Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MEDEA, by FRANZ GRILLPARZER

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MEDEA, by FRANZ GRILLPARZER Poet's Biography
First Line: Is it, then, done?
Last Line: Falls.]
Subject(s): Greece; Mothers; Mythology - Greek; Tragedy; Greeks

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

CREON, King of Corinth A herald of the Amphictyons
CREUSA, his daughter A peasant
JASON Medea's children
MEDEA Slaves and slave-women, attendants of the King, etc.
GORA, Medea's aged nurse

ACT I

Before the walls of Corinth. At the left, halfway up stage, a tent is pitched;
in the background lies the sea, with a point of land jutting out into it, on
which is built a part of the city. The time is early morning, before daybreak;
it is still dark.
At the right in the foreground a slave is seen standing in a pit digging and
throwing up shovelfuls of earth; on the opposite side of the pit stands MEDEA,
before a black chest which is strangely decorated with gold; in this chest she
keeps laying various utensils during the following dialogue.

MEDEA. Is it, then, done?
SLAVE. A moment yet, my mistress.
[GORA comes out of the tent and stands at a distance.]
MEDEA. Come! First the veil, and then the goddess' staff.
I shall not need them more; here let them rest.
Dark night, the time for magic, is gone by,
And what is yet to come, or good or ill,
Must happen in the beamy light of day.—
This casket next; dire, secret flames it hides
That will consume the wretch who, knowing not,
Shall dare unlock it. And this other here,
Full-filled with sudden death, with many an herb,
And many a stone of magic power obscure,
Unto that earth they sprang from I commit.
[She rises.]
So! Rest ye here in peace for evermore.
Now for the last and mightiest thing of all!
[The slave, who has meanwhile climbed out of the pit and taken his
stand behind the princess awaiting the conclusion of her enterprise, now turns
to help her, and grasps at an object covered with a veil and hanging from a
lance that has been resting against a tree behind MEDEA; the veil falls,
revealing the banner, with the Golden Fleece glowing radiantly through the
darkness.]
SLAVE (grasping the Fleece).
'Tis this?
MEDEA. Nay, hold thy hand! Unveil it not.
(Addressing the Fleece.)
Once more let me behold thee, fatal gift
Of trusting guest-friend! Shine for one last time,
Thou witness of the downfall of my house,
Bespattered with my father's, brother's blood,
Sign of Medea's shame and hateful crime!
[She stamps upon the lance-haft and breaks it in two.]
So do I rend thee now, so sink thee deep
In earth's dark bosom, whence, a bane to men,
Thou sprang'st.
[She lays the broken standard in the chest with the other objects and
shuts down the cover.]
GORA (comes down).
What does my mistress here?
MEDEA. Thou seest.
GORA. Wilt thou, then, bury in the earth that Fleece,
The symbol of thy service to the gods,
That saved thee, and shall save thee yet again?
MEDEA (scornfully).
That saved me? 'Tis because it saved me not,
That here I lay it. I am safe enough.
GORA (ironically).
Thanks to thy husband's love?
MEDEA (to the slave, ignoring Gora's taunt).
Is all prepared?
SLAVE. Yea, mistress.
MEDEA. Come!
[She grasps one handle of the chest, the slave the other, and
together they carry it to the pit.]
GORA (observing them from a distance).
Oh, what a task is this
For a proud princess, daughter of a king!
MEDEA. Nay, if it seem so hard, why dost not help?
GORA. Lord Jason's handmaid am I—and not thine!
Nor is it meet one slave another serve.
MEDEA (to the slave).
Now lay it in, and heap the earth upon it.
[The slave lets the chest down into the pit and shovels in the earth
upon it. MEDEA kneels at one side of the pit as he works.]
GORA (standing in the foreground).
Oh, let me die, ye gods of Colchis, now,
That I may look no more on such a sight!
Yet, first hurl down your lightning-stroke of wrath
Upon this traitor who hath wrought us woe.
Let me but see him die; then slay me too!
MEDEA (to the slave).
'Tis finished. Stamp the earth about it close,
And go.—I charge thee, guard my secret well.
Thou art a Colchian, and I know thee true.
[The slave departs.]
GORA (calling after him with grim scorn).
If thou shalt tell thy master, woe to you both!
(To MEDEA.)
Hast finished?
MEDEA. Ay. At last I am at peace!
GORA. The Fleece, too, didst thou bury?
MEDEA. Even the Fleece.
GORA. Thou didst not leave it in Iolcos, with
Thine husband's uncle?
MEDEA. Nay, thou saw'st it here.
GORA. Thou hadst it still—and now hast buried it!
Gone, gone! And naught is left; all thy past life
Vanished, like wreaths of vapor in the breeze!
And naught's to come, and naught has been, and all
Thou seest is but this present fleeting hour!
There was no Colchis! All the gods are dead!
Thou hadst no father, never slew thy brother!
Thou think'st not of it; lo, it never happened!—
Think, then, thou art not wretched. Cheat thyself
To dream Lord Jason loves thee yet. Perchance
It may come true!
MEDEA (angrily).
Be silent, woman!
GORA. Nay!
Let her who knows her guilty lock her lips,
But I will speak. Forth from my peaceful home
There in far Colchis, thou hast lured me here,
To be thine haughty paramour's meek slave.
Freeborn am I, yet see! mine arms are chained!—
Through the long, troubled nights, upon my couch
I lie and weep; each morn, as the bright sun
Returns, I curse my gray hairs and my weight
Of years. All scorn me, flout me. All I had
Is gone, save heavy heart and scalding tears.—
Nay, I will speak, and thou shalt listen, too!
MEDEA. Say on.
GORA. All I foretold has come to pass.
'Tis scarce one moon since the revolted sea
Cast you ashore, seducer and seduced;
And yet e'en now these folk flee from thy face,
And horror follows wheresoe'er thou goest.
The people shudder at the Colchian witch
With fearful whispers of her magic dark.
Where thou dost show thyself, there all shrink back
And curse thee. May the same curse smite them all!—
As for thy lord, the Colchian princess' spouse,
Him, too, they hate, for his sake, and for thine.
Did not his uncle drive him from his palace?
Was he not banished from his fatherland
What time that uncle perished, none knows how?
Home hath he none, nor resting-place, nor where
To lay his head. What canst thou hope from him?
MEDEA. I am his wife!
GORA. And hop'st—?
MEDEA. To follow him
In need and unto death.
GORA. Ay, need and death!
Æetes' daughter in a beggar's hut!
MEDEA. Let us pray Heaven for a simple heart;
So shall our humble lot be easier borne.
GORA. Ha!—And thy husband—?
MEDEA. Day breaks. Let us go.
GORA. Nay, thou shalt not escape my questioning!—
One comfort still is left me in my grief,
And only one: our wretched plight shows clear
That gods still rule in Heaven, and mete out
To guilty men requital, late or soon.
Weep for thy bitter lot; I'll comfort thee.
Only presume not rashly to deny
The gods are just, because thou dost deny
This punishment they send, and all this woe.—
To cure an evil, we must see it clear.
Thy husband—tell me—is he still the same?
MEDEA. What should he be?
GORA. O, toy not so with words!
Is he the same impetuous lover still
Who wooed thee once; who braved a hundred swords
To win thee; who, upon that weary voyage,
Laughed at thy fears and kissed away thy grief,
Poor maid, when thou wouldst neither eat nor drink,
But only pray to die? Ay, all too soon
He won thee with his passionate, stormy love.
Is he thy lover still?—I see thee tremble.
Ay, thou hast need; thou knowest he loves thee not,
But shudders at thee, dreads thee, flees thee, hates thee!
And as thou didst betray thy fatherland,
So shalt thou be betrayed—and by thy lover.
Deep in the earth the symbols of thy crime
Lie buried;—but the crime thou canst not hide.
MEDEA. Be silent!
GORA. Never!
MEDEA (grasping her fiercely by the arm).
Silence, dame, I say!
What is this madness? Cease these frantic cries!
'Tis our part to await whate'er may come,
Not bid it hasten.—Thou didst say but now
There is no past, no future; when a deed
Is done, 'tis done for all time; we can know
Only this one brief present instant, Now.
Say, if this Now may cradle a dim future,
Why may it not entomb the misty past?—
My past! Would God that I could change it now!
And bitter tears I weep for it, bitterer far
Than thou dost dream of.—Yet, that is no cause
To seek destruction. Rather is there need
Clearly to know myself, face honestly
The thing I am. Here to these foreign shores
And stranger folk a god hath driven us;
And what seemed right in Colchis, here is named
Evil and wickedness; our wonted ways
Win hatred here in Corinth, and distrust.
So, it is meet we change our ways and speech;
If we may be no longer what we would,
Let us at least, then, be e'en what we can.—
The ties that bound me to my fatherland
Here in earth's bosom I have buried deep;
The magic rites my mother taught me, all
Back to the Night that bare them I have given.
Now, but a woman, weak, alone, defenseless,
I throw me in my husband's open arms!
He shuddered at the Colchian witch! But now
I am his true, dear wife; and surely he
Will take me to his loving, shelt'ring arms.—
Lo, the day breaks, fair sign of our new life
Together! The dark past has ceased to be,
The happy future beckons!—Thou, O Earth,
The kind and gentle mother of us all,
Guard well my trust, that in thy bosom lies.
[As she and GORA approach the tent, it opens, and JASON
appears, talking with a Corinthian rustic, and followed by a slave.]
JASON. Thou saw'st the king himself?
RUSTIC. I did, my lord.
JASON. How went thy tale?
RUSTIC. I said, "One waits without,
A guest-friend of thy house, well-known to thee,
Yet so hedged round is he with traitorous foes,
He dares not enter, ere thou promise him
Peace and protection."
JASON. And his answer?—Speak!
RUSTIC. He comes, my lord, to meet thee. All this folk
Make pious offering to Poseidon here
Upon the seashore. Soon in festal train
They come with garlands and fair gifts, the king
Leading his daughter by the hand. 'Tis then,
As they pass by, that he will speak with thee.
JASON. Thou hast done well. I thank thee.
MEDEA (coming up to him). Jason, hail!
JASON. Hail to thee, too!
(To the slave.)
Go, thou, and all the others,
And pluck green branches from the budding trees
To mark you suppliants. 'Tis the custom here.
And keep a quiet, peaceful mien. Dost hear?
Now go. [They depart.]
MEDEA. Thou'rt full of thought?
JASON. Ay, full.
MEDEA. Thou givest
Thyself no rest.
JASON. A fugitive—and rest?
There is no rest for such, but only flight.
MEDEA. Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep,
But wand'redst forth in the murky night, alone.
JASON. I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes.
MEDEA. And thou hast sent a message to the king.
Will he receive us kindly?
JASON. That I wait
To hear.
MEDEA. He is thy friend?
JASON. He was.
MEDEA. Then sure
His heart will soften.
JASON. Even the kindest men
Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know
How all the world doth flee us, since the death
Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god
In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus
The people whisper that I slew him, I,
Thy husband, from that land of magic come.
Dost thou not know this?
MEDEA. Yea.
JASON. Here's cause enough
To wake and wander all the dark night through.—
But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun
Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour?
Calling old friends from Colchis?
MEDEA. Nay.
JASON. Speak truth!
MEDEA. I say, I am not.
JASON. And I say to thee,
Better for thee if thou forget all such.
Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks,
Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones
Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts
This folk here love not,—and I hate them, too!
This is not Colchis dark,—but sunny Greece;
Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men
Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know,
Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells;
I have thy promise, and I know thee true.—
That crimson wimple bound about thy hair
Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory.
Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress?
I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;
Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home.
The past is dead. Why call it back to life?—
Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!
[MEDEA silently removes the veil and gives it to GORA.]
GORA (whispering).
Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus—and all for him?
JASON (catching sight of GORA).
What! Art thou here, thou ancient beldame? Ha!
I hate thee most of all this Colchian crew.
One glance at thy dim eyes and wrinkled brow,
And lo! before my troubled sight there swims
The dusky shore of Colchis! Why must thou
Be ever hovering close beside my wife?
Begone!
GORA (grumblingly).
Why should I?
JASON. Go!
MEDEA. Begone, I pray.
GORA (sullenly to JASON).
Am I thy purchased slave, that thou shouldst speak
So lordly?
JASON. Go! My hand, of its own will,
Is on my sword! Go, while there yet is time!
Often ere this I have thought to make essay
If that stern brow be softer than it seems!
[MEDEA leads the reluctant GORA away, whispering words of comfort
as they go. JASON throws himself on a grass-bank, and strikes his breast.]
JASON. O, heart of mine, burst from thy prison-house,
And drink the air!—
Ay, there they lie, fair Corinth's lofty towers,
Marshalled so richly on the ocean-strand,
The cradle of my happy, golden youth!
Unchanging, gilded by the selfsame sun
As then. 'Tis I am altered, and not they.
Ye gods! The morning of my life was bright
And sunny; wherefore is my eventide
So dark and gloomy? Would that it were night!
[MEDEA has brought the two children out of the tent, and now leads
them by the hand to JASON.]
MEDEA. See, Jason, thy two babes, who come to greet thee.
Come, children, give your sire your little hands.
[The children draw back, and stand shyly at one side.]
JASON (stretching out his hands yearningly toward the little group.)
Is this the end, then? Do I find myself
Husband and father of a savage brood?
MEDEA. Go, children.
ONE CHILD. Father, is it true thou art
A Greek?
JASON. And why?
CHILD. Old Gora says thou art,
And calls the Greeks bad names.
JASON. What names, my boy?
CHILD. Traitors she says they are, and cowards, too.
JASON (to MEDEA).
Dost hear?
MEDEA. 'Tis Gora's foolish tales that they
Have heard, and treasured, child-like. Mark them not.
[She kneels beside the two children, whispering in the ear now of
one, now of the other.]
JASON. I will not. [He rises from the grass.]
There she kneels—unhappy fate!—
Bearing two burdens, hers, and mine as well.
[He paces up and down, then addresses MEDEA.]
There, leave the babes awhile, and come to me.
MEDEA (to the children).
Now go, and be good children. Go, I say.
[The children go.]
JASON. Think not, Medea, I am cold and hard.
I feel thy grief as deeply as mine own.
Thou'rt a brave comrade, and dost toil as truly
As I to roll away this heavy stone
That, ever falling backwards, blocks all paths,
All roads to hope. And whether thou'rt to blame,
Or I, it matters not. What's done is done.
[He clasps her hands in one of his, and with the other lovingly
strokes her brow.]
Thou lov'st me still, I know it well, Medea.
In thine own way, 'tis true; but yet thou lov'st me.
And not this fond glance only—all thy deeds
Tell the same tale of thine unending love.
[MEDEA hides her face on his shoulder.]
I know how many griefs bow this dear head,
How love and pity in thy bosom sit
Enthroned.—Come, let us counsel now together
How we may 'scape this onward-pressing fate
That threatens us so near. Here Corinth lies;
Hither, long years agone, a lonely youth,
I wandered, fleeing my uncle's wrath and hate;
And Creon, king of Corinth, took me in,—
A guest-friend was he of my father's house—
And cherished me ev'n as a well-loved son.
Full many a year I dwelt here, safe and happy.
And now—
MEDEA. Thou'rt silent!
JASON. Now, when all the world
Flouts me, avoids me, now, when each man's hand
In blind, unreasoning rage is raised to strike,
I hope to find a refuge with this king.—
One fear I have, though, and no idle one.
MEDEA. And what is that?
JASON. Me he will shelter safe—
That I hold certain—and my children, too,
For they are mine. But thee—
MEDEA. Nay, have no fear.
If he take them, as being thine, then me,
Who am thine as well, he will not cast away.
JASON. Hast thou forgotten all that lately chanced
There in my home-land, in my uncle's house,
When first I brought thee from dark Colchis' shores?
Hast thou forgot the scorn, the black distrust
In each Greek visage when it looked on thee,
A dark barbarian from a stranger-land?
They cannot know thee as I do,—true wife
And mother of my babes;—homekeepers they,
Nor e'er set foot on Colchis' magic strand
As I.
MEDEA. A bitter speech. What is the end?
JASON. The worst misfortune of mankind is this:
Calm and serene and unconcerned to court
Fate's heaviest blows, and then, when these have fallen,
To whine and cringe, bewailing one's sad lot.—
Such folly we will none of, thou and I.
For now I seek King Creon, to proclaim
My right as guest-friend, and to clear away
These clouds of dark distrust that threaten storm.—
Meanwhile, take thou the babes and get thee hence
Without the city walls. There wait, until—
MEDEA. Till when?
JASON. Until—Why hidest thou thy face?
MEDEA. Ah, say no more! This is that bitter fate
Whereof my father warned me! Said he not
We should torment each other, thou and I?
But no!—My spirit is not broken yet!
All that I was, all that I had, is gone,
Save this: I am thy wife! To that I'll cling
Even to death.
JASON. Why twist my kindly words
To a false meaning that I never dreamed of?
MEDEA. Prove that I twist thy words! I'll thank thee for it.
Quick, quick! The king draws nigh.—Let thy heart speak!
JASON. So, wait we here the breaking of the storm.
[GORA comes out of the tent with the two children; MEDEA places
herself between the children, and at first waits in the distance, watching
anxiously all that passes. The KING enters with his daughter and attended by
youths and maidens who carry the vessels for the sacrifice.]
KING. Where is this stranger?—Who he is, my heart,
By its wild beating, warns me; wanderer,
And banished from his homeland, nay, mayhap
E'en guilty of those crimes men charge him with.—
Where is the stranger?
JASON. Here, my lord, bowed low
Before thee, not a stranger, though estranged.
A suppliant I, and come to pray thine aid.
Thrust forth from house and home, by all men shunned,
I fly to thee, my guest-friend, and beseech
In confidence the shelter of thy roof.
CREUSA. Ay, it is he! Look, father, 'tis Prince Jason!
[She takes a step toward him.]
JASON. Yea, it is I. And is this thou, Creusa,
Crowned with a yet more gentle, radiant grace,
But still the same? O, take me by the hand
And lead me to thy father, where he stands
With thoughtful brow, fixing his steady gaze
Upon my face, and dallies with his doubt
Whether to greet me kindly. Is he wroth
At me, or at my guilt, which all men cry?
CREUSA (taking JASON's hand and leading him to her father).
See, father, 'tis Prince Jason!
KING. He is welcome.
JASON. Thy distant greeting shows me clear what place
Now best beseems me. Here at thy feet I fall
And clasp thy knees, and stretch a timid hand
To touch thy chin. Grant me my prayer, O King!
Receive and shelter a poor suppliant wretch!
KING. Rise, Jason.
JASON. Never, till thou—
KING. Rise, I say.
[Jason rises to his feet.]
KING. So, from thine Argo-quest thou art returned?
JASON. 'Tis scarce one moon since I set foot on land.
KING. What of the golden prize ye sought? Is't won?
JASON. The king who set the task—he hath it now.
KING. Why art thou banished from thy fatherland?
JASON. They drove me forth—homeless I wander now.
KING. Ay, but why banished? I must see this clear.
JASON. They charged me with a foul, accursèd crime.
KING. Truly or falsely? Answer me this first.
JASON. A false charge! By the gods I swear, 'tis false!
KING (swiftly grasping JASON's hand and leading him forward).
Thine uncle perished?
JASON. Yea, he died.
KING. But how?
JASON. Not at my hands! As I do live and breathe,
I swear that bloody deed was none of mine!
KING. Yet Rumor names thee Murderer, and the word
Through all the land is blown.
JASON. Then Rumor lies,
And all that vile land with it!
KING. Dream'st thou then
I can believe thy single tale, when all
The world cries, "Liar!"
JASON. 'Tis the word of one
Thou knowest well, against the word of strangers.
KING. Say, then, how fell the king?
JASON. 'Twas his own blood,
The children of his flesh, that did the deed.
KING. Horror of horrors! Surely 'tis not true?
It cannot be!
JASON. The gods know it is truth.
Give ear, and I will tell thee how it chanced.
KING. Nay, hold. Creusa comes. This is no tale
For gentle ears. I fain would shield the maid
From knowledge of such horror. (Aloud.) For the moment
I know enough. We'll hear the rest anon.
I will believe thee worthy while I can.
CREUSA (coming up to KING CREON).
Hast heard his tale? He's innocent, I know.
KING. Go, take his hand. Thou canst without disgrace.
CREUSA. Didst doubt him, father? Nay, I never did!
My heart told me these tales were never true,
These hideous stories that men tell of him.
Gentle he was, and kind; how could he, then,
Show him so base and cruel? Couldst thou know
How they have slandered thee, heaped curse on curse!
I've wept, to think our fellow-men could be
So bitter, false. For thou hadst scarce set sail,
When, sudden, all men's talk throughout the land
Was of wild deeds and hideous midnight crimes—
The fruit of witchcraft on far Colchis' shores—
Which thou hadst done.—And, last, a woman, dark
And dreadful, so they said, thou took'st to wife,
Brewer of poisons, slayer of her sire.
What was her name? It had a barbarous sound—
MEDEA (stepping forward with the children).
Medea! Here am I.
KING. Is't she?
JASON (dully). It is.
CREUSA (pressing close to her father).
O, horror!
MEDEA (to CREUSA).
Thou'rt wrong. I never slew my sire.
My brother died, 'tis true; but ask my lord
If 'twas my doing. [She points to JASON.]
True it is, fair maid,
That I am skilled to mix such magic potions
As shall bring death or healing, as I will.
And many a secret else I know. Yet, see!
I am no monster, no, nor murderess.
CREUSA. Oh, dreadful, horrible.
KING. And is she thy—wife?
JASON. My wife.
KING. Those children there?
JASON. They are mine own.
KING. Unhappy man!
JASON. Yea, sooth!—Come, children, bring
Those green boughs in your hands, and reach them out
To our lord the King, and pray him for his help
[He leads them up by the hand.]
Behold, my lord, these babes. Thou canst not spurn them!
ONE CHILD (holding out a bough timidly to the KING).
See, here it is.
KING (laying his hands gently on the children's heads).
Poor tiny birdlings, snatched from out your nest!
CREUSA (kneeling compassionately beside the children).
Come here to me, poor, homeless, little orphans!
So young, and yet misfortune bows you down
So soon! So young, and oh! so innocent!—
And look, how this one has his father's mien!
[She kisses the smaller boy.]
Stay here with me. I'll be your mother, sister.
MEDEA (with sudden fierceness).
They are not orphans, do not need thy tears
Of pity! For Prince Jason is their father;
And while Medea lives, they have no need
To seek a mother! (To the children.) Come to me—come here.
CREUSA (glancing at her father).
Shall I let them go?
KING. She is their mother.
CREUSA. Run
To mother, children.
MEDEA (to children). Come! Why stand ye there
And wait?
CREUSA (to the children, who are clasping her about the neck). Your mother
calls, my little ones.
Run to her quick!
[The children go to MEDEA.]
JASON (to the KING). My lord, what is thy will?
KING. Thou hast my promise.
JASON. Thou wilt keep me safe?
KING. I have said it.
JASON. Me and mine thou wilt receive?
