with my father’s own words not an hour ago: There’s
no man in Corinth
not shocked to the soles of his feet by that fat swine’s
treachery.”
As she spoke, her fears melted, and she gazed at him
only with tenderness,
like a loving sister. She was unaware that her servant
had gone
to Kreon, propelled by duty perhaps, perhaps by cruelty, and told of Pyripta’s meeting with Jason in the
moonlit hall.
As fast as his feet would carry him, the king ran down and now stood, barefoot and in sleeping dress, peeking
from the doorway,
slyly observing their mutual temptation and blessing
heaven
for his rare good luck.
He held her hand, aware of her virginal fear of him, and answered softly, “Princess, you
need not
frighten yourself with such gloomy thoughts. If I
tell you the truth,
I remain here for no other reason than pleasure in
the place.” He smiled,
looked down at her. “But now — you’re right — I must
go find some bed.
Forgive me for giving you a moment’s alarm.” He
had not missed,
I knew by his half-checked smile, the fact that she
spoke in a whisper,
not sorry to be caught here alone with him. Nor did
he miss
her searching look now, desire she newly understood.
He met
her gaze and, after a moment, kissed her. Her hands
moved hungrily
on Jason’s back. The pillared room hung frozen like
a crystal
in the light of the vengeful moon. The princess
whispered in his ear.
He frowned, as if torn, and studied her, and could give
her no answer.
The hall gleamed dully. She whispered again, sweet
blue-eyed princess,
with the voice of a child, a curious droplet of moonlight
shining
on her forehead. And again he gave no answer, but
held her in his arms,
looking at her, listening thoughtfully, biding his time.
__________
* Greek, zatrikion.
21
The oak where I clung with my eyes tight shut like
a terrified lizard,
bruised and battered, kicked like old rubbish from
pillar to post,
went flat suddenly in the screaming gale, and I lost
my hand-hold—
I pressed up closer and hunched my back, but there
was nothing to cling to.
The rough-barked tree became a road of stone on a steep
rock mountain,
endless — the labor of emperors — but humbled by
pebbles,
cluttered at the sides with bramble bushes and with
shining scree.
And now all around me a slum lurched up till it
blocked out the darkness—
or became the darkness — staggering, skewbald. No
longer did the wind
come raging like a lion at the canyon mouth, or
dancing, as if
under pines and cedars, or flying swiftly, whistling and
wailing,
spluttering its anger, or crashing like thunder, whirling,
tumbling
in confusion, shaking rocks, striking trees — no longer
was the wind
so godly, nor the night so godly that sent it; but
rattling it came,
wheeling, violent, from wynds and alleys, poking in
garbage cans,
stirring up the dust, fretting and worrying. It crept into
holes
and knocked on doors, scattered sand and old plaster,
swirled ashes,
muddled in the dirt and tossed up bits of filth. It sidled through tenement windows, crept under double- and
triple-locked doors
of furnished rooms. I huddled, raising my collar
against it,
clamping my lips against street dust and holding my
poor battered hat on.
And then all at once I was lurching in a rickety
vehicle
through streets so crowded the horses pulling had
nowhere to move—
fat black warhorses with ears laid flat and with
steep-rolling eyes,
snorting and stamping irritation at the crowd, but
obedient to the driver.
Staring at his back, I knew by the tingle at the nape
of my neck
that I’d seen him before and should fear him. He turned
his head and I saw
his thick spectacles and smile — my mirror image,
my double!
With the crowd packed tight around us, I had nowhere
to flee.
Despite the ragged, churning horde, the chariot was making
some headway.
It rolled in silence, the wheels climbing over small
stones, bits of rubble,
as if struggling onward with conscious effort, the driver
never swerving
to the left or right, like stoop-shouldered, cool-eyed
Truth in a frayed
black coat and hat. We ascended a hill made strange
by haze,
its upper part not dazzling, exactly, its lower region not exactly obscure — dimly visible, impossible to name, changing, shadowy, deep as the ancestor of all
that lives,
awesome and common. The chariot wheels seemed to
move in old ruts;
the wind, the smell of the horses, the writing on the
chariot walls—
hieroglyphs smoothed down to nothing, as if by blind
men’s fingers—
had all a mysterious sameness.
“You’re enjoying your vision?” he said and smiled again, showing all his teeth.
The strangest vision that ever was seen in this world,”
I said.
He laughed. “No doubt it seems so,” he said. “So each
man’s vision
seems to him. And no doubt it seems a profound
revelation?”
“Yes indeed!” I said, inexplicably furious. He grinned,
tipped his hat,
icily polite. Then, seeing my swollen hand, he remarked, The vision has rules, I hope?” He smiled. “It’s not one
of those maddening—”
“Certainly not!” I said. “It’s an absolute tissue of rules, though not all of them, of course, at this stage—”
“Yes, of course, of course.”
He seemed both myself and, maddeningly, my superior, and deadly. He tapped his chin. “So you’re piercing to
the heart of things.”
“Exactly,” I said. He beamed. “Excellent! — And there’s
something there?
The heart of the matter is not, as we’ve feared …”
He smiled, mock-sheepish.
I tried in panic to think what it was that it was
teaching me,
and my head filled with ideas that were clear as day,
but jumbled—
images that had no words for them. Somewhat
disconcerted,
I concentrated, clarifying what I saw by explaining to the stranger as I looked. And now suddenly things
grew much plainer.
I now understood things never before expressed—
inexpressible—
though everywhere boldly hinted, so plain, so absurdly
simple
that a fool if he learned the secret would laugh aloud.
I saw
three radiant ladies like pure forms gloriously bright—
three ladies
and one, as separate roads may wind toward one
same city,
or one same highway be known by separate names.
The floor
of the chariot extended to the rims of the universe,
wheeling away
like a rush of silver spokes devised by the finest of a