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A Minor Poet and other Verse. Levy, Amy, 1861–1889.
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page: 23

Xantippe.

(A FRAGMENT.)


“Xantippe” has appeared in the University Magazine, and in a collection of Verse published at Cambridge.

WHAT, have I waked again ? I never thought To see the rosy dawn, or ev’n this grey, Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come. The lamp burns low ; low burns the lamp of life : The still morn stays expectant, and my soul, All weighted with a passive wonderment, Waiteth and watcheth, waiteth for the dawn. Come hither, maids ; too soundly have ye slept That should have watched me ; nay, I would not chide— Oft have I chidden, yet I would not chide In this last hour ;—now all should be at peace. I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep Of weary days I thought not to recall ; Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since ; page: 24 Of gladsome days, of sunny days ; alas In dreaming, all their sunshine seem’d so sad, As though the current of the dark To‐Be Had flow’d, prophetic, through the happy hours. And yet, full well, I know it was not thus ; I mind me sweetly of the summer days, When, leaning from the lattice, I have caught The fair, far glimpses of a shining sea ; And, nearer, of tall ships which thronged the bay, And stood out blackly from a tender sky All flecked with sulphur, azure, and bright gold ; And in the still, clear air have heard the hum Of distant voices ; and methinks there rose No darker fount to mar or stain the joy Which sprang ecstatic in my maiden breast Than just those vague desires, those hopes and fears, Those eager longings, strong, though undefined, Whose very sadness makes them seem so sweet. What cared I for the merry mockeries Of other maidens sitting at the loom ? Or for sharp voices, bidding me return To maiden labour ? Were we not apart— I and my high thoughts, and my golden dreams, My soul which yearned for knowledge, for a tongue That should proclaim the stately mysteries page: 25 Of this fair world, and of the holy gods ? Then followed days of sadness, as I grew To learn my woman‐mind had gone astray, And I was sinning in those very thoughts— For maidens, mark, such are not woman’s thoughts— (And yet, ’tis strange, the gods who fashion us Have given us such promptings). . . . Fled the years, Till seventeen had found me tall and strong, And fairer, runs it, than Athenian maids Are wont to seem ; I had not learnt it well— My lesson of dumb patience—and I stood At Life’s great threshold with a beating heart, And soul resolved to conquer and attain. . . . Once, walking ’thwart the crowded market‐place, With other maidens, bearing in the twigs White doves for Aphrodite’s sacrifice, I saw him, all ungainly and uncouth, Yet many gathered round to hear his words, Tall youths and stranger‐maidens—Sokrates— I saw his face and marked it, half with awe, Half with a quick repulsion at the shape. . . . The richest gem lies hidden furthest down, And is the dearer for the weary search ; We grasp the shining shells which strew the shore, page: 26 Yet swift we fling them from us ; but the gem We keep for aye and cherish. So a soul, Found after weary searching in the flesh Which half repelled our senses, is more dear, For that same seeking, than the sunny mind Which lavish Nature marks with thousand hints Upon a brow of beauty. We are prone To overweigh such subtle hints, then deem, In after disappointment, we are fooled. . . . And when, at length, my father told me all, That I should wed me with great Sokrates, I, foolish, wept to see at once cast down The maiden image of a future love, Where perfect body matched the perfect soul. But slowly, softly did I cease to weep ; Slowly I ’gan to mark the magic flash Leap to the eyes, to watch the sudden smile Break round the mouth, and linger in the eyes ; To listen for the voice’s lightest tone— Great voice, whose cunning modulations seemed Like to the notes of some sweet instrument. So did I reach and strain, until at last I caught the soul athwart the grosser flesh. Again of thee, sweet Hope, my spirit dreamed ! I, guided by his wisdom and his love, Led by his words, and counselled by his care, page: 27 Should lift the shrouding veil from things which be, And at the flowing fountain of his soul Refresh my thirsting spirit. . . . And indeed, In those long days which followed that strange day When rites and song, and sacrifice and flow’rs, Proclaimed that we were wedded, did I learn, In sooth, a‐many lessons ; bitter ones Which sorrow taught me, and not love inspired, Which deeper knowledge of my kind impressed With dark insistence on reluctant brain ;— But that great wisdom, deeper, which dispels Narrowed conclusions of a half‐grown mind, And sees athwart the littleness of life Nature’s divineness and her harmony, Was never poor Xantippe’s. . . . I would pause And would recall no more, no more of life, Than just the incomplete, imperfect dream Of early summers, with their light and shade, Their blossom‐hopes, whose fruit was never ripe ; But something strong within me, some sad chord Which loudly echoes to the later life, Me to unfold the after‐misery page: 28 Urges, with plaintive wailing in my heart. Yet, maidens, mark ; I would not that ye thought I blame my lord departed, for he meant No evil, so I take it, to his wife. ’Twas only that the high philosopher, Pregnant with noble theories and great thoughts, Deigned not to stoop to touch so slight a thing As the fine fabric of a woman’s brain— So subtle as a passionate woman’s soul. I think, if he had stooped a little, and cared, I might have risen nearer to his height, And not lain shattered, neither fit for use As goodly household vessel, nor for that Far finer thing which I had hoped to be. . . . Death, holding high his retrospective lamp, Shows me those first, far years of wedded life, Ere I had learnt to grasp the barren shape Of what the Fates had destined for my life Then, as all youthful spirits are, was I Wholly incredulous that Nature meant So little, who had promised me so much. At first I fought my fate with gentle words, With high endeavours after greater things ; Striving to win the soul of Sokrates, Like some slight bird, who sings her burning love To human master, till at