KING. Nay, thee I said, not thine.—Now follow on,
First to the altar, to our palace then.
JASON (as he follows the king, to CREUSA).
Give me thy hand, Creusa, as of yore!
CREUSA. Thou canst not take it as of old thou didst.
MEDEA. They go,—and I am left, forgot! Oh, children,
Run here and clasp me close. Nay, closer, tighter!
CREUSA (to herself, turning as they go).
Where is Medea? Why does she not follow?
[She comes back, but stands at a distance from MEDEA.]
Com'st thou not to the sacrifice, then home
With us?
MEDEA. Unbidden guests must wait without.
CREUSA. Nay, but my father promised shelter, help.
MEDEA. Thy words and his betokened no such aid!
CREUSA (approaching nearer).
I've grieved thee, wounded thee! Forgive, I pray.
MEDEA. Ah, gracious sound! Who spake that gentle word?
Ay, many a time they've stabbed me to the quick,
But none e'er paused, and, pitying, asked himself
If the wound smarted! Thanks to thee, sweet maid!
Oh, when thou art thyself in sore distress,
Then may'st thou find some tender, pitying soul
To whisper soft and gracious words to thee,
To give one gentle glance—as thou to me!
[MEDEA tries to grasp CREUSA's hand, but the princess draws back
timidly.]
Nay, shudder not! 'Tis no plague-spotted hand.—
Oh, I was born a princess, even as thou.
For me the path of life stretched smooth and straight
As now for thee; blindly thereon I fared,
Content, where all seemed right.—Ah, happy days!
For I was born a princess, even as thou.
And as thou stand'st before me, fair and bright
And happy, so I stood beside my father,
The idol of his heart, and of his folk.
O Colchis! O my homeland! Dark and dread
They name thee here, but to my loving eyes
Thine is a shining shore!
CREUSA (taking her hand). Poor, lonely soul!
MEDEA. Gentle art thou, and mild, and gracious too;
I read it in thy face. But oh, beware!
The way seems smooth.—One step may mean thy fall!
Light is the skiff that bears thee down the stream,
Advance upon the silvery, shining waves,
Past gaily-flowered banks, where thou would'st pause.—
Ah, gentle pilot, is thy skill so sure?
Beyond thee roars the sea! Oh, venture not
To quit these flowery banks' secure embrace,
Else will the current seize thy slender craft
And sweep thee out upon the great gray sea.—
Why that fixed gaze? Dost shudder at me still?
There was a time when I had shuddered, too,
At thought of such a thing as I'm become!
[She hides her face on CREUSA's neck.]
CREUSA. She is no wild thing! Father, see, she weeps!
MEDEA. I am a stranger, from a far land come,
Naught knowing of this country's ancient ways;
And so they flout me, look at me askance
As at some savage, untamed animal.
I am the lowest, meanest of mankind,
I, the proud child of Colchis' mighty king!—
Teach me what I must do. Oh, I will learn
Gladly from thee, for thou art gentle, mild.
'Tis patient teaching, and not angry scorn,
Will tame me.—
Is't thy wont to be so calm
And so serene? To me that happy gift
The gods denied. But I will learn of thee!
Thou hast the skill to know what pleases him,
What makes him glad. Oh, teach me how I may
Once more find favor in my husband's sight,
And I will thank thee, thank thee!
CREUSA. Look, my father!
KING. Ay, bring her with thee.
CREUSA. Wilt thou come, Medea?
MEDEA. I'll follow gladly, whereso'er thou goest.
Have pity on me, lone, unfriended, sad,
And hide me from the king's stern, pitiless eyes!
(To the KING.)
Now may'st thou gaze thy fill. My fears are fled,
E'en while I know thy musings bode me ill.
Thy child is tenderer than her father.
CREUSA. Come!
He would not harm thee. Come, ye children, too.
[CREUSA leads MEDEA and the children away.]
KING. Hast heard?
JASON. I have.
KING. And so, that is thy wife!
That thou wert wedded, Rumor long since cried,
But I believed not. Now, when I have seen,
Belief is still less easy. She—thy wife?
JASON. 'Tis but the mountain's peak thou seest, and not
The toilsome climb to reach it, nor those steps
By which alone the climber guides his feet.—
I sailed away, a hot, impetuous youth,
O'er distant seas, upon the boldest quest
That e'er within the memory of man
Was ventured. To this life I said farewell,
And, the world well forgot, I fixed my gaze
Solely upon that radiant Golden Fleece
That, through the night, a star in the storm, shone out.
And none thought on return, but one and all,
As though the hour that saw the trophy won
Should be their last, strained every nerve to win.
And so, a valorous band, we sailed away,
Boastful and thirsting deep for daring deeds,
O'er sea and land, through storm and night and rocks,
Death at our heels, Death beckoning us before.
And what at other times we had thought full
Of terror, now seemed gentle, mild, and good;
For Nature was more awful than the worst
That man could do. And, as we strove with her,
And with barbarian hordes that blocked our path,
The hearts of e'en the mildest turned to flint.
Lost were those standards whereby men at home
Judge all things calmly; each became a law
Unto himself amid these savage sights.—
But that which all men deemed could never be
Came finally to pass, and we set foot
On Colchis' distant and mysterious strand.
Oh, hadst thou seen it, wrapped in murky clouds!
There day is night, and night a horror black,
Its folk more dreadful even than the night.
And there I found—her, who so hateful seems
To thee. In sooth, O king, she shone on me
Like the stray sunbeam that some prisoner sees
Pierce through the crannies of his lonely cell!
Dark though she seem to thee, in that black land
Like some lone, radiant star she gleamed on me.
KING. Yet wrong is never right, nor evil good.
JASON. It was some god that turned her heart to me.
Fast friend was she in many a dangerous pass.
I saw how in her bosom love was born,
Which yet her royal pride bade firm restrain;
No word she spake betrayed her—'twas her looks,
Her deeds that told the secret. Then on me
A madness came, like to a rushing wind.
Her silence but inflamed me; for a new
And warlike venture then I girded me,
For love I struggled with her—and I won!
Mine she became.—Her father cursed his child;
But mine she was, whether I would or no.
'Twas she that won me that mysterious Fleece;
She was my guide to that dank horror-cave
Where dwelt the dragon, guardian of the prize,
The which I slew, and bore the Fleece away.
Since then I see, each time I search her eyes,
That hideous serpent blinking back at me,
And shudder when I call her wife!—
At last
We sailed away. Her brother fell.
KING (quickly).
She slew him?
JASON. The gods' hand smote him down. Her aged father,
With curses on his lips for her, for me,
For all our days to come, with bleeding nails
Dug his own grave, and laid him down to die,
So goes the tale—grim victim of his own
Rash passion.
KING. Dread beginning of your life
Together!
JASON. Ay, and, as the days wore on,
More dreadful still.
KING. Thine uncle—what of him?
JASON. For four long years some god made sport of us
And kept us wandering far from hearth and home
O'er land and sea. Meanwhile, pent up with her
Within the narrow confines of our bark,
Seeing her face each moment of the day,
The edge of my first shuddering fear grew blunt.
The past was past.—So she became my wife.
KING. When home thou camest, what befell thee there?
JASON. Time passed; the memory of those ghastly days
In Colchis dimmer grew and mistier,
I, the proud Greek, now half barbarian grown,
Companioned by my wife, barbarian too,
Sought once again my home-land. Joyfully
The people cried Godspeed! as forth I fared
Long years agone. Of joyfuller greetings now,
When I returned a victor, I had dreamed.
But lo, the busy streets grew still as death
When I approached, and whoso met me, shrank
Back in dismay! The tale, grown big with horrors,
Of all that chanced in Colchis had bred fear
And hatred in this foolish people's hearts.
They fled my face, heaped insults on my wife—
Mine she was, too; who flouted her, struck me!
This evil talk my uncle slily fed;
And when I made demand that he yield up
The kingdom of my fathers, stolen by him
And kept from me by craft, he made reply
That I must put away this foreign wife,
For she was hateful in his eyes, he feared
Her dark and dreadful deeds! If I refused,
My fatherland, his kingdom, I must flee.
KING. And thou—?
JASON. What could I? Was she not my wife,
That trusted to my arm to keep her safe?
Who challenged her, was he not then my foe?
Why, had he named some easier behest,
By Heaven, I had obeyed not even that!
Then how grant this? I laughed at his command.
KING. And he—?
JASON. Spake doom of banishment for both.
Forth from Iolcos on that selfsame day
We must depart, he said. But I would not,
And stayed.
Forthwith a grievous illness seized
The king, and through the town a murmur ran
Whisp'ring strange tidings: How the aged king,
Seated before his household shrine, whereon
They had hung the Fleece in honor of the god,
Gazed without ceasing on that golden prize,
And oft would cry that thence his brother's face
Looked down on him,—my father's, whom he slew
By guile, disputing of the Argo-quest.
Ay, that dead face peered down upon him now
From every glittering lock of that bright Fleece,
In search of which, false man! he sent me forth
To distant lands, in hope that I should perish!
At last, when all the king's house saw their need,
To me for succor his proud daughters came,
Begging my wife to heal him by her skill.
But I cried, "No! Am I to save the man
Who plotted certain death for me and mine?"
And those proud maidens turned again in tears.
I shut me up within my house, unheeding
Aught else that passed. Weeping, they came again,
And yet again; each time I said them nay.
And then one night, as I lay sleeping, came
A dreadful cry before my door! I waked
To find Acastus, my false uncle's son,
Storming my portal with loud, frenzied blows,
Calling me murderer, slayer of his sire!
That night the aged king had passed from life.
Up from my couch I sprang, and sought to speak,
But vainly, for the people's howls of rage
Drowned my weak cries. Then one among them cast
A stone, then others. But I drew my blade
And through the mob to safety cut my way.
Since then I've wandered all fair Hellas o'er,
Reviled of men, a torment to myself.
And, if thou, too, refuse to succor me,
Then am I lost indeed!
KING. Nay, I have sworn
And I will keep my oath. But this thy wife—
JASON. Hear me, O king, before thou end that speech!
Needs must thou take us both, or none at all!
I were a happy man,—ay, born anew—
Were she but gone forever. But no, no!
I must protect her—for she trusted me.
KING. These magic arts she knows—'tis them I fear.
The power to injure, spells the will to do it.
Besides, these strange, suspicious deeds of hers—
These are not all her guilt.
JASON. Give her one chance.
Then, if she stay not quiet, hound her forth,
Hunt her, and slay her, me, and these my babes.
Yet, till that time, I pray thee let her try
If she can live at peace with this thy folk.
This boon I crave of thee by mightiest Zeus,
The god of strangers—ay, and call upon
The ancient bond of friendship that, long since,
Our fathers formed, mine in Iolcos, thine
In Corinth here. On that long-vanished day
They dreamed there might fall need of such a tie.
And, now that need is here, do thou thy part
And succor me, lest in like evil pass
Thou make the same request, and meet denial.
KING. 'Tis the gods' will; I yield, against my judgment,
And she shall stay. But, look you, if she show
One sign that those wild ways are not forgot,
I drive her forth from out this city straight
And yield her up to those who seek her life!
Here in this meadow, where I found thee first,
A sacred altar shall be raised, to Zeus,
The god of strangers, consecrate and to
Thy murdered uncle Pelias' bloody shades.
Here will we kneel together and pray the gods
To send their blessing on thy coming here,
And turn to mercy that which bodes us ill.—
Now to my royal city follow swift.
[He turns to his attendants, who approach.]
See my behests are faithfully obeyed.
[As they turn to depart, the curtain falls.]

