men shuddered still. And to my questioning
Methought that dreadful soul made answer thus:

"Yes, I suppose I liked nim, though I know not;
I hardly know what love may be; how should I? --
I a young girl wedded without my will,
As is our custom here, to a man old,
Not perhaps in years, but dark experiences.
What had we two in common, that worn man,
And I, an untrained girl? It was not strange
If when that shallow boy, with his bold tongue,
And his gay eyes, and curls, and budding beard,
Flattered me, I was weak. I think all women
Are weak sometimes, and overprone to love
When the man is young, and straight, and 'twas a triumph
To see the disappointed envious jades
Wince as he passed them carelessly, nor heeded
Their shallow wiles to trap him, -- ay, a triumph!
And that was all; I hardly know, indeed,
If it was love that drove, or only pride
To hold what others grudged me. Vain he was,
And selfish, and a coward, as you shall hear.
Handsome enough, I grant you, to betray
A stronger soul than mine. Indeed, I think,
He never cared for me nor I for him
(For there were others after him): I knew it,
Then chiefest, when our comedy of life
Was turning at the last to tragedy.

"Now that I was unfaithful, a false wife,
I value not men's sneers at a pin's point,
We have a right to love and to be loved;
Not the mere careless tolerance of the spouse
Who has none to give. True, if I were a nun,
Vowed to a white and cloistered life, no doubt
'Twere otherwise. They tell me there are women
Who are so rapt by thoughts of the poor, of churches,
Of public ends, of charity, of schools,
Of Heaven knows what, they live their lives untouched
By passion; but for us, who are but women,
Not bred on moonlight, made of common clay,
Untrained for aught but common bourgeois life,
Life is no mystical pale procession winding
Its way from the cradle to the grave, but rather
A thing of hot swift flushes, fierce delights,
Good eating, dances, wines, and all the rest,
When the occasion comes. I never loved him,
I tell you; therefore, maybe, did no sin.

"But when this fellow must presume to boast,
Grow cold, have scruples for his soul and mine,
And turn to other younger lives, and pass
My door to-day with this one, then with that,
And all the gossips of the quarter sneered,
And knew I was deserted, do you think it
A wonder that my eyes, opened at last,
Saw all the folly and the wickedness
(If sweet it were, where were the wickedness?)
Which bore such bitter fruit? Think you it strange
That I should turn for aid, ay, and revenge,
To my wronged spouse -- if wronged he be, indeed,
Who doth consent as he did? When I told him,
Amid my tears, he made but small pretence
Of jealousy at all; only his pride
Was perhaps a little wounded. And indeed
It took such long confessions, such grave pain
Of soul, such agony of remorse of mine
To move him but a little, that I grew
So weary of it all, it almost checked
My penitence, and left me free to choose
Another for my love; but at the last,
Long labour, feigned reports, the neighbours' sneers,
These drove him at the last, good easy man,
To such a depth of hatred, that my task
Grew lighter, and my heart.
He bade me write
Loving appeals, recalling our past days
Together; and I wrote them, using all
The armoury of loving cozening words
With which craft arms us women: but in vain,
For whether some new love engrossed, or whether
He wearied of me and my love, I know not,
Only, in spite of all, no answer came.

"At length, since I could get no word from him,
My husband bade me write -- or was it I
Who thought of the device? Pray you believe me,
I would speak nothing else than the whole truth,
But these sad dreadful deeds confuse the brain.
Well, perhaps 'twas I, who knew his weakness well;
I do not know, but somehow it came to pass
I wrote a crafty letter, begging of him,
By all our former kindness, former wrong,
If for the last time, recognizing well
That all was done between us evermore,
We might, for one last evening, meet and part.
And, knowing he was needy, and his greed, --
'If only he would come,' I wrote to him,
'I had some secret savings, and desired --
For what need comes there closer than a friend's? --
To help him in his trouble.'
Swift there came --
The vipe! -- hypocritical words of love:
Yes, he would come, for the old love still lived,
He knew it, ah, too well; not all the glamour
Of other eyes and lips could ever quench
The fire of that mad passion. He would come,
Loving as ever, longing for the day.

"Now when we had the answer, straight we three --
My husband and myself, and his weak brother,
Whose daughter to her first communion went
That very day, -- and I, too, took the Host
As earnest of changed life, -- we three, I say,
At a little feast we made to celebrate
The brothers reconciled (in families
There come dissensions, as you know), devised
His punishment. We hired, in a still suburb,
A cottage standing backward from the street,
Beyond an avenue of sycamores;
A lonely place, unnoticed. Day by day
We went, we three together -- for I feared
Lest, if there were no third, the strength of youth
Might bear my husband down -- we went to make
All needful preparations. First we spread
Over all the floor a colour like to blood,
For deep's the stain of blood, and what shall cleanse it?
Also, my husband, from a neighbouring wood,
Had brought a boar-trap, sharp with cruel knives
And jagged teeth, to close with a snap and tear
The wild beast caught within it. But I deemed
The risk too great, the prey might slip away;
Therefore, that he might meet his punishment,
And to prevent the sound of cries and groans,
My husband fashioned for his lips a gag,
And on the mantel left it, and the means
To strike a light. And being thus prepared,
We three returned to Paris; there long time
We sate eating and drinking of the best,
As those do who have taken a resolve
Whence no escape is, save to do and die.

