dangerous,
a failure in the mystic groves, unloved by the gods,
while the man
is pitied as a victim, sought out and gently attended to by soft-lipped blissoming maidens. Then this: by
ancient custom,
the bride must abandon all things familiar for the
strange new ways
of her husband’s house, divine like a seer—since she
never learned
these things at home—how best to deal with the animal
she’s trapped,
slow-witted, moody, his body deadly as a weapon.
If in this
the wife is successful, her life is such joy that the
gods themselves
must envy her: her dear lord lies like a sachet of myrrh between her breasts. In poverty or wealth, her bed is
all green,
and her husband, in her mind, is like a young stag.
When he stands at the gate,
the lord of her heart is more noble than the towering
cedars of the east.
But woeful the life of the woman whose husband
is vexed by the yoke!
He flies to find solace elsewhere; as he pleases
he comes and goes,
while his wife looks to him alone for comfort.
“How different your life and mine, good women of Corinth! You have friends,
and you live at your ease
in the city of your fathers. But I, forlorn and homeless,
despised
by my once-dear lord, a war-prize captured from
a faraway land,
I have no mother or brother or kinsman to lend me
harbor
in a clattering storm of troubles. I therefore beg of you one favor: If I should find some means, some stratagem to requite my lord for these cruel wrongs, never
betray me!
Though a woman may be in all else fearful, in the hour
when she’s wronged
in wedlock there is no spirit on earth more murderous.”
So she spoke, staring at the outer storm—the
darkening garden,
oaktrees and heavy old olive trees twisting, snapping
like grass,
in the god-filled, blustering wind. The hemlocks by
the wall stood hunched,
crushed under eagres of slashing water. When
lightning flashed,
cinereal, the shattered rosebushes writhing on the stones
in churning
spray formed a ghostly furnace, swirls of heatless fire. No torches burned by the walls of the palace above,
and the glow
leaking from within was gray and unsteady, like
a dragon’s eyes
by a new stone bier in a cluttered and cobwebbed vault,
a stone-walled
crowd set deep in the earth. In the roar of the storm,
no sound
came down to the room where Medeia stood with her
seamstresses,
no faintest whisper of a trumpet, but like a vast
sepulchre,
a palace in the ancient kingdom of Mu sunk deep
in the Atlantic,
the great house loomed, the hour of its trouble come
round. The women
gazed in sorrow at Medeia. “We’ll not betray you,”
one said.
Some, needles flying on the golden cloth, were afraid
of her,
the room full of shadows not easily explained.
And some shed tears.
So through the night they sewed, minutely following
the instructions
of Aietes’ daughter. And sometimes among the eleven
a twelfth
sat stitching, measuring, easing seams—a fat
old farm-wife
with the eyes of a wolf—the goddess of the witchcraft,
Hekate.
And so through the night in the palace of Kreon
the revels ran on,
the slave in black, Ipnolebes, watching with eyes
like smoke.
Thus swiftly, shamefully married—or so it seemed
to many—
the lord of the Argonauts turned on his children and
wife, his mind
supported by high-sounding reasons and noble
intentions. Near dawn,
when the storm had grown steady, prepared to continue
for days, it seemed,
the lord led his bride to the marriage bed—a cavernous
room
scented like a funeral chamber with flowers and
crammed wall to wall
with the gifts of Kreon, his vassals and allies. Strong
guards, black slaves,
impious eyes,
and kings melodious with wine sang the hymeneal.
Then I saw
on the lip of Corinth’s harbor—high and dry on logs and sheltered from the storm by a long dark barn—
the proud-necked Argo,
blacker than midnight, on her bows a virl of
gleaming silver
like the drapery carved on a casket’s sides. It loomed
enormous
in the barn’s thick night, oars stacked and roped on
the rowing benches,
sails rolled below—all waiting like a gun. White
crests of waves,
plangent as the roaring storm, came climbing the
steep rock slope
calling the ship out to sea. I could feel in my bones,
that night,
that the Argo was alive, though sleeping—the whole
black night alive,
like a forest in springtime watching for the first grim
stirring of bears.