ACT II

A chamber in CREON's royal palace at Corinth. CREUSA is discovered
seated, while MEDEA occupies a low stool before her, and holds a lyre in her
arm. She is clad in the Greek fashion.

CREUSA. Now pluck this string—the second—this one here.
MEDEA. So, this way?
CREUSA. Nay, thy fingers more relaxed.
MEDEA. I cannot.
CREUSA. 'Tis not hard, if thou'lt but try.
MEDEA. I have tried, patiently; but 'tis no use!
[She lays the lyre aside and rises.]
Were it a spear-haft, or the weapons fierce
Of the bloody hunt, these hands were quick enough.
[She raises her right hand and gazes at it reproachfully.]
Rebellious fingers! I would punish them!
CREUSA. Perverse one! When my heart was filled with joy
At thinking how 'twould gladden Jason's heart
To hear this song from thee!
MEDEA. Ay, thou art right.
I had forgot that. Let me try once more.
The song will please him, think'st thou, truly please him?
CREUSA. Nay, never doubt it. 'Tis the song he sang
When he dwelt here with us in boyhood days.
Each time I heard it, joyfully I sprang
To greet him, for it meant he was come home.
MEDEA (eagerly).
Teach me the song again!
CREUSA. Come, listen, then.
'Tis but a short one, nor so passing sweet;
But then—he knew to sing it with such grace,
Such joy, such lordly pride—ay, almost scorn!
[She sings.]
"Ye gods above, ye mighty gods,
Anoint my head, I pray;
Make strong my heart to bear my part
Right kingly in the fray,
To smite all foes, and steal the heart
Of all fair maids away!"
MEDEA. Yea, yea, all these the gods bestowed on him!
CREUSA. All what?
MEDEA. These gifts, of which the song doth tell.
CREUSA. What gifts?
MEDEA. "To smite all foes, and steal the heart
Of all fair maids away!"
CREUSA. Is't so? I never thought on that before;
I did but sing the words I heard him sing.
MEDEA. 'Twas so he stood on Colchis' hostile strand;
Before his burning glance our warriors cringed,
And that same glance kindled a fatal fire
In the soft breast of one unhappy maid;
She struggled, fled—until at last those flames,
So long hid deep within her heart, burst forth,
And rest and joy and peace to ashes burned
In one fierce holocaust of smoky flame.
'Twas so he stood, all shining strength and grace,
A hero, nay, a god—and drew his victim
And drew and drew, until the victim came
To its own doom; and then he flung it down
Careless, and there was none would take it up.
CREUSA. Art thou his wife, and speak'st such things of him?
MEDEA. Thou know'st him not; I know his inmost soul.—
In all the wide world there is none but he,
And all things else are naught to him but tools
To shape his deeds. He harbors no mean thoughts
Of paltry gain, not he; yet all his thoughts
Are of himself alone. He plays a game
With Fortune—now his own, and now another's.
If bright Fame beckon, he will slay a man
And do it gaily. Will he have a wife?
He goes and takes one. And though hearts should break
And lives be wasted—so he have his will,
What matters it to him? Oh, he does naught
That is not right—but right is what he wants!
Thou knowest him not; I've probed his inmost soul.
And when I think on all that he has wrought,
Oh, I could see him die, and laugh the while!
CREUSA. Farewell!
MEDEA. Thou goest?
CREUSA. Can I longer stay
To list such words?—Ye gods! to hear a wife
Revile her husband thus!
MEDEA. She should speak truth,
And mine is such an one as I have said.
CREUSA. By Heaven, if I were wedded to a man,
E'en one so base and vile as thou hast named—
Though Jason is not so—and had I babes,
His gift, each bearing in his little face
His father's likeness, oh, I would love them dear,
Though they should slay me!
MEDEA. Ay, an easy task
To set, but hard to do.
CREUSA. And yet, methinks,
If easier, 'twere less sweet.—Have thou thy way
And say whate'er thou wilt; but I must go.
First thou dost charm my heart with noble words
And seek'st my aid to win his love again;
But now thou breakest forth in hate and scorn.
I have seen many evils among men,
But worst of all these do I count a heart
That knows not to forgive. So, fare thee well!
Learn to be better, truer!
MEDEA. Art thou angry?
CREUSA. Almost.
MEDEA. Alas, thou wilt not give me up,
Thou, too? Thou wilt not leave me? Be my help,
My friend, my kind protector!
CREUSA. Now thou'rt gentle,
Yet, but a moment since, so full of hate!
MEDEA. Hate for myself, but only love for him!
CREUSA. Dost thou love Jason?
MEDEA. Should I else be here?
CREUSA. I've pondered that, but cannot understand.—
Yet, if thou truly lov'st him, I will take thee
Back to my heart again, and show thee means
Whereby thou mayst regain his love.—I know
Those bitter moods of his, and have a charm
To scatter the dark clouds. Come, to our task!
I marked this morning how his face was sad
And gloomy. Sing that song to him; thou'lt see
How swift his brow will clear. Here is the lyre;
I will not lay it down till thou canst sing
The song all through. [She seats herself.]
Nay, come! Why tarriest there?
MEDEA. I gaze on thee, and gaze on thee again,
And cannot have my fill of thy sweet face.
Thou gentle, virtuous maid, as fair in soul
As body, with a heart as white and pure
As are thy snowy draperies! Like a dove,
A pure, white dove with shining, outspread wings,
Thou hoverest o'er this life, nor yet so much
As dipp'st thy wing in this vile, noisome slough
Wherein we wallow, struggling to get free,
Each from himself. Send down one kindly beam
From out thy shining heaven, to fall in pity
Upon my bleeding breast, distraught with pain;
And all those ugly scars that grief and hate
And evil fortune e'er have written there,
Oh, cleanse thou these away with thy soft hands,
And leave thine own dear picture in their place!
That strength, that ever was my proudest boast
From youth, once tested, proved but craven weakness.
Oh, teach me how to make my weakness strong!
[She seats herself on the low stool at CREUSA's feet.]
Here to thy feet for refuge will I fly,
And pour my tale of suffering in thine ear;
And thou shalt teach me all that I must do.
Like some meek handmaid will I follow thee,
Will pace before the loom from early morn,
Nay, set my hand to all those lowly tasks
Which maids of noble blood would scorn to touch
In Colchis, as but fit for toiling serfs,
Yet here they grace a queen. Oh, I'll forget
My sire was Colchis' king, and I'll forget
My ancestors were gods, and I'll forget
The past, and all that threatens still!
[She springs up and leaves CREUSA's side.]
But no!
That can I not forget!
CREUSA (following her). Why so distressed?
Men have forgotten many an evil deed
That chanced long since, ay, even the gods themselves
Remember not past sorrows.
MEDEA (embracing her). Say'st thou so?
Oh, that I could believe it, could believe it!
JASON enters.
CREUSA (turning to him).
Here is thy wife. See, Jason, we are friends!
JASON. 'Tis well.
MEDEA. Greetings, my lord.—She is so good,
Medea's friend and teacher she would be.
JASON. Heaven speed her task!
CREUSA. But why these sober looks?
We shall enjoy here many happy days!
I, sharing 'twixt my sire and you my love
And tender care, while thou and she, Medea,—
JASON. Medea!
MEDEA. What are thy commands, my lord?
JASON. Hast seen the children late?
MEDEA. A moment since;
They are well and happy.
JASON. Look to them again!
MEDEA. I am just come from them.
JASON. Go, go, I say!
MEDEA. If 'tis thy wish—
JASON. It is.
MEDEA. Then I obey.
[She departs.]
CREUSA. Why dost thou bid her go? The babes are safe.
JASON. Ah . . ! ho, a mighty weight is rolled away
From off my soul, and I can breathe again!
Her glance doth shrivel up my very heart,
And all that bitter hate, hid deep within
My bosom, well nigh strangles me to death!
CREUSA. What words are these? Oh, ye all-righteous gods!
He speaks now even as she a moment since.
Who was it told me, wife and husband ever
Do love each other?
JASON. Ay, and so they do,
When some fair, stalwart youth hath cast his glance
Upon a maid, whom straightway he doth make
The goddess of his worship. Timidly
He seeks her eyes, to learn if haply she
Seek his as well; and when their glances meet,
His soul is glad. Then to her father straight
And to her mother goes he, as is meet,
And begs their treasure, and they give consent.
Comes then the bridal day; from far and near
Their kinsmen gather; all the town has part
In their rejoicing. Richly decked with wreaths
And dainty blossoms, to the altar then
He leads his bride; and there a rosy flush,
Of maiden shyness born, plays on her cheek
The while she trembles with a holy fear
At what is none the less her dearest wish.
Upon her head her father lays his hands
And blesses her and all her seed to come.
Such happy wooing breeds undying love
'Twixt wife and husband.—'Twas of such I dreamed.
Alas, it came not! What have I done, ye gods!
To be denied what ye are wont to give
Even to the poorest? Why have I alone
No refuge from the buffets of the world
At mine own hearth, no dear companion there,
My own, in truth, my own in plighted troth?
CREUSA. Thou didst not woo thy wife as others, then?
Her father did not raise his hand to bless?
JASON. He raised it, ay, but armèd with a sword;
And 'twas no blessing, but a curse he spake.
But I—I had a swift and sweet revenge!
His only son is dead, and he himself
Lies dumb in the grave. His curse alone lives still—
Or so it seems.
CREUSA. Alas, how strange to think
Of all the change a few brief years have wrought!
Thou wert so soft and gentle, and art now
So stern. But I am still the selfsame maid
As then, have still the selfsame hopes and fears,
And what I then thought right, I think right still,
What then I blamed, cannot think blameless now.—
But thou art changed.
JASON. Ay, thou hast hit the truth!
The real misfortune in a hapless lot
Is this: that man is to himself untrue.
Here one must show him master, there must cringe
And bow the knee; here Justice moves a hair,
And there a grain; and, at his journey's end,
He stands another man than he who late
Set out upon that journey. And his loss
Is twofold—for the world has passed him by
In scorn, and his own self-respect is dead.
Naught have I done that in itself was bad,
Yet have had evil hopes, bad wishes, ay,
Unholy aspirations; and have stood
And looked in silence, while another sinned;
Or here have willed no evil, yet joined hands
With sin, forgetful how one wicked deed
Begets another.—Now at last I stand,
A sea of evils breaking all about,
And cannot say, "My hand hath done no wrong!"—
O happy Youth, couldst thou forever stay!
O joyous Fancy, blest Forgetfulness,
Time when each moment cradles some great deed
And buries it! How, in a swelling tide
Of high adventure, I disported me,
Cleaving the mighty waves with stalwart breast!
But manhood comes, with slow and sober steps,
And Fancy flees away, while naked Truth
Creeps soft to fill its place and brood upon
Full many a care. No more the present seems
A fair tree, laden down with luscious fruits,
'Neath whose cool shadows rest and joy are found,
