jealousy rages
like a forest fire.”
“It was not that that stopped you. I am a foreigner, and middle-aged. I cease to serve
your pride.”
His square fists tightened on the bars, and I
could hardly blame
his anger at the woman’s unreasonableness. Though his
jaw-muscles twitched,
he still spoke gently: “Medeia, lady—”
At the word, her face went white, her emotion like crackling fire. “Go!”
she screamed.
“Run, drunken lover! You linger too long from your
new bride’s chamber.
Go and be happy! May your marriage soon prove
a pleasure you’d fain
renounce.” Then, sobbing, she fled into the house.
He turned heavily
and made his way back up the worn stone steps
to the palace.
Not long did she weep in her fury at Jason. In her room, the oak
door closed
on the sewing women, she gathered from secret places
her herbs
and drugs, and above all the coriander for conjuring. Taking a ring she had lately received from a
wealthy king
named Algeus, father of Theseus—a man who’d
travelled
from a distant land for theurgic cure of his sterility— she placed the ring on a silver dish and murmured
his name.
Soon the bejewelled ring began to move. When it came
by its own energy to the rim of the dish, the gate-ring
clanged,
and Medeia called to have Aigeus shown in. He arrived
with a look
befuddled and amused, unable to think for the life
of him
what had brought him here in such weather. Soon she
had told him all
her tragedy, and old King Aigeus, kindest of men,
was promising
sanctuary in his own far-distant land. He said, pulling at his beard with his wrinkled hands, “But come,
King Kreon
banishes you, and Jason allows it? Most base!
Most base!”
“His voice protests,” she said, “yet he thinks it best
to endure it.”
“Shameful!” King Aigeus said, and again offered
sanctuary.
“Perhaps if you’d swear a solemn oath to me—”
she began.
“You mistrust me, child? Tell me what fear still
troubles you.”
She touched his two hands. “I trust you, but the house
of Pelias hates me,
and Kreon as well. Bound by oaths, you could never
yield me
if ever they came to drag me from you. Bound by
mere words,
not solemn oaths, you’d have no defense and would
yield to their summons
perforce. They are powerful kings, my lord.”
He stared above her head, mumbling: “What need for such far-sighted
prudence here?”
But at once he said, “I’ll do as you wish, Medeia. Name
your gods.”
She said: “Swear by the earth below, and the sun, my grandfather, and the whole vast race of the
deathless gods…”
“To perform what?—or resist what?”
“Never yourself to expel me from your land or willingly yield me
to enemies
so long as you still bear life.”
He said: “By the firm earth, by the sun’s light, and by all the gods, I swear all this, and if I fail to abide by my oath, may the gods send
down on me
the doom reserved for sacrilege.”
Medeia nodded, clasping his hand. “Go thy way with my blessing,”
she said,
“I’m fully content.” Aigeus descended to the street,
his heart
grieved for Aietes’ daughter, and full of uneasiness.
Down by the water in the sail-tent slum there were
angry stirrings,
huge men moving from fire to fire, hunkering for
warmth
in the roaring storm, and grimly exchanging the
latest news.
There lay a new ship there, I saw—a long, gray warship.
I kept my distance, my right hand darkly swollen
and throbbing
from our last encounter. Gradually, in their restless
shifting
few at a time,
from various parts of the wide, tented harbor, the
sailors began
to move through the rain into Kreon’s city. They
paused at the doors
of shops, smiling in from beneath drenched hoods. They
called out to children,
gave greeting to snarling curs at the mouths of alleys,
and so
by imperceptible stages surrounded the palace,
toward nightfall,
taking positions, like lengthening shadows, then
vanishing.
In the vine-hung house, the work of the women was
finished now—
a delicate robe and wreath of gold, the most splendid
attire
that was ever seen on earth. Medeia’s fingers traced the invisible seams; her eyes drank in the boundless
landscape
figured in the cloth by Argus’ art. She said: “Now,
women,
My revenge is near at hand. I’ll tell you the whole of
my purpose,
though not much pleasure will you take in what I tell.