"Then the two men went back and left me there,
With all my part to do. It was an hour
Or more before the time when my poor dupe
Had fixed to meet me. Wandering thus alone
Through the old streets, seeing the common sights
Of every day, the innocent child-faces
Homing from school, so like my little ones,
I seemed to lose all count of time. At length,
Because it was the Ascension Feast, there came
A waft of music from the open doors
Of a near church, and, entering in, I found
The incensed air, all I remembered well --
The lights, the soaring chants, the kneeling crowds,
When I believed and knelt. They seemed to soothe
My half bewildered fancy, and I thought --
What if a woman, who mayhap had sinned
But lightly, wishing to repair her wrong,
And bound thereby to some dark daring deed
Of peril, should come here, and kneel awhile,
And ask a blessing for the deed, of her
Who is Heaven's Queen and knows our weaknesses,
Being herself a woman! So I knelt
In worship, and the soaring voices clear
And the dim heights and suffrage-laden air
Filled me with comfort for my soul, and nerved
My failing heart, and winged time's lagging flight,
Till lo the hour was come when I should go
To meet him for the last time.

"When we left
The city far behind, the sweet May night
Was falling on the quiet village street;
There was a scent of hawthorn on the air
As we passed on with feint of loving words, --
Passed slow like lovers to the appointed place,
Passed to the place of punishment and doom.

"But when we reached the larkling avenue
Of sycamores, which to the silent house
Led through a palpable gloom, I felt him shudder
With some blind vague presentiment of ill,
And he would go no further; but I clung
Around him close, laughed all his fear to scorn,
Whispered words in his ear, and step by step,
My soul on reparation being bent,
Drew him reluctant to the fated door
Where lay my spouse in ambush, and swift death.

"I think I hear the dreadful noise of the key,
Turning within the disused lock, the hall
Breathing a false desertion, the loud sound
Of both our footsteps echoing through the house.
I could not choose but tremble. Yet I knew
'Twas but a foolish weakness. Then I struck
A match, and in the burst of sudden light
I saw the ruddy cheek grown ashy pale,
And as he doffed his hat, I marked the curls
On his white forehead, and the boyish grace
Which hung around him still, and almost felt
Compassion. Then the darkness came again,
And hid him, and I groped to find his hand,
Clutched it with mine, and led him to the door.

"But when within the darkling room we were
Where swift death waited him, not dalliance,
Three times my trembling fingers failed to wake
The twinkling light which scarce could pierce the gloom
Which hid my husband. Oh, to see his face
When the dark aspect and the furious eyes
Glared out on him! 'I am lost!' he cried, 'I am lost!'
And then the sound of swift and desperate fight
And a death struggle. Listening, as I stood
Without, with that mean craven hound, our brother,
I heard low cries of rage, and knew despair
And youth had nerved the unarmed in such sort
As made the conflict doubtful. Then I rushed
Between them, threw my arms around him, clogged
His force and held him fast, crying the while,
'Wretch, would you kill my husband!' -- held him fast,
As coils a serpent round the escaping deer,
Until my husband, hissing forth his hate,
'Villain, I pierce thy heart as thou hast mine,'
Stabbed through and through his heart.

"But oh, but oh
The lonely road, beneath the dreadful stars!
To the swift stream, we three -- nay, nay, we four --
One on the child's poor carriage covered o'er,
And three who drew him onward, on the road,
That dead thing, having neither eye nor ear,
Which late was full of life, and strife, and hate.
On that dumb silence, came no wayfarer,
And once the covering which concealed our load
Slipped down, and left the ghastly blood-stained thing
Open to prying eyes, but none were there;
And then the darkling river, and the sound
When, with lead coiled around it, the dead corpse
Sank with a sullen plunge within the deep,
And took with it the tokens of our crime.

"Then with a something of relief, as those
Who have passed through some great peril all unharmed,
We went and burned the blood-stained signs of death,
And left the dreadful place, and once more sped
To Paris and to sleep, till the new day,
Now risen to high noon, touched our sad dreams.

"And that day, since we could not work as yet,
We to the Picture Gallery went, and there
We took our fill of nude voluptuous limbs,
Mingled with scenes of horror bathed in blood,
Such as our painters love. So week by week,
Careless and unafraid, we spent our days,
Till when that sad night faded; swift there rose,
Bursting the weights that kept it, the pale corpse,
A damning witness from the deep, and brought
The dreadful past again, and with it doom.