But is become a tiny seedling which,
When buried in the earth, will sprout and bud
And bloom, and bear a future of its own.
What shall thy task in life be? Where thy home?
What of thy wife and babes? What thine own fate,
And theirs?—Such constant musings tantalize the soul. [He seats
himself.]
CREUSA. What should'st thou care for such? 'Tis all decreed,
All ordered for thee.
JASON. Ordered? Ay, as when
Over the threshold one thrusts forth a bowl
Of broken meats, to feed some begging wretch!
I am Prince Jason. Spells not that enough
Of sorrow? Must I ever henceforth sit
Meek at some stranger's board, or beg my way,
My little babes about me, praying pity
From each I meet? My sire was once a king,
And so am I; yet who would care to boast
He is like Jason? Still— [He rises.]
I passed but now
Down through the busy market-place and through
Yon wide-wayed city. Dost remember how
I strode in my young pride through those same streets
What time I came to take farewell of thee
Long since, ere sailed the Argo? How the folk
Came thronging, surging, how each street was choked
With horses, chariots, men—a dazzling blaze
Of color? How the eager gazers climbed
Up on the house-tops, swarmed on every tower,
And fought for places as they would for gold?
The air rang with the cymbals' brazen crash
And with the shouts of all that mighty throng
Crying, "Hail, Jason!" Thick they crowded round
That gallant band attired in rich array,
Their shining armor gleaming in the sun,
The least of them a hero and a king,
And in their midst the leader they adored.
I was the man that captained them, that brought
Them safe to Greece again; and it was I
That all this folk did greet with loud acclaim.—
I trod these selfsame streets an hour ago,
But no eye sought me, greeting heard I none;
Only, the while I stood and gazed about,
I heard one rudely grumbling that I had
No right to block the way, and stand and stare.
CREUSA. Thou wilt regain thy proud place once again,
If thou but choose.
JASON. Nay, all my hopes are dead;
My fight is fought, and I am down, to rise
No more.
CREUSA. I have a charm will save thee yet.
JASON. Ay, all that thou would'st say, I know before:
Undo the past, as though it ne'er had been.
I never left my fatherland, but stayed
With thee and thine in Corinth, never saw
The Golden Fleece, nor stepped on Colchis' strand,
Ne'er saw that woman that I now call wife!
Send thou her home to her accursed land,
Cause her to take with her all memory
That she was ever here.—Do thou but this,
And I will be a man again, and dwell
With men.
CREUSA. Is that thy charm? I know a better;
A simple heart, I mean, a mind at peace.
JASON. Ah, thou art good! Would I could learn this peace
Of thee!
CREUSA. To all that choose, the gods will give it.
Thou hadst it once, and canst have yet again.
JASON. Dost thou think often on our happy youth?
CREUSA. Ay, many a time, and gladly.
JASON. How we were
One heart, one soul?
CREUSA. I made thee gentler, thou
Didst give me courage.—Dost remember how
I set thy helm upon my head?
JASON. And how
Because it was too large, thy tiny hands
Did hold it up, the while it rested soft
Upon thy golden curls? Creusa, those
Were happy days!
CREUSA. Dost mind thee how my father
Was filled with joy to see it, and, in jest,
Did name us bride and bridegroom?
JASON. Ay—but that
Was not to be.
CREUSA. Like many another hope
That disappoints us.—Still, what matters it?
We mean to be no less good friends, I trust!
[MEDEA reënters.]
MEDEA. I've seen the children. They are safe.
JASON (absently). 'Tis well.
(Continuing his revery.)
All those fair spots our happy youth once knew,
Linked to my memory with slender threads,
All these I sought once more, when first I came
Again to Corinth, and I cooled my breast
And dipped my burning lips in that bright spring
Of my lost childhood. Once again, methought,
I drove my chariot through the market-place,
Guiding my fiery steeds where'er I would,
Or, wrestling with some fellow of the crowd,
Gave blow for blow, while thou didst stand to watch,
Struck dumb with terror, filled with angry fears,
Hating, for my sake, all who raised a hand
Against me. Or again I seemed to be
Within the solemn temple, where we knelt
Together, there, and there alone, forgetful
Each of the other, our soft-moving lips
Up-sending to the gods from our two breasts
A single heart, made one by bonds of love.
CREUSA. Dost thou remember all these things so well?
JASON. They are the cup from which, in greedy draughts,
I drink the only comfort left me now.
MEDEA (who has gone silently up-stage and taken up again the discarded
lyre).
Jason, I know a song!
JASON (not noticing her). And then the tower!
Know'st thou that tower upon the sea-strand there,
Where by thy father thou didst stand and weep,
What time I climbed the Argo's side, to sail
On that far journey? For thy falling tears
I had no eyes, my heart but thirsted deep
For deeds of prowess. Lo, there came a breeze
That loosed the wimple bound about thy locks
And dropped it on the waves. Straightway I sprang
Into the sea, and caught it up, to keep
In memory of thee when far away.
CREUSA. Hast thou it still?
JASON. Nay, think how many years
Are gone since then, and with them this, thy token,
Blown far by some stray breeze.
MEDEA. I know a song!
JASON (ignoring her).
Then didst thou cry to me, "Farewell, my brother!"
CREUSA. And now my cry is, "Brother, welcome home!"
MEDEA (plaintively).
Jason, I know a song.
CREUSA. She knows a song
That thou wert wont to sing. I pray thee, listen,
And she will sing it thee.
JASON. A song? Well, well!
Where was I, then?—From childhood I was wont
To dream and dream, and babble foolishly
Of things that were not and could never be.
That habit clung to me, and mocks me now.
For, as the youth lives ever in the future,
So the grown man looks alway to the past,
And, young or old, we know not how to live
Within the present. In my dreams I was
A mighty hero, girded for great deeds,
And had a loving wife, and gold, and much
Goodly possessions, and a peaceful home
Wherein slept babes of mine.
(To MEDEA.)
What is it thou
Wouldst have with me?
CREUSA. She asks to sing a song
That thou in youth wert wont to sing to us.
JASON (to MEDEA).
And thou hast learned it?
MEDEA. I have done my best.
JASON. Go to! Dost think to give me back my youth,
Or happiness to win again for me,
By singing me some paltry, childish tune?
Give o'er! We will not part, but live together;
That is our fate, it seems, as things have chanced;
But let me hear no word of foolish songs
Or suchlike nonsense!
CREUSA. Let her sing, I pray.
She hath conned it o'er and o'er, to know it well,
Indeed she hath!
JASON. Well, sing it, sing it, then!
CREUSA (to MEDEA).
So, pluck the second string. Thou know'st it still?
MEDEA (drawing her hand across her brow as if in pain).
I have forgotten!
JASON. Ay, said I not so?
She cannot sing it.—Other songs are hers,
Like that which, with her magic arts, she sang
Unto the dragon, that he fell asleep.
That was no pure, sweet strain, like this of thine!
CREUSA (whispering in MEDEA's ear).
"Ye gods above, ye mighty gods—."
MEDEA (repeating it after her).
"Ye gods above—"
O gods in heaven, O righteous, mighty gods!
[She lets the lyre fall to the ground, and clasps both hands before
her eyes.]
CREUSA. She weeps! Canst be so stern and hard?
JASON (holding CREUSA back from MEDEA). Thou art
A child, and canst not know us, what we are!
The hand she feels upon her is the gods',
That reacheth her e'en here, with bloody gripe!
Then strive not thou to balk the gods' just doom.
O, hadst thou seen her in the dragon's cave,
Seen how she leaped to meet that serpent grim,
Shot forth the poisonous arrows of her tongue,
And darted hate and death from blazing eyes,
Then were thy bosom steeled against her tears!—
Take thou the lyre, sing thou to me that song,
And exorcise the hateful demon here
That strangles, chokes me! Thou canst sing the song,
Mayhap, though she cannot.
CREUSA. Ay, that I will.
[She stoops to take up the lyre.]
MEDEA (gripping CREUSA's arm with one hand and holding her back, while
with the other she herself picks up the lyre).
Let be!
CREUSA. Right gladly, if thou'lt play.
MEDEA. Not I!
JASON. Thou wilt not give it her?
MEDEA. No!
JASON. Nor to me?
MEDEA. No!
JASON (striding up to her and grasping at the lyre).
I will take it, then!
MEDEA (without moving from her place, but drawing the lyre away from him).
No!
JASON. Give it me!
MEDEA (crushing the lyre, so that it breaks with a loud, cracking sound).
Here, take it! Broken! Thy fair lyre is broken!
[She flings the pieces down in front of CREUSA.]
CREUSA (starting back in horror).
Dead!
MEDEA (looking swiftly about her as in a daze).
Dead? Who speaks of death? I am alive!
[She stands there violently agitated and staring dazedly before her. A
trumpet-blast sounds without.]
JASON. Ha, what is that?
(To MEDEA.)
Why standest silent there?
Thou'lt rue this moment, that I know full well!
[Another trumpet-blast without. The KING appears suddenly at the
door.]
JASON (hurrying to meet him).
What means that warlike trumpet-blast without?
KING. Unhappy man, canst ask?
JASON. I do, my lord!
KING. The stroke that I so feared is fall'n at last.—
Before my palace gates a herald stands,
Sent hither from the Amphictyons' holy seat,
Seeking for news of thee and of thy wife,
Crying to Heaven the doom of banishment
On both!
JASON. This, too?
KING. So is it—. Peace, he comes.
[The palace doors swing open and a HERALD enters, followed by two
trumpeters and, at a little distance, by a numerous suite.]
HERALD. The blessing of the gods upon this house!
KING (solemnly).
Who art thou? On what errand art thou come?
HERALD. A herald of the gods am I, sent forth
From the ancient council of the Amphictyons
That speaks its judgments in that holy town
Of freedom, Delphi. And I follow close,
With cries of vengeance, on the guilty tracks
Of those false kinsmen of King Pelias,
Who ruled Iolcos, ere he fell in death.
KING. Thou seek'st the guilty? Seek in his own house,
'Mongst his own children seek them—but not here!
HERALD. Here have I found them. Here I'll speak my charge:
Thou art accursed, Jason, thou, and she,
Thy wife! With evil magic are ye charged,
Wherewith thine uncle darkly ye did slay.
JASON. A lie! Naught know I of mine uncle's death!
HERALD. Then ask thy wife, there; she will know, perchance.
JASON. Was't she that slew him?
HERALD. Not with her own hand,
But by those magic arts ye know so well,
Which ye have brought here from that foreign land.
For, when the king fell sick—perchance e'en then
A victim, for the signs of his disease
Were strange and dreadful—to Medea then
His daughters came, and begged for healing balms
From her who knew so well to heal. And she
Gave swift consent, and followed them.
JASON. Nay, hold!
She went not! I forbade it, and she stayed.
HERALD. The first time, yes. But when, unknown to thee,
