Hymen.

by Hilda Doolittle.

_As from a temple service, tall and dignified, with slow pace, each a queen, the sixteen matrons from the temple of Hera pa.s.s before the curtain--a dark purple hung between Ionic columns--of the porch or open hall of a palace. Their hair is bound as the marble hair of the temple Hera. Each wears a crown or diadem of gold._

_They sing--the music is temple music, deep, simple, chanting notes:_

From the closed garden Where our feet pace Back and forth each day, This gladiolus white, This red, this purple spray-- Gladiolus tall with dignity As yours, lady--we lay Before your feet and pray:

Of all the blessings-- Youth, joy, ecstasy-- May one gift last (As the tall gladiolus may Outlast the wind-flower, Winter-rose or rose), One gift above, Encompa.s.sing all those;

For her, for him, For all within these palace walls, Beyond the feast, Beyond the cry of Hymen and the torch, Beyond the night and music Echoing through the porch till day.

_The music, with its deep chanting notes, dies away. The curtain hangs motionless in rich, full folds. Then from this background of darkness, dignity and solemn repose, a flute gradually detaches itself, becomes clearer and clearer, pipes alone one shrill, simple little melody._

_From the distance, four children's voices blend with the flute, and four very little girls pa.s.s singly before the curtain, small maids or attendants of the sixteen matrons. Their hair is short and curls at the back of their heads like the hair of the chryselephantine Hermes. They sing:_

Where the first crocus buds unfold We found these petals near the cold Swift river-bed.

Beneath the rocks where ivy-frond Puts forth new leaves to gleam beyond Those lately dead:

The very smallest two or three Of gold (gold pale as ivory) We gathered.

_When the little girls have pa.s.sed before the curtain, a wood-wind weaves a richer note into the flute melody; then the two blend into one song. But as the wood-wind grows in mellowness and richness, the flute gradually dies away into a secondary theme and the wood-wind alone evolves the melody of a new song._

_Two by two--like two sets of medallions with twin profiles distinct, one head slightly higher, bent forward a little--the four figures of four slight, rather fragile taller children, are outlined with sharp white contour against the curtain._

_The hair is smooth against the heads, falling to the shoulders but slightly waved against the nape of the neck. They are looking down, each at a spray of winter-rose. The tunics fall to the knees in sharp marble folds. They sing:_

Never more will the wind Cherish you again, Never more will the rain.

Never more Shall we find you bright In the snow and wind.

The snow is melted, The snow is gone, And you are flown:

Like a bird out of our hand, Like a light out of our heart, You are gone.

_As the wistful notes of the wood-wind gradually die away, there comes a sudden, shrill, swift piping._

_Free and wild, like the wood-maidens of Artemis, is this last group of four--very straight with heads tossed back. They sing in rich, free, swift notes. They move swiftly before the curtain in contrast to the slow, important pace of the first two groups. Their hair is loose and rayed out like that of the sun-G.o.d. They are boyish in shape and gesture. They carry hyacinths in baskets, strapped like quivers to their backs. They reach to draw the flower sprays from the baskets, as the Huntress her arrows._

_As they dart swiftly to and fro before the curtain, they are youth, they are spring--they are the Chelidonia, their song is the swallow-song of joy:_

Between the hollows Of the little hills The spring spills blue-- Turquoise, sapphire, lapis-lazuli On a brown cloth outspread.

Ah see, How carefully we lay them now, Each hyacinth spray, Across the marble floor-- A pattern your bent eyes May trace and follow To the shut bridal door.

Lady, our love, our dear, Our bride most fair, They grew among the hollows Of the hills; As if the sea had spilled its blue, As if the sea had risen From its bed, And sinking to the level of the sh.o.r.e, Left hyacinths on the floor.

_There is a pause. Flute, pipe and wood-wind blend in a full, rich movement. There is no definite melody but full, powerful rhythm like soft but steady wind above forest trees. Into this, like rain, gradually creeps the note of strings._

_As the strings grow stronger and finally dominate the whole, the bride-chorus pa.s.ses before the curtain. There may be any number in this chorus. The figures--tall young women, clothed in long white tunics--follow one another closely, yet are all distinct like a procession of a temple frieze._

_The bride in the center is not at first distinguishable from her maidens; but as they begin their song, the maidens draw apart into two groups, leaving the veiled symbolic figure standing alone in the center._

_The two groups range themselves to right and left like officiating priestesses. The veiled figure stands with her back against the curtain, the others being in profile. Her head is swathed in folds of diaphanous white, through which the features are visible, like the veiled Tanagra._

_When the song is finished, the group to the bride's left turns about; also the bride, so that all face in one direction. In processional form they pa.s.s out, the figure of the bride again merging, not distinguishable from the maidens._

_Strophe_

But of her Who can say if she is fair?

Bound with fillet, Bound with myrtle Underneath her flowing veil, Only the soft length (Beneath her dress) Of saffron shoe is bright As a great lily-heart In its white loveliness.

_Antistrophe_

But of her We can say that she is fair.

We bleached the fillet, Brought the myrtle; To us the task was set Of knotting the fine threads of silk: We fastened the veil, And over the white foot Drew on the painted shoe Steeped in Illyrian crocus.

_Strophe_

But of her, Who can say if she is fair?

For her head is covered over With her mantle White on white, Snow on whiter amaranth, Snow on h.o.a.r-frost, Snow on snow, Snow on whitest buds of myrrh.

_Antistrophe_

But of her, We can say that she is fair; For we know underneath All the wanness, All the heat (In her blanched face) Of desire Is caught in her eyes as fire In the dark center leaf Of the white Syrian iris.

_The rather hard, hieratic precision of the music--its stately pause and beat--is broken now into irregular lilt and rhythm of strings._

_Four tall young women, very young matrons, enter in a group. They stand clear and fair, but this little group entirely lacks the austere precision of the procession of maidens just preceding them. They pause in the center of the stage; turn, one three-quarter, two in profile and the fourth full face; they stand, turned as if confiding in each other like a Tanagra group._

_They sing lightly, their flower trays under their arms._

Along the yellow sand Above the rocks The laurel-bushes stand.

Against the shimmering heat Each separate leaf Is bright and cold, And through the bronze Of shining bark and wood Run the fine threads of gold.

Here in our wicker-trays, We bring the first faint blossoming Of fragrant bays:

Lady, their blushes shine As faint in hue As when through petals Of a laurel-rose The sun shines through, And throws a purple shadow On a marble vase.

(Ah, love, So her fair b.r.e.a.s.t.s will shine With the faint shadow above.)

_The harp chords become again more regular in simple definite rhythm.

The music is not so intense as the bride-chorus; and quieter, more sedate, than the notes preceding the entrance of the last group._

_Five or six slightly older serene young women enter in processional form; each holding before her, with precise bending of arms, coverlets and linen, carefully folded, as if for the bride couch. The garments are purple, scarlet and deep blue, with edge of gold._