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


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IN BOHEMIA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: This tale I seemed to hear a gipsy tell
Last Line: "and one with angry, unrelenting eyes?"
Subject(s): Czechoslovakia; Slovakia


THIS tale I seemed to hear a Gipsy tell,
A dark-browed woman prisoned in a cell
In wild Bohemia:

"Ay, 'twas in the gloom
Of the dark, twilight pine - woods far away
They found me sitting, somewhat dazed, I think,
By what sad things had been, and slow to move
When all was done; self-chained, as I am now
Within this lonely cell, and pondering
All the sad Past. I know not what the Law
Can do with me, nor care. But there -- just there
Where you stand now -- do you see two corpses lie,
One, shot through the brain, who bears a stony calm
Upon his face; and one with staring eyes
And knitted brows, and clenched jaws, breathing rage
And balked revenge? Do you see the crimson stain
Steal on -- or is it fancy, and there comes
Nothing to break the bare and ghastly white
Of this unlovely cell, and I but dream
That dreadful dream again?
What? would you learn
How 'tis that I come here a prisoner bound
By self-forged chains? Our swift Gitana blood
Breeds savage jealousies and hates and loves --
Not the slow current of your Northern veins,
But a fierce tigerish impulse, half desire,
Half selfish pride. We wanderers keep to-day
The unbridled passion, which the tropic sun
Burned in our blood; and I am of my race,
As you of yours.
Two there were sought my love.
One a man, strong, with all the vigorous strength
Of manhood, tall of stature, black of beard,
And swarthy cheeked -- a strenuous mate to bind
A woman's wandering wings -- strong arms and loins;
A husband more than lover, so that long
I doubted if 'twere well to smile on him,
Half fearful lest his fierce and tyrannous will
Should prove too strong for mine. Therefore it was
I hesitated, drawn now here, now there.
I think I never loved him; though maybe
His splendid manhood drew me as it draws
Weak women the world over -- us who toil
And wander day by day, and lie by night
Tired 'neath the gazing stars, and those who sink,
After soft days of silken dalliance,
Canopied close, in down and perfumed ease,
Within their gilded palaces. They too
Are women weak as I, and loving well
The strong, supporting arm -- ay, though sometimes
'Twere raised in anger -- and the resonant tones
And flashing eye, because their strength confirms
Our weakness.
But because our souls are weak,
Not strength alone allures us, but the charm
Of youth, the scarcely shaded lip and cheek,
The dark plume on the brow, the lissom grace
Of budding age; and one there was, a boy
Of fitting years to mine, bold as a god,
And lithe as a young panther, and he cast
Dark passionate eyes on me, as he had cast them
Upon a score before, and at the tones
Of his gay accents, all the woman's love
Of beauty and things fair rose up and strove
For mastery with the woman's shrinking nature
That loved the guiding hand, and overthrew it
While he was near -- love of the sight alone,
Not of the heart or mind. And though I knew not
Which love to choose, it was the eyes' desire
Prevailed at last.
And yet I do not think
I loved him; for when all the gossips came
To tell me he was faithless, now with this one
And now with that, it was not pain I knew,
Only contempt for him and wounded pride,
And (though that argues unrequited love)
A longing for revenge. You cannot know,
You Northerns, through whose veins the tepid blood
Creeps slowly, with what pulses the hot tide
Leaps from our torrid hearts.
Therefore I planned
A subtle scheme. I wrote a loving letter,
Bidding him meet me in the wood when eve
Was falling; I had much to say to him,
And begged that he would come, for it might prove
The last time we should meet, and we should be
Together and alone. Then, when 'twas sent,
I wrote another to the man I feared,
Not loved, and bade him to the trysting-place
A little later, when the dying sun
Was sinking on the hills, and I would give him
The answer he had asked. When all was done,
And both I knew would come -- poor fools allured
By love, where love was not, only revenge
And hatred -- I went forth without a word
After my toil was done, and took with me,
Half ignorant of what I did or wherefore,
Concealed upon my bosom, like the asp
Of our Egyptian Queen, with shining tube,
A tiny weapon, for what end I know not
Nor knew; but with our Gipsy blood 'tis well,
When passions rise to fever-heat, to hold
Some strength reserved, and I had done that day
That which might lead to bloodshed, and 'twere best
The way to escape lay open, if my fate
At last should leave me lonely to despair.