They came again, she companied them back,
Only demanding, if she healed the king,
The Golden Fleece in payment for her aid;
It was a hateful thing to her, she said;
And boded evil. And those foolish maids,
All joyful, promised. So she came with them
To the king's chamber, where he lay asleep.
Straightway she muttered strange and secret words
Above him, and his sleep grew ever deep
And deeper. Next, to let the bad blood out,
She bade them ope his veins. And even this
They did, whereat his panting breath grew still
And tranquil; then the gaping wounds were bound,
And those sad maids were glad to think him healed.
Forth went Medea then, as she hath said;
His daughters, too, departed, for he slept.
But, on a sudden, came a fearful cry
From out his chamber! Swift his daughters sped
To aid him, and—oh, ghastly, horrible!—
There on the pavement lay the aged king,
His body twisted in a hideous knot,
The cloths that bound his veins all torn away
From off his gaping wounds, whence, in a black
And sluggish stream, his blood came welling forth.
He lay beside the altar, where the Fleece
For long was wont to hang—and that was gone!
But, in that selfsame hour, thy wife was seen,
The golden gaud upon her shoulder flung,
Swift hasting through the night.
MEDEA (dully, staring straight before her).
'Twas my reward!—
I shudder still, when'er I think upon
The old man's furious rage!
HERALD. Now, that no longer
Such horrors bide here, poisoning this land
With their destructive breath, I here proclaim
The solemn doom of utter banishment
On Jason, the Thessalian, Aeson's son,
Spouse of a wicked witch-wife, and himself
An arrant villain; and I drive him forth
From out this land of Greece, wherein the gods
Are wont to walk with men; to exile hence,
To flight and wandering I drive him forth,
And with him, this, his wife, ay, and his babes,
The offspring of his marriage-bed. Henceforth
No rood of this, his fatherland, be his,
No share in her protection or her rights!
[He raises his hand and three times makes solemn proclamation,
turning to different quarters.]
Banished are Jason and Medea!
Medea and Jason are banished!
Banished are Jason and Medea!
And whoso harbors him, or gives him aid,
After three days and nights are come and gone,
Upon that man I here declare the doom
Of death, if he be burgher; if a king,
Or city-state, then war shall be proclaimed.
So runs the Amphictyons' reverend decree,
The which I here proclaim, as is most meet,
That each may know its terms, and so beware.—
The blessing of the gods upon this house!
[He turns to depart.]
JASON. Why stand ye there, ye walls, and crash not down
To save this king the pains of slaying me?
KING. A moment yet, sir Herald. Hear this, too.
[He turns to JASON.]
Think'st thou I rue the promise I have made?
If I could think thee guilty, ay, wert thou
My very son, I'd give thee up to these
That seek thee. But thou art not! Wherefore, I
Will give thee shelter. Stay thou here.—Who dares
To question Creon's friend, whose innocence
Stands pledged by mine own words? Who dares, I say,
To lay a hand upon my son to be?
Yea, Herald, on my son to be, the spouse
Of this my daughter! 'Twas my dearest wish
In happy days long past, when Fortune smiled;
Now, when he's compassed round by stormy waves
Of evil fortune, it shall come to pass.
Ay, she shall be thy wife, and thou shalt stay
Here, with thy father. And I will myself
Make answer for it to the Amphictyons.
Who now will cry him guilty, when the king
Hath sworn him free from blame, and given him
The hand of his own daughter?
(To the HERALD.)
Take my words
To those that sent thee hither. Go in peace!
The blessing of the gods be on thy head!
[The HERALD goes.]
KING (turning to MEDEA).
This woman, whom the wilderness spewed up
To be a bane to thee and all good men,
Her that hath wrought the crimes men lay to thee,
Her do I banish forth from out this land
And all its borders. Death shall be her lot
And portion, if the morrow find her here!
(To MEDEA.)
Depart from out my fathers' pious town,
And make the air thou poisonest pure again!
MEDEA. Is that thy sentence? Falls it, then, on me,
And me alone? And yet I say to thee,
O king, I did it not!
KING. Nay, thou hast done
Enough of evil since he saw thee first.
Away with thee from out my house and town!
MEDEA (turning to JASON).
Say, must I go? So be it—but follow me!
We bear the blame together, let us bear
The punishment as well! Dost thou not know
The ancient proverb: "None shall die alone?"
One home for both, one body—and one death!
Long since, when Death stared grimly in our eyes,
We sware that oath. Now keep it! Follow me!
JASON. Nay, touch me not! Begone from me, thou curse
Of all my days, who hast robbed me of my life
And happiness, from whom, when first mine eyes
Met thine, I shrank and shuddered, though I thought
Those fearful struggles in my very soul
Were but the signs of rash and foolish love.
Hence, to that wilderness that cradled thee!
Back to that bloody folk whose child thou art
In very thought and deed! But, ere thou go,
Give back to me what thou hast stol'n away,
Thou wanton! Give Prince Jason back to me!
MEDEA. Is't Jason thou desirest? Take him, then!
But who shall give Medea back to me?
Was't I that in thy homeland sought thee out?
Was't I that lured thee from thy father's house?
Was't I that forced, ay, forced my love on thee?
Was't I that wrenched thee from thy fatherland,
Made thee the butt of strangers' haughty scorn,
Or dragged thee into wantonness and crime?
Thou nam'st me Wanton?—Woe is me! I am!
Yet—how have I been wanton, and for whom?
Let these pursue me with their venomous hate,
Ay, drive me forth and slay me! 'Tis their right,
Because I am in truth a dreadful thing
And hateful unto them, and to myself
A deep abyss of evil, terrible!
Let all the world heap curses on my head,
Save only thee alone! Nay, thou shalt not!
'Twas thou inspiredst all these horrid deeds,
Yea, thou alone. Dost thou not call to mind
How I did clasp my hands about thy knees
That day thou bad'st me steal the Golden Fleece?
And, though I sooner far had slain myself,
Yet thou, with chilly scorn, commandedst me
To take it. Dost remember how I held
My brother in my bosom, faint to death
From that fierce stroke of thine that laid him low,
Until he tore him from his sister's arms
To 'scape thy frenzied vengeance, and leaped swift
Into the sea, to find a kinder death
Beneath its waves? Dost thou remember?—Nay,
Come here to me, and shrink not so away
To shelter thee behind that maiden there!
JASON (coming forward).
I hate thee,—but I fear thee not!
MEDEA. Then come!
[She addresses him earnestly in low tones.]
Dost thou remember—Nay, look not on me
So haughtily!—how, on that very day
Before thine uncle died, his daughters went
So sorrowful and hopeless forth from me,
Because I sent them back at thy behest,
And would not aid them? Then thou cam'st, alone,
Unto my chamber, looking in mine eyes
So earnestly, as though some purpose grim,
Deep hidden in thy heart, would search my soul
To find its like therein? And how thou saidst
That they were come to me for healing balms
To cure their old, sick father? 'Twas thy wish
That I should brew a cool, refreshing draught
To cure him of his ills forevermore—
And thee as well! Hast thou forgotten that?
Nay, look at me, eye straight to eye, if thou
Dost dare!
JASON. Thou demon! Why these frantic words,
This rage against me? Why recall to life
These shadows of my dreams and make them real,
Why hold a mirror up to me wherein
Naught but thine own vile thoughts do show, and say
'Tis I that look therefrom? Why call my thoughts
From out the past to charge me with thy crimes?
Naught know I of thy plans and plottings, naught!
From the beginning I have hated thee,
I've cursed the day when first I saw thy face;
'Tis pity only held me at thy side!
But now I cast thee off forevermore
With bitter curses, e'en as all the world
Doth curse thee!
MEDEA (throwing herself at his feet with a cry of agony).
No! My love, my husband! No!
JASON (roughly).
Begone!
MEDEA. That day my old, gray father cursed
My name, thou gav'st thy promise, nevermore
To leave me, nevermore! Now keep thy word!
JASON. Thine own rash deeds have made that promise naught,
And here I give thee to thy father's curse.
MEDEA. I hate thee!—Come! Come, O my husband!
JASON. Back!
MEDEA. Come to my loving arms! 'Twas once thy wish!
JASON. Back! See, I draw my sword. I'll strike thee dead,
Unless thou yield, and go!
MEDEA (approaching him fearlessly).
Then strike me, strike!
CREUSA (to JASON).
Hold! Let her go in peace, and harm her not!
MEDEA. Ha! Thou here, too, thou snow-white, silvery snake?
Oh, hiss no more, nor shoot thy forked tongue
With honied words upon it! Thou hast got
What thou didst wish—a husband at the last!
For this, then, didst thou show thyself so soft
And smooth-caressing, for this only wind
Thy snaky coils so close about my neck?
Oh, if I had a dagger, I would smite
Thee, and thy father, that so righteous king!
For this, then, hast thou sung those winsome songs,
Taught me to play the lyre, and tricked me out
In these rich garments?
[She suddenly rends her mantle in twain.]
Off with you! Away
With the vile gifts of that accursed jade!
[She turns to JASON.]
See! As I tear this mantle here in twain,
Pressing one part upon my throbbing breast,
And cast the other from me at thy feet,
So do I rend my love, the common tie
That bound us each to each. What follows now
I cast on thee, thou miscreant, who hast spurned
The holy claims of an unhappy wife!—
Give me my children now, and let me go!
KING. The children stay with us.
MEDEA. They may not go
With their own mother?
KING. With a wanton, no!
MEDEA (to JASON).
Is it thy will, too?
JASON. Ay!
MEDEA (hastening to the door). Come forth, my babes!
Your mother calls you!
KING. Back!
MEDEA. 'Tis, then, thy will
That I go forth alone?—'Tis well, so be it!
I say but this, O king: Before the gray
Of evening darken, give me back my babes!
Enough for now!
(Turning to CREUSA.)
But thou, who standest there
In glistering raiment, cloaking thy delight,
In thy false purity disdaining me,
I tell thee, thou wilt wring those soft, white hands
In agony, and envy me my lot,
Hard though it seemeth now!
JASON. How dar'st thou?
KING. Hence!
MEDEA. I go, but I will come again, to take
What is mine own, and bring what ye deserve.
KING. Ha! Wouldst thou threaten us before our face?
If words will not suffice—
(To his attendants.)
Then teach ye her
How she should bear herself before a king!
MEDEA. Stand back! Who dares to block Medea's path?
Mark well, O king, this hour when I depart.
Trust me, thou never saw'st a blacker one!
Make way! I go,—and take with me revenge!
[She goes out.]
KING. Our punishment, at least, will follow thee!
(To CREUSA.)
Nay, tremble not. We'll keep thee safe from her!
CREUSA. I wonder only, whether what we do
Be right? If so, no power can work us harm!
(The curtain falls.)