I will go
to Jason tonight with his precious sons, and when
he receives us,
I’ll speak soft words, claiming I’ve come to understand,
myself,
that his plan is wise and just. Then gently, with
passionate tears,
I’ll entreat that my sons may remain in Corinth,
though I may not,
and beg that he grant them permission to carry my gifts
to the princess
to soften her heart and her father’s. If the lady accepts
these presents—
this gown and wreath of gold—and if she dresses
in them,
she’ll die horribly, and all who touch her, for with fell
poisons
the cloth will be anointed. And now the darkest part. If Jason, in a futile attempt to save his dying princess, touches the girl and dies himself, my revenge is ended, even in my heart. I’ll carry him away in a dragon chariot conjured out of ashes, and bury his remains in a
tumulus befitting
a prince so noble; and I’ll weep and lament as I would
if he’d died
for me, and I’ll honor his memory. But if Jason lives, having watched his princess die, having taken no risk
for her,
held back by prudence—Jason to the last the invincible
sea-fox—
thus will I bring down ruin upon him: I’ll murder
his sons.”
The Corinthian women all cried out at once, but
Medeia said quickly:
“Nothing can save them. I’ve sworn with solemn oaths
to do all
I’ve said. I will wreck the house of Jason to the
last beam,
then flee the ground of my dear children’s blood. So be it.
Flee and live on for what? you may ask. No home,
no country,
no refuge from grief … Nevertheless, live on I will, stripped of illusions, apparent joys, false, foolish hopes, my teeth bared to the blackness on every side, like poor mad Idas, who knew from the beginning. Feeble and
&
nbsp; poor of spirit
let no one think me, nor indolent, taking the world
as it comes.
Say that Medeia was of use to friends and to enemies
dangerous,
sure as the seasons, remorseless as nipping,
back-cracking cold.”
Timidly then one woman spoke: “Medeia, lady, all of us here love justice, surely, and would willingly
help you,
betrayed as you are. But this! All the laws of gods
and men—”
“I forgive your words of censure. You’re not as
wronged as I am.”
“And can you find it in your heart to kill your
children, Medeia?”
“I can find no other way to bring my husband down.”
“Making yourself, in the same stroke, the unhappiest
of wives!”
“Yes. But the vow is sworn. All future words are
waste.”
And so, attended by her two old slaves, her hands
closed firmly
on her children’s hands, Medeia walked that night
through the violent storm to the palace
of Kreon—now of Jason. They waited
while guards went in for instructions. Old Kreon shook
with fright,
his small eyes widened, convinced that his house must
be filled to the beams
with devils, with Medeia so near. But Jason persuaded
him at last
to allow the party entrance—for better to know
her mood,
attend to her threats, if she made any, than seek to
guard
’gainst possibilities as ubiquarian as air. The guards went out; old Kreon and his daughter left the hall,
retiring
for safety, at Jason’s request, to their separate chambers.
And now
the carved door opened again, and there Medeia stood, her two young sons beside her, clinging in fright to her
hands.
She shook back her hood without touching it—a gesture
graceful
and accidentally defiant. Her hair came blazing into
view,
bright as the sun, and the kings were hushed by awe.
She went
to Jason, leading his children, and in front of his chair
she kneeled
like a suppliant. The two old slaves stood near.
She said: “Jason, I entreat you, forgive those words I spoke
in anger.
You must bear with me in my passionate moods,
for was there not
much love between us once? I’ve been reasoning
through your claims,
my brain less feverish now, less egomaniac— less like my poor mad father’s—and I see that your
plan is right.
I chide myself: Why this madness, Medeia? Why this
anger
at the land’s rulers, and the lord who acts for your own
good
and the children’s? Why this sorrow? Is heaven not
once again
proved kind? Have you forgotten, woman, that the four
of you
are friendless exiles bound to fight in whatever way you can for survival? So, by stages, I’ve come to
myself
and have seen how dangerously foolish I was. So now
I’ve come
to grant my approval of all you’ve done, and to beg your
forgiveness.
It was I myself who was wrong; you were not. I should
have shared
in your plans and lent you aid; I should have
countenanced
the match and ministered joyfully to your bride. But
we are
as we are—I will not say evil, but—women. You were
wise, as always,
refusing to vie with me, matching folly against folly.
My spirit
is saner now. I yield to you and confess, I was wrong.” Then, to the children: “Sons, speak to your father. Be
reconciled.
Let this terrible battle between dear friends be ended.” Weeping, she raised their hands to Jason’s knees, and
Jason
took them, clasping them fondly, his eyes full of tears.
No wonder
if his heart refused, that instant, to believe it treachery.
He said: “Lady, most noble of all women living, I praise you now beyond all praise in the past. And I gladly excuse your
anger.