Then when the dying day, declining, cast
Its longer shadows through the darkling wood,
Hastening, within a little glade I found
My youthful lover waiting at the place
Where he should die ere sunset. As I saw him,
It did repent me of my deed. I fain
Had warned him of his doom; but as we sate
Upon a fallen tree-trunk, side by side,
Some careless boast, some burst of mocking mirth,
Some jibe at woman's love, or covert sneer,
Fanning my jealous fancies into flame,
Filled all my soul with madness. And the sun
Sank on the hills and a cold chill of eve
Breathed like the breath of Fate, as, looking up,
I saw the angry face and lurid eyes
Of the avenger burn; and knew that doom
Was nigh, fierce fight and blood, and pain and death.

Ah, I remember well with what fierce rage,
Poor fools! they rushed together. I mocked them both,
Dupes of a loveless woman who cared naught
Whatever ill befell them, when they closed
In mortal combat, the strong stalwart man
And the lithe agile youth. Long time the fight
Raged doubtfully, 'twixt those slow-moving limbs
And that swift panther-tread; they struck, they strained,
They twined, until at last the younger fell,
O'erborne, upon the earth.
Then with a cry
Of rage he rose, and soon the keen knives flashed
Red in the last rays of the sinking sun;
The dark eyes, lighted by an inward fire,
Burned with the light of hate. And I sat mute
And motionless, watching as those who sit
Sporting with blood and pain. I had no wish
To stay their hands, nor spoke one soothing word
To avert their doom. The keen eyes, the quick limbs,
The feints, the thrusts, the parries, moved me not,
Who sat with eager eyes, and watched the fight,
Like some tempestuous drama, to the close,
From act to breathless act. There came no sound
But the quick clash of steel, the deep drawn breaths,
The crackle of trampled wood, until at last
One agonizing cry, and my young lover,
With large reproachful eyes, fell at my feet,
Stabbed to the heart.
Then all my former hate
Transformed to love and pity, I rose and fell
Upon his breast, and kissed him ere he died;
And when I rose I saw the angry eyes
Of the other bent on me, as if he knew
My secret and despised me. Not a word
He spoke, nor I, but straight, the rushing flood
Of passionate love transformed itself to hate
Of him who did despoil me, and contempt
For life and for myself, and a great rage
Against the stronger, rising, blotted out
All my old thoughts. No more I sought to gain
Deliverance dying. As he stood before me
With fierce, victorious eyes, I raised my hand,
Drew forth the little asp from out my breast,
And stung him through the brain.
He fell beside
The other, and I stirred not till 'twas night;
And when they came, they found me pondering still
On all that sad day's deeds, as if the play
Was done, and I tired out and loath to stir,
Though all the lights were out. I did not know
I loved him till he died, or I had waived
My poor revenge, or when he died had turned
My weapon on myself. 'Twas Love, not I,
That took another life. A murderess
Call they me? Ah! nay, nay; 'twas never murder,
When unforeseen misfortune, suddenly
Arising like a storm-cloud from the sea,
O'erwhelms us. 'Twas not I that slew my love;
I knew not that I loved. Had I not loved him,
I had not slain his slayer, but had borne
An innocent conscience, and had died self-slain,
A blameless suicide. But now they come,
Those servants of your pallid, prudish law,
And measure our quick pulses, our hot tides
Of passion by your bloodless ordinances.
Not thus they used, in that far ancient East,
Ere first we wandered here. I pray you, sir,
Think not such ill of me. And yet, oh Heaven,
I know not! Why lie those two corpses there,
There day and night, one with a stony calm,
And one with angry, unrelenting eyes?"





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