ACT III

The outer court of CREON's palace. In the background the entrance to the
royal apartments; on the right at the side a colonnade leading to MEDEA's
apartments.
MEDEA is standing in the foreground, behind her at a distance GORA is seen
speaking to a servant of the king.

GORA. Say to the king:
Medea takes no message from a slave.
Hath he aught to say to her,
He must e'en come himself.
Perchance she'll deign to hear him.
[The slave departs.]
(GORA comes forward and addresses MEDEA.)
They think that thou wilt go,
Taming thy hate, forgetting thy revenge.
The fools!
Or wilt thou go? Wilt thou?
I could almost believe thou wilt.
For thou no longer art the proud Medea,
The royal seed of Colchis' mighty king,
The wise and skilful daughter of a wise
And skilful mother.
Else hadst thou not been patient, borne their gibes
So long, even until now!
MEDEA. Ye gods! O hear her! Borne! Been patient!
So long, even until now!
GORA. I counseled thee to yield, to soften,
When thou didst seek to tarry yet awhile;
But thou wert blind, ensnared;
The heavy stroke had not yet fallen,
Which I foresaw, whereof I warned thee first.
But, now that it is fall'n, I bid thee stay!
They shall not laugh to scorn this Colchian wife,
Heap insult on the blood of our proud kings!
Let them give back thy babes,
The offshoots of that royal oak, now felled,
Or perish, fall themselves,
In darkness and in night!
Is all prepared for flight?
Or hast thou other plans?
MEDEA. First I will have my children. For the rest,
My way will be made plain.
GORA. Then thou wilt flee?
MEDEA. I know not, yet.
GORA. Then they will laugh at thee!
MEDEA. Laugh at me? No!
GORA. What is thy purpose, then?
MEDEA. I have no heart to plan or think at all.
Over the silent abyss
Let dark night brood!
GORA. If thou wouldst flee, then whither?
MEDEA (sorrowfully).
Whither? Ah, whither?
GORA. Here in this stranger-land
There is no place for us. They hate thee sore,
These Greeks, and they will slay thee!
MEDEA. Slay me? Me?
Nay, it is I will slay them!
GORA. And at home,
There in far Colchis, danger waits us, too!
MEDEA. O Colchis, Colchis! O my fatherland!
GORA. Thou hast heard the tale, how thy father died
When thou wentest forth, and didst leave thy home,
And thy brother fell? He died, says the tale,
But methinks 'twas not so? Nay, he gripped his grief,
Sharper far than a sword, and, raging 'gainst Fate,
'Gainst himself, fell on death!
MEDEA. Dost thou, too, join my foes?
Wilt thou slay me?
GORA. Nay, hark! I warned thee. I said:
"Flee these strangers, new-come; most of all flee this man.
Their leader smooth-tongued, the dissembler, the traitor!"
MEDEA. "Smooth-tongued, the dissembler, the traitor"
—were these thy words?
GORA. Even these.
MEDEA. And I would not believe?
GORA. Thou wouldst not; but into the deadly net
Didst haste, that now closes over thine head.
MEDEA. "A smooth-tongued traitor!" Yea, that is the word!
Hadst thou said but that, I had known in time;
But thou namedst him foe to us, hateful, and dread,
While friendly he seemed and fair, and I hated him not.
GORA. Thou lovest him, then?
MEDEA. I? Love?
I hate and shudder at him
As at falsehood, treachery,
Black horrors—as at myself!
GORA. Then punish him, strike him low!
Avenge thy brother, thy sire,
Our fatherland and our gods,
Our shame—yea, mine, and thine!
MEDEA. First I will have my babes;
All else is hidden in night.
What think'st thou of this?—When he comes
Treading proud to his bridal with her,
That maid whom I hate,
If, from the roof of the palace above him,
Medea crash down at his feet and lie there,
A ghastly corpse?
GORA. 'Twere a sweet revenge!
MEDEA. Or if, at the bridal-chamber's door,
I lay her dead in her blood,
Beside her the children—Jason's children—dead?
GORA. But thyself such revenge would hurt, and not him.
MEDEA. Ah, I would that he loved me still,
That I might slay myself, and make him groan!
But what of that maid, so false, so pure?
GORA. Ha! There thou strikest nearer to the mark!
MEDEA. Peace, peace! Back, whence ye came, ye evil thoughts!
Back into silence, into darkest night!
[She covers her face with her veil.]
GORA. Those heroes all, who made with him
The wanton Argo-voyage hence,
The gods above have recompensed
With just requital, swift revenge.
Death and disgrace have seized them all
Save one—how long shall he go free?
Each day I listen greedily,
And joy to hear how they have died,
How fell these glorious sons of Greece,
The robber-band that fought their way
Back from far Colchis. Thracian maids
Rent limb from limb sweet Orpheus' frame;
And Hylas found a watery grave;
Pirithoüs and Theseus pierced
Even to Hades' darksome realm
To rob that mighty lord of shades
Of his radiant spouse, Persephone;
But then he seized, and holds them there
For aye in chains and endless night.
MEDEA (swiftly snatching her veil from before her face).
Because they came to steal his wife?
Good! Good! 'Twas Jason's crime, nay, less!
GORA. Great Heracles forsook his wife,
For he was snared by other charms,
And in revenge she sent to him
A linen tunic, which he took
And clad himself therewith—and sank
To earth in hideous agonies;
For she had smeared it secretly
With poison and swift death. He sank
To earth, and Oeta's wooded heights
Were witness how he died in flames!
MEDEA. She wove it, then, that tunic dire
That slew him?
GORA. Ay, herself.
MEDEA. Herself!
GORA. Althea 'twas—his mother—smote
The mighty Meleager down
Who slew the Calydonian boar;
The mother slew her child.
MEDEA. Was she
Forsaken by her husband, too?
GORA. Nay, he had slain her brother.
MEDEA. Who?
The husband?
GORA. Nay, her son, I mean.
MEDEA. And when the deed was done, she died?
GORA. She liveth yet.
MEDEA. To do a deed
Like that—and live! Oh, horrible!
Thus much do I know, thus much I see clear:
Not unavenged shall I suffer wrong;
What that vengeance shall be, I know not,—would not know.
Whatso'er I can do, he deserves,—ay, the worst!
But—mankind are so weak,
So fain to grant time for the sinner to feel remorse!
GORA. Remorse? Ask thy lord if he rue his deed!
For, see! He draws nigh with hasty steps.
MEDEA. And with him the king, my bitter foe,
Whose counsel hath led my lord astray.
Him must I flee, for I cannot tame
My hatred.
[She goes swiftly toward the palace.]
But if lord Jason wish
To speak with me, then bid him come in,
To my side in the innermost chambers—there
I would parley with him, not here
By the side of the man who is my foe.
They come. Away!
[She disappears into the palace.]
GORA. Lo, she is gone!
And I am left to deal with the man
Who is killing my child, who hath brought it to pass
That I lay my head on a foreign soil,
And must hide my tears of bitter woe,
Lest I see a smile on the lips of these strangers here.

The KING and JASON enter.