Small wonder if a woman’s wrath be kindled when her
husband turns
to another wife. But now your mood’s more sane, and
you
perceive, though late, where our welfare lies. And you,
my sons,
away with these tears! For I dare to hope—the gods
willing—
you’ll be rich and powerful yet in Corinth. Grow strong!
Leave all
the rest in your father’s hands. May I live to see you
reach
the prime of youthful vigor, envy of my enemies!”
He paused, studying Medeia. “Why these fresh tears?”
he said.
“Why this turning away of your face?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “My heart was brooding on the children.”
“But why in such terrible sorrow?” “I bore them. And when you prayed just now that they
reach their prime,
a sad foreboding came over me, a fear of the future.” He looked at her, his face thoughtful and sorrowful at
once.
“Take heart, Medeia,” he said. They shall not lack my
protection.”
She nodded. “I will, husband, and will not mistrust your
words.
—But of that which I came here to say I’ve said only a
part, my lord.
Let me say now the rest: Since it’s Kreon’s will that I be banished—and I grant that’s best, vexatious to
Kreon’s house
and to you—I will go into exile. But as for our two
dear sons,
I beg you, let Kreon not banish them, nor banish them
yourself,
since you’ve won more power in this hall than you like
to admit. Let them live
in Corinth, reared in the palace, so that no one may
doubt the right
you’ve promised them.”
“I doubt I have power sufficient to move him so far, Medeia,” he said, “though I may have such power
in theory.
And yet I’ll try.”
“Let your bride entreat him, for surely then—” “I will, yes.” He thought about it for a moment,
frowning.
“I may persuade her.”
“You will, if the woman’s like other women. And I’ll help you, Jason. I’ll send our children with gifts
for her,
a golden gown and wreath so beautiful no living mortal has seen their match.” She turned to the slave
Agapetika
and took those gifts from the old woman’s hands. The
old woman’s eyes
threw a wild appeal to Jason, but she could not speak,
her tongue
turned stone by Medeia’s spell. Medeia said, “She’ll be
blessed
a thousandfold, winning you, most splendid of heroes,
for her spouse
and dowered with treasures from Helios.” And then, to
her sons:
“Children, take these gifts in your hands and carry them
to her
as your father directs. They’re gifts no woman could
refuse.”
But Jason held back in fear, having recognized the cloth. He said, casting about for some s
tratagem by which he might be more sure of her, “No, wait, Medeia! Why cast away this finest of treasures?—for surely that cloth is the
fleece from Aia.
The princess has robes and gold enough. Keep it for
yourself,
a sure protection from hardship and suffering in exile.
If my bride
esteems me at all, she’ll prize my wish beyond any
mere treasure.”
Medeia said, “My lord, I have not chosen lightly these gifts I bring.” Sadly, solemnly, she met his eyes. “How is a woman to prove to the man she’s given her life that, following his wish, she renounces all earthly claim
to him?
This cloth was, to me, chief proof and symbol of our
steadfast love.
Giving it away—that which I prize beyond all other
wealth—
I give you away, my husband, and all our past together, for our sons. To me, it’s a gift no less than Khalkiope
gave
for hers. Do not shame me, or reduce me to
insignificance,
by refusing this queenly gesture. I’m left with no other
I can make.
You know me, Jason. Have mercy on my pride. I’d give
my life,
not merely gold, to save my sons from banishment.”
Then Jason believed her, and, placing the golden
gown and wreath
in his two sons’ hands, he said, “Wait here, and we’ll
test the power
of your gifts at once,” and he rose to lead them to
Pyripta’s room.
Medeia said, “Children, speak bravely when you meet
with your father’s new bride,
my mistress now, and beg her to save you from
banishment.
And don’t forget: with her own hands she must receive
our presents.
Hurry now, and the gods be with you! Return to me soon with the news I’m eager to hear.”
Then the children left with Jason, the old male slave attending. The sea-kings watched
them leave,
no man daring a whisper. In time they returned again, and Jason said, “You’ve done well, Medeia. Your sons
are spared.
The royal bride has received your gifts with gracious
hands.
Henceforth I hope for peace between our family’s
branches.”
He studied her, baffled despite all his years of
knowledge of her,
his mind clouded by the thought that the fleece was
still with him, his curse.
“Why so distraught?”
“A pain, my lord.”
“Such moans seem strange when I bring you joyful news.”
She covered her eyes, groaning. He said, now deeply troubled, “Can there be in what
you’ve done