Selected Poems (Aiken)/Electra
ELECTRA
I
The little princess, on her eleventh birthday,Trapped a blue butterfly in a net of gauze,Where it was sunning on a speckled stone.The blue wings fluttered in the silkworm net."What voice, Blue Butterfly," (the Princess cried)"Is voice of butterfly? . . . You scream in furyClose to my ear; yet hear I not a sound."She caught it down against the stone, and pressedA royal finger on each round blue wing;And as one tears apart a folded leafBy pushing right and left, so tore she, smiling,The azure fly. . . . Her eyes were bright and blue, Her teeth were sharp; the sunlight streaked her hairWith twining gold along two braids. She frownedAs might a chemist at a test-tube-drop(Bright, poisonous and pendent) when she sawCerulean dust upon each finger tip.This, being rubbed against a tulip-mouth,(A glutted bee dislodged) she sat demurely:Opened her book, on which leaf-shadows winked;And blew a dart toward a scarlet birdIn bright green tropics of the Amazon.
II
Dressing the naked doll of redded wax,(The white cheeks rouged) she feather-stitched a squareOf scarlet silk with golden staggering stitches;Chain-lightninged all its edges. After this,A square of azure silk, a square of purple,Superimposed; and then a tinfoil crown,Massive, of divers colours; this, compounded(Relics of Beaune, of Jerez, and Oporto)Blazed the wax brow. A bed of cottonwoolWas smoothed; and thrice-anointed Ferdinand(First pressed against her thigh for nourishment)Was covered with a soiled green handkerchiefAnd closed his eyes: exchanging glass for wax.
This was the seventh year. Between the eighthAnd ninth, the form of nourishment was changed.The doll was clasped between her knees. She heldA knife in one hand, while the other liftedA paper bird. The neck of this was severed.And Ferdinand had passed from milk to blood.
III
"Your soul" (so said her father in the springThat brought her sixteenth year) "turns smaller, asYour body waxes to ripe beauty. Dwarfs(As you have seen in circuses, or tumblingThrough scarlet-papered hoops, at vaudeville) Bear on the brow, though mouth and eyes be fair,A drawn and arid look, of suffering.Dwarfed, and as blue and arid, peers the soulLike a starved nymph from your bright eyes. Your mouthThough beautiful, and, yes, desirable,—(Even to me, who like a wizard shaped it),—Is much too red; too cruelly downward curved,It hides a tooth too sharp. You will do murder—Laughing and weeping; hear the song of blood;The gnome in you will laugh; the nymph will weep."
She locked strong hands around his neck and kissed him,Lifting a naked knee to press him subtlyShe hurt him consciously; kissed till he laughed;Unlocked her hands, then, sobered; moved away;Shook down the golden skirt; whistled a tune;And read the morning paper, coiled like a cat.
IV
"Under this water-lily knee" (she said)"Blood intricately flows, corpuscle creeps,The white like sliced cucumber, and the redLike poker-chip! Along dark mains they flowAs wafts the sponging heart. The water-lily,Subtle in seeming, bland to lover's handUpthrust exploring, is in essence gross,Multiple and corrupt. Thus, in the moonlight(She hooked a curtain and disclosed the moon)"How cold and lucent! And this naked breast,Whereon a blue vein writes Diana's secret,How simple! How seductive of the palmThat flatters with the finest tact of flesh!Not silver is this flank, nor ivory,Gold it is not, not copper, but distilledOf lust in moonlight, and my own hand straysTo touch it in this moonlight, whence it came."Naked in moonlight, like a doll of wax,On the stone floor nocturnal, she stood stillBut moved her hands. The cruel mouth was curved,Smiling a little; and her eyes were fixed, In wonder, on Diana's hieroglyph.And it was then (her nineteenth autumn come)She heard at last, so often prophesied,The singing of the blood. Her beauty brokeTo sound beneath her hands, which moved from breastTo knee and back again, and bruised the flankThat was not gold or copper, but becameA throbbing sound beneath palpating palms.Thus stood awhile; then sighed; then dropped her handsAnd wept, as he (who loved her) had foretold.
V
If was the twentieth birthday, or the moon,Which flung a careless net upon the houseTrapping the stone (as she had trapped the fly);These, or the emptied heart of night, which filledThe house with weeping. In the room they layWeeping together. "Like a harp it is"(She said) "which but to sound, but once to sound,Snaps every string. Better to die, than beConjointly now, henceforth, a broken thingWhere sound of life was once." She pressed his handAgainst her side, where once the doll was pressed,Prince Ferdinand; but she was hungry still.So then she held him hard between her kneesAnd heard the song of blood, outrageously,And cried, "Shut eyes and kiss me!" "O, Arachne!What web is this you weave, dear poison-mouth?""The web, alas, is cut as soon as woven,"She answered. And the word she spoke was true.
VI
The moonlight and the house then sang together,Yet not the house, but something in the house,As if together they once more distilled(Of blood and moonlight) ivory or gold,Copper or silver; or, if not quite theseSomething of which the moon contrived the surfaceWhile blood beneath supplied the essence gross. Useless! for it was spilled as soon as brimmed.Prince Ferdinand was dead, Arachne dead,The blood unmoving, and the moonlight vain.