Then gray dawn came—the Corinthian women sewed
on in silence,
Medeia like marble, in her thirst for revenge
hydroptic, as if bitten
by the dispas serpent whose fangs leave a thirst not
all the water
in the world can quench. Her heavy old slave
Agapetika prayed
at the shrine in her room, stubbornly, futilely
urging her will
’gainst Fate’s rock wall. The male slave fed the children,
keeping them
far from their mother, his mind abstracted, his stiff,
knobbed fingers
automatic, even his reproaches automatic, holding
those quarrelsome
voices to a whisper—for something of the crepitating
anger in the house
had reached their sleep, had filled them with suspicions
and obscure fears,
so that now, whatever the old man’s labors, there were
sharp cries of “Stop!”
and “Hand it back to me!” If Medeia heard them,
she revealed no sign.
In the palace, though he’d hardly slept, the Argonaut
opened his eyes,
suddenly remembering, and raised up in his bed,
leaning on an elbow,
to gaze through arches eagerly, as he’d gazed in
his youth
to the north and west on some nameless island, hoping
for a break
in the stretch of bad weather that pinned him to land,
the black ship hawsered,
dragged half its length up on shore for protection from
the breakers’ blows.
Rain was still falling, the mountains in the distance
as gray as the sea,
the sky like a corpse, bloodless, praeternaturally hushed.
He must wait
for the king to rise, wait for old Kreon in his own
good time
to relinquish the sceptre. There were th
ings to be done—
mad Idas and his men
wasting in the dungeon—a dangerous mistake indeed,
he knew,
the fierce brother watching from a hundred miles off,
with motionless eyes.
Above, Kreon was awake, old man who never slept. He stood at the balusters, peering intently at the city
as his slaves
powdered and patted him, dressed him in the royal
attire he’d wear
this morning for the last time. They put on his corselet
of bronze,
his glittering helmet, his footguards and shin-greaves,
finally his gauntlets,
and over his bronze-armed shoulders they draped his
purple cloak,
and they placed in his hand his jewel-studded sceptre.
Then, armed
as well as a man can be against powers from
underground,
the king descended to the hall where his counsellors
and officers waited,
and tall guards stiffly at attention, hands on sword-hilts.
He eyed
his retinue, sullenly brooding, and gave them a nod.
Then, chaired
by slaves, canopied from rain, he went down to the
dark house of Jason.
She came to meet him at the gate. The old man
feared to go nearer,
finding her dressed all in black, her eyes too quiet.
The rain
drenched her in a moment; she seemed to be wholly
unaware of it.
He raised his sceptre, a protection from Almighty Zeus
against charms
and spells.
In the presence of nobles, in the lead-gray
rain, he said:
“Woman whose eyes scowl forth thy dangerous rage
against Jason—
daughter of mad King Aietes—I bid thee go hence
from this land,
exiled forever, and thy two sons with thee. Neither
find excuses
for tarrying longer. I’ve come here in person to see
that the sentence
is fulfilled, and I’ll not turn homeward again till I see
thee cast forth
from the outer limits of my kingdom.”
So he spoke, and Medeia stared through him, her spirit staggering, but her body like a rock. “Now my
destruction
is complete,” she whispered. “My enemies all bear
down on me
full sail, and no safe landing-place from ruin.”
But at once,
steeling herself, only the tips of her fingers touching
the vine-thick gatepost of stone for steadiness,
Medeia asked:
“For what crime do you banish me, Kreon?”
“I fear you,” he said. “I needn’t mince words. I fear you may do to my child
and throne
some mischief too terrible for cure. I have reason
enough for that dread.
You are subtle, deep-versed in evil lore. Losing the love of your husband, you are much aggrieved. Moreover,
it’s said you threaten
not only vengeance on your husband but also on his
bride and on me.
It’s surely my duty to guard against all such strokes.
Far better
to earn full measure of your hatred at once than
relent now
and repent it hereafter.” Though his words were stern
and his lower teeth
laid bare, I could see no hatred in him. His fear of
the woman
was plain to see, yet he seemed more harried than
wrathful.
She said:
“Not for the first time, Kreon, has gossipping opinion
wronged me
and brought me shame and agony. Woe to the man who
teaches
arts more subtle than those of the herd! Bring to
the ignorant
new learning and they judge you not learned but
a dangerous trouble-maker;
and both to those untaught and to those who pretend
to learning,
mouthing obfuscating phrases with no more ground
in them
than tumbling Chaos, the truly learn’d seem an insult
and threat.
So my life proves. For since I have knowledge,
some find me odious,
some too stickling and, indeed, a wild fool. As for you,
you shrink
for fear of powers you imagine in me, or trust out
of rumor,
and punish me solely on the chance that I might
do injury.”