"You know how we were tried, and how things went,
The cozening speeches, the brow-beating judge,
The petty crafts which make the pleader's art,
The dolts who sit in judgment, when the one
Who knows all must be silent; but you know not
The intolerable burden of suspense,
The hard and hateful gaze of hungry eyes
Which gloat upon your suffering. When doom came
It was well to know the worst, and hear no more
The half-forgotten horrors. But I think
The sense of common peril, common wrong,
Knits us in unity indissoluble,
Closer than years of converse. When my husband,
Braving his doom, embraced me as he went:
'Wife, so thou live I care not,' all my heart
Went out to him for a moment, and I cried,
'Let me die too, my guilt is more than his.'

"Some quibble marred the sentence, and once more
The miserable tale was told afresh:
Once more I stood before those hungry eyes,
And when 'twas done we went forth slaves for life,
Both with an equal doom, and ever since
We suffer the same pains in solitude,
Slaves fettered fast, whom only death sets free.

"That is my tale told truly. Now you know,
Sir, of what fashion I am made: a woman
Gentle, you see, and mild eyed. If I sinned
Surely there was temptation, and I sought
Such reparation as I could. There are here
Tigresses, and not women, black of brow
And strong of arm, who have struck down or stabbed
Husband, or child, or lover, not as I,
But driven by rage and jealousy, and drink,
These creatures of the devil, as I pass
I see them shrink and shudder. The young priest
Of the prison, a well-favoured lad he is,
When I confessed to him bore on his brow
Cold drops of agony; the Sister grew
So pale at what I told her, that I thought
She was like to swoon away, until I soothed her.
Poor wretch, she has much to learn; and here I am,
And shall be till my hair turns grey, my eyes
Grow dim, and I have clean forgotten all
That brought me here, and all my former life
Fades like a once-heard tale. In the long nights,
As I lie alone in my cell like any nun,
I wake sometimes with a start, and seem to hear
That rusty lock turn, and those echoing feet
Down that dark passage, and I seem to see
The dreadful stare of those despairing eyes,
And then there sounds, a plunge in the deep, and I
Lie shivering till the dawn. I have no comfort,
Except the holy Mass; for see you, sir,
I was devout until they scoffed at me
And now I know there is a hell indeed,
Since this place is on earth. I do not think
I have much cause to fear death, should it come;
For whoso strives for Duty, all the Saints
And the Madonna needs must love, and I,
I have done what penitence could do; and here
What have I of reward? -- my children taken
As clean from me as if they were dead indeed,
Trained to forget their mother. Sir, I see,
Beyond these shallow phantasms of life;
And this I hold, that one whose conscience shows
As clear as mine must needs be justified.
I love the holy Mass, and take the Host
As often as I may, being of good heart.
For what was it she did in Holy Writ,
The Kenite's wife of old? I do not read
That women shrunk from her because she drave
The nail through her guest's brain; nay, rather, praise
Was hers: yet was she not betrayed as I,
Nor yet repentant of her wrong and seeking
To do what good was left. But look you, sir,
If I was once repentant, that is past:
I hate those black-browed women, who turn from me,
That smooth priest and that poor fool with her cross,
And that strange pink-and-whiteness of the nun.
And sometimes when they come I let them hear
Such things as make the pious hypocrites turn
And cross themselves. And for that tigress crew,
If I might only steal to their cells at night
With a knife, I would teach them, what it is to stab;
Or even without one, that these little hands
Can strangle with the best.
Ah, you draw back,
You too are shocked forsooth. Listen, you wretch,
Who are walking free while I am prisoned here:
How many thoughts of murder have you nursed
Within your miserable heart! how many
Low, foul desires which would degrade the brute!
Do you think I do not know you men? What was it
That kept your hands unstained, but accident? --
Accident, did I say? or was it rather
Cowardice, that you feared the stripes of the law,
And did not dare to do your will or die? --
Accident! then, I pray you, where the merit
To have abstained? Or if you claim, indeed,
Such precious self-restraint as keeps your feet
From straying, where the credit? since it came
A gift as much unearned as other's ill,
Which lurked for them a little tiny speck
Hidden in the convolutions of the brain,
To grow with their growth, and wax with their years, and leave
The wretch at last in Hell. Do you deem it just,
The Potter with our clay upon His wheel
Should shape it in such form? I love not God,
Being such; I hate Him rather: I, His creature,
I do impugn His justice or His power,
I will not feign obedience -- I, a woman,
Of a soft nature, who would love my love,
And my child, and nothing more; who am, instead,
A murderess, as they tell me, pining here
In hell before my time."

Even as she spake
I seemed to be again as when I saw
The murderess of old time; and once again
Within that modern prison, blank and white,
There came the viewless trouble in the air
Which took her, and the 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 I passed
The crucifix within the corridor,
"How long?" I cried, "How long?"





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