length she finds page: 29 Her tender language wholly misconceived, And that same hand whose kind caress she sought, With fingers flippant flings the careless corn. . . . I do remember how, one summer’s eve, He, seated in an arbour’s leafy shade, Had bade me bring fresh wine‐skins. . . . As I stood Ling’ring upon the threshold, half concealed By tender foliage, and my spirit light With draughts of sunny weather, did I mark An instant the gay group before mine eyes. Deepest in shade, and facing where I stood, Sat Plato, with his calm face and low brows Which met above the narrow Grecian eyes, The pale, thin lips just parted to the smile, Which dimpled that smooth olive of his cheek. His head a little bent, sat Sokrates, With one swart finger raised admonishing, And on the air were borne his changing tones. Low lounging at his feet, one fair arm thrown Around his knee (the other, high in air Brandish’d a brazen amphor, which yet rained Bright drops of ruby on the golden locks And temples with their fillets of the vine), Lay Alkibiades the beautiful. And thus, with solemn tone, spake Sokrates : page: 30 “ This fair Aspasia, which our Perikles Hath brought from realms afar, and set on high In our Athenian city, hath a mind, I doubt not, of a strength beyond her race ; And makes employ of it, beyond the way Of women nobly gifted : woman’s frail— Her body rarely stands the test of soul ; She grows intoxicate with knowledge ; throws The laws of custom, order, ’neath her feet, Feasting at life’s great banquet with wide throat.” Then sudden, stepping from my leafy screen, Holding the swelling wine‐skin o’er my head, With breast that heaved, and eyes and cheeks aflame, Lit by a fury and a thought, I spake : “ By all great powers around us ! can it be That we poor women are empirical ? That gods who fashioned us did strive to make Beings too fine, too subtly delicate, With sense that thrilled response to ev’ry touch Of nature’s, and their task is not complete ? That they have sent their half‐completed work To bleed and quiver here upon the earth ? To bleed and quiver, and to weep and weep, To beat its soul against the marble walls Of men’s cold hearts, and then at last to sin !” page: 31 I ceased, the first hot passion stayed and stemmed And frighted by the silence : I could see, Framed by the arbour foliage, which the sun In setting softly gilded with rich gold, Those upturned faces, and those placid limbs ; Saw Plato’s narrow eyes and niggard mouth, Which half did smile and half did criticise, One hand held up, the shapely fingers framed To gesture of entreaty—“ Hush, I pray, Do not disturb her ; let us hear the rest ; Follow her mood, for here’s another phase Of your black‐browed Xantippe. . . .” Then I saw Young Alkibiades, with laughing lips And half‐shut eyes, contemptuous shrugging up Soft, snowy shoulders, till he brought the gold Of flowing ringlets round about his breasts. But Sokrates, all slow and solemnly, Raised, calm, his face to mine, and sudden spake : “ I thank thee for the wisdom which thy lips Have thus let fall among us : prythee tell From what high source, from what philosophies Didst cull the sapient notion of thy words ?” Then stood I straight and silent for a breath, Dumb, crushed with all that weight of cold contempt ; page: 32 But swiftly in my bosom there uprose A sudden flame, a merciful fury sent To save me ; with both angry hands I flung The skin upon the marble, where it lay Spouting red rills and fountains on the white ; Then, all unheeding faces, voices, eyes, I fled across the threshold, hair unbound— White garment stained to redness—beating heart Flooded with all the flowing tide of hopes Which once had gushed out golden, now sent back Swift to their sources, never more to rise. . . . I think I could have borne the weary life, The narrow life within the narrow walls, If he had loved me ; but he kept his love For this Athenian city and her sons ; And, haply, for some stranger‐woman, bold With freedom, thought, and glib philosophy. . . . Ah me ! the long, long weeping through the nights, The weary watching for the pale‐eyed dawn Which only brought fresh grieving : then I grew Fiercer, and cursed from out my inmost heart The Fates which marked me an Athenian maid. Then faded that vain fury ; hope died out ; A huge despair was stealing on my soul, page: 33 A sort of fierce acceptance of my fate,— He wished a household vessel—well ’twas good, For he should have it ! He should have no more The yearning treasure of a woman’s love, But just the baser treasure which he sought. I called my maidens, ordered out the loom, And spun unceasing from the morn till eve ; Watching all keenly over warp and woof, Weighing the white wool with a jealous hand. I spun until, methinks, I spun away The soul from out my body, the high thoughts From out my spirit ; till at last I grew As ye have known me,—eye exact to mark The texture of the spinning ; ear all keen For aimless talking when the moon is up, And ye should be a‐sleeping ; tongue to cut With quick incision, ’thwart the merry words Of idle maidens. . . . Only yesterday My hands did cease from spinning ; I have wrought My dreary duties, patient till the last. The gods reward me ! Nay, I will not tell The after years of sorrow ; wretched strife With grimmest foes—sad Want and Poverty ;— Nor yet the time of horror, when they bore page: 34 My husband from the threshold ; nay, nor when The subtle weed had wrought its deadly work. Alas ! alas ! I was not there to soothe The last great moment ; never any thought Of her that loved him—save at least the charge, All earthly, that her body should not starve. . . . You weep, you weep ; I would not that ye wept ; Such tears are idle ; with the young, such grief Soon grows to gratulation, as, “her love Was withered by misfortune ; mine shall grow All nurtured by the loving,” or, “her life Was wrecked and shattered—mine shall smoothly sail.” Enough, enough. In vain, in vain, in vain ! The gods forgive me ! Sorely have I sinned In all my life. A fairer fate befall You all that stand there. . . . Ha ! the dawn has come ; I see a rosy glimmer—nay ! it grows dark ; Why stand ye so in silence ? throw it wide, The casement, quick ; why tarry ?—give me air— O fling it wide, I say, and give me light !
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