She stretched her arms out, ten feet away. Beaten
down by rain,
a woman who seemed no more deadly than a child,
she cried out, imploring,
“Kreon, look at me! Am I such a woman as to seek out
quarrels
with princes merely from impishness? Where have
you wronged me?
You have merely given your daughter to the man
you chose. No, Kreon,
it’s my husband I hate. All Corinth agrees you’ve done
wisely in this.
How can I grudge you your happiness? Then prosper,
my lord!
But grant me continued sanctuary. Wronged though
I am,
I’ll keep my silence, and yield to Jason’s will, since
I must.”
He looked at her, pitying but still afraid. And at last
he answered,
“You speak mild words. Yet rightly or wrongly, I fear
even now
that your heart in secret may be plotting some
wickedness. Now less than ever
do I trust you, Medeia. A cunning woman betrayed
into wrath
is more easily watched than one who’s silent. Be gone
at once.
Speak no more speeches. My sentence stands. Not all
your craft
can save you from exile. I know you firm-minded and
my enemy.”
Medeia moved closer, pleading in the steadily
drumming rain,
stretching her arms toward Kreon. “By your
new-wedded child,” she said …
“You’re wasting words. I cannot be persuaded.”
“You spurn me, Kreon?” “I feel no more love, let us say, than you feel for
my family.”
“O Kolchis, abandoned homeland, how I do long for
you now!”
“There’s nothing more dear, God knows, unless it’s
one’s child, perhaps.”
“God, what a murderous curse on all mankind is love!” “Curse or blessing, it depends.”
“O Zeus, let him never escape me!” “Go, woman—or must whips drive you? Spare me
that shame!”
“I need no whipping, Kreon. You’ve raised up
welts enough.”
“Then go, go—or I’ll bid my menials do what
they must.”
“I implore you—”
“You force me to violence, then?”
“I will go, Kreon. It was not for reprieve I cried out. Grant me just this:
Let me stay
for one more day in Corinth, to think out where
we may flee
and how I may care for my sons, since their father
no longer sees fit
to provide for them. Pity them, Kreon! You too are
a father.”
The old man trembled, afraid of her yet; but he
feared far more
the powers he’d struggled against all his life,
laboring to fathom,
straining in bafflemen
t to appease. He said:
“My nature is not
a tyrant’s, Medeia.” He pursed his lips, picking at
his chin
with trembling fingers. “Many a plan I’ve ruined by
relenting,
and some I’ve ruined by relenting too late. The gods
riddle us,
tease us with theories and lure us with hopes into
dragons’ mouths.
With Oidipus once, gravely insulted, threatened
with death
on a mad false charge, I held in my wrath when by
blind striking out—
so the sequel proved—I’d have saved both the city
and a dearly loved sister.
Yet with Oidipus’ daughter I proved too stern, refused
all pause
or compromise, and there, too, horror was the issue.
I will act
by Jason’s dictum, trusting to instinct and hoping
for the best,
expecting nothing. Though I see it may well be folly,
I grant
this one day’s stay. But beware, woman! If sunrise
tomorrow
finds you still in my kingdom, you or your sons,
you will die.
What I’ve said I’ll do; have no doubt of it.”
So saying, he departed, ascending the hill through fire and rain. She returned to her house, and the women of Corinth at the door
made way for her.
Indoors, the slave Agapetika waited, gray, weighed
down
by grief. She said, “No hope for us,” then, weeping,
could say
no more. Medeia touched her, her eyes remote. She said, grown strangely calm again, “Do not think the last word has been said—not yet! Troubles are in store for the
newlyweds,
and troubles for the wily old marriage-broker. Do you
think I’d grovel
in the rain to that foolish old man if not for some
desperate purpose?
Never have I spoken to Kreon before or touched
his hand. But now in his arrogance
he grants me time to destroy him and all he loves.
And that
I will—and all I have loved myself.” Her lips went white.
“Never mind,” she whispered to herself. “Never mind.”
“Medeia, child,”
the old woman moaned, eyes wide.
The daughter of Aietes turned, and struck like lightning: “Go from me! Leave this
house! Go at once!
Live in fields, old ditches! Never let me see you!”
The Corinthian women
stared, astounded, and no one spoke. The slave
backed away,
unsteady and shaking, retreating from the room, and
in her own room fell
like a plank breaking, to groan on her bed. No one
dared comfort her.