KING. Why hath thy mistress fled? 'Twill serve her not
GORA. Fled? Nay, she went, because she hates thy face
KING. Summon her forth!
GORA. She will not come.
KING. She shall!
GORA. Then go thou in thyself and call her forth,
If thou dost dare.
KING (angrily). Where am I, then, and who,
That this mad woman dares to spite me thus?
The servant mirrors forth the mistress' soul—
Servant and mistress mirror forth that land
Of darkness that begat them! Once again
I tell thee, call her forth!
GORA (pointing to Jason). There stands the man
That she would speak with. Let him go within—
If he hath courage for it.
JASON. Get thee gone,
Old witch, whom I have hated from the first!
Tell her, who is so like thee, she must come.
GORA. Ah, if she were like me, thou wouldst not speak
In such imperious wise! I promise thee
That she shall know of it, and to thy dole!
JASON. I would have speech with her.
GORA. Go in!
JASON. Not I!
'Tis she that shall come forth. Go thou within
And tell her so!
GORA. Well, well, I go, if but
To rid me of the sight of you, my lords;
Ay, and I'll bear your summons, but I know
Full well she will not come, for she is weak
And feels her sickness all too grievously.
[She goes into the palace.]
KING. Not one day longer will I suffer her
To stay in Corinth. This old dame but now
Gave utterance to the dark and fell designs
On which yon woman secretly doth brood.
Methinks her presence is a constant threat.
Thy doubts, I hope, are laid to rest at last?
JASON. Fulfil, O King, thy sentence on my wife!
She can no longer tarry where I am,
So, let her go; the sentence is not harsh.
Forsooth, though I am less to blame than she,
My lot is bitt'rer, harder far than hers.
She but returns to that grim wilderness
Where she was born, and, like a restive colt
From whom the galling yoke is just removed,
Will rush to freedom, and become once more
Untamed and stubborn.
But my place is here;
Here must I sit and while away the days
In meek inaction, burdened with the scorn
And scoffing of mankind, mine only task
Dully to muse upon my vanished past.
KING. Thou wilt be great and famous yet again,
Believe me. Like the bow which, once set free
From the fierce strain, doth speed the arrow swift
And straight unto its mark, whenso the hand
Is loosed that bent it, so wilt thou spring back
And be thyself again, once she is gone.
JASON. Naught feel I in my breast to feed such hopes!
Lost is my name, my fame; I am no more
Than Jason's shadow, not that prince himself.
KING. The world, my son, is not so harsh as thou:
An older man's misstep is sin and crime;
The youth's, a misstep only, which he may
Retrace, and mend his error. All thy deeds
In Colchis, when thou wert a hot-head boy,
Will be forgot, if thou wilt show thyself
Henceforth a man.
JASON. O, might I trust thy words,
I could be happy once again!
KING. Let her
But leave thy side, and thou wilt say I'm right.
Before the Amphictyons' judgment-seat I'll go
And speak for thee, defend thy righteous cause,
And prove that it was she alone, Medea,
Who did those horrid deeds wherewith thou'rt charged,
Prove her the wanton, her the darksome witch.
Lifted shall be the doom of banishment
From off thy brow. If not, then thou shalt rise
In all thy stubborn strength, and to the breeze
Unfurl the glorious banner of pure gold
Which thou didst bring from earth's most distant land,
And, like a rushing torrent, all the youth
Of Greece will stream to serve thee once again
And rally 'round thy standard to oppose
All foes that come, rally 'round thee, now purged
Of all suspicion, starting life anew,
The glorious hope of Greece, and of the Fleece
The mighty hero!—Thou hast got it still?
JASON. The Fleece?
KING. Ay.
JASON. Nay, not I.
KING. And yet thy wife
Bore it away from old King Pelias' house.
JASON. Then she must have it still.
KING. If so, then she
Shall straightway yield it up, perforce. It is
The pledge and symbol of thy power to come.
Ay, thou shalt yet be strong and great again,
Thou only son of my old friend! A king
Am I, and have both wealth and power, the which
With mine own daughter's spouse I'll gladly share.
JASON. And I will go to claim the heritage
My fathers left me, of that false man's son
That keeps it from me. For I, too, am rich,
Could I but have my due.
KING. Peace! Look, she comes
Who still doth vex us. But our task is brief.

MEDEA comes out of the palace, attended by GORA.

MEDEA. What wouldst thou with me?
KING. I did send thee late
Some slaves to speak my will, whom thou didst drive
With harsh words forth, and didst demand to hear
From mine own lips whate'er I had to say,
What my commands and what thou hadst to do.
MEDEA. Say on!
KING. Naught strange or new have I to tell.
I would but speak once more the doom I set
Upon thy head, and add thereto that thou
Must forth today.
MEDEA. And why today?
KING. The threats
That thou hast uttered 'gainst my daughter's life—
For those against mine own I do not care:
The savage moods that thou of late hast shown,
All these do warn me how thy presence here
Bodes ill. Wherefore, today thou must begone!
MEDEA. Give me my babes, and I will go—perhaps!
KING. Nay, no "Perhaps!" Thou goest! But the babes
Stay here!
MEDEA. How? Mine own babes? But I forget
To whom I speak. Let me have speech with him,
My husband, standing there.
KING. Nay, hear her not!
MEDEA (to JASON).
I pray thee, let me speak with thee!
JASON. Well, well,
So be it, then, that thou may'st see I have
No fear of any words of thine to me.
(To the KING.)
Leave us, my lord! I'll hear what she would say.
KING. I go, but I am fearful. She is sly
And cunning! [He departs.]
MEDEA. So, he's gone! No stranger now
Is here to vex us, none to come between
Husband and wife, and, what our hearts do feel,
That we can speak out clear.—Say first, my lord,
What are thy plans, thy wishes?
JASON. Thou dost know.
MEDEA. I guess thy will, but all thy secret thoughts
I know not.
JASON. Be contented with the first,
For they are what decide.
MEDEA. Then I must go?
JASON. Go!
MEDEA. And today?
JASON. Today!
MEDEA. And thou canst stand
So calm before me and speak such a word,
Nor drop thine eyes for shame, nor even blush?
JASON. I must needs blush, if I should say aught else!
MEDEA. Ha! Good! Well done! Speak ever words like these
When thou wouldst clear thyself in others' eyes,
But leave such idle feigning when thou speak'st
With me!
JASON. Dost call my dread of horrid deeds
Which thou hast done, a sham, and idle, too?
Thou art condemned by men; the very gods
Have damned thee! And I give thee up to them
And to their judgment! 'Tis a fate, in sooth,
Thou richly hast deserved!
MEDEA. Who is this man,
This pious, virtuous man with whom I speak?
Is it not Jason? Strives he to seem mild?
O, mild and gentle one, didst thou not come
To Colchis' strand, and win in bloody fight
The daughter of its king? O, gentle, mild,
Didst thou not slay my brother, was it not
At thine own hands mine aged father fell,
Thou gentle, pious man? And now thou wouldst
Desert the wife whom thou didst steal away!
Mild? No, say rather hateful, monstrous man!
JASON. Such wild abuse I will not stay to hear.
Thou knowest now what thou must do. Farewell!
MEDEA. Nay, nay, I know not! Stay until I learn!
Stay, and I will be quiet even as thou.—
So, I am banished, then? But what of thee?
Methinks the Herald's sentence named thee, too.
JASON. When it is known that I am innocent
Of all these horrid deeds, and had no hand
In murdering mine uncle, then the ban
Will be removed from me.
MEDEA. And thou wilt live
Peaceful and happy, for long years to come?
JASON. I shall live quietly, as doth become
Unhappy men like me.
MEDEA. And what of me?
JASON. Thou dost but reap the harvest thine own hands
Have sown.
MEDEA. My hands? Hadst thou no part therein?
JASON. Nay, none.
MEDEA. Didst never pray thine uncle's death
Might speedily be compassed?
JASON. No command
At least I gave.
MEDEA. Ne'er sought to learn if I
Had heart and courage for the deed?
JASON. Thou know'st
How, in the first mad burst of rage and hate,
A man speaks many hot, impetuous threats
Which calm reflection never would fulfil.
MEDEA. Once thou didst blame thyself for that mad deed;
Now thou hast found a victim who can bear
The guilt in place of thee!
JASON. 'Tis not the thought
Of such a deed that merits punishment;
It is the deed itself.
MEDEA (quickly). I did it not!
JASON. Who, then, is guilty?
MEDEA. Not myself, at least!
Listen, my husband, and be thou the first
To do me justice.
As I stood at the chamber door, to enter
And steal away the Fleece,
The king lay there on his couch;
Sudden I heard a cry! I turned,
And lo! I saw the aged king
Leap from his couch with frightful shrieks,
Twisting and writhing; and he cried,
"Com'st thou, O brother, to take revenge,
Revenge on me? Ha! Thou shalt die
Again, and yet again!" And straight
He sprang at me, to grip me fast,
For in my hands I held the Fleece.
I shook with fear, and cried aloud
For help to those dark gods I know;
The Fleece before me like a shield
I held. His face was twisted swift
To maniac grins, and leered at me!
Then, with a shriek, he madly tore
At the clothes that bound his aged veins;
They rent; the blood gushed forth in streams,
And, even as I looked, aghast
And full of horror, there he lay,
The king, at my very feet, all bathed
In his own blood—lay cold and dead!
JASON. And thou canst stand and tell me such a tale,
Thou hateful witchwife? Get thee gone from me!
Away! I shudder at thee! Would that I
Had ne'er beheld thy face!
MEDEA. Thou knewest well
That I was skilled in witchcraft, from that day
When first thou saw'st me at my magic arts,
And still didst yearn and long to call me thine!
JASON. I was a youth then, and an arrant fool!
What boys are pleased with, men oft cast away.
MEDEA. O, say no word against the golden days
Of youth, when heads are hot, but hearts are pure!
O, if thou wert but now what once thou wast,
Then were I happier far! Come back with me
Only a little step to that fair time
When, in our fresh, green youth, we strayed together
By Phasis' flowery marge. How frank and clear
Thy heart was then, and mine how closely sealed
And sad! But thou with thy soft, gentle light
Didst pierce my darkness, drive away the clouds,
And make me bright and happy. Thine I was,
And thou wert mine; O, Jason, is it then
Vanished forever, that far, happy time?
Or hath the bitter struggle for a hearth
And home, for name and fame, forever killed
The blooms of fairest promise on the tree
Of thy green youth? Oh, compassed though I be
With woe and heavy sorrows all about,
Yet I think often on that springtime sweet
Whence soft and balmy breezes o'er the years
Are wafted to me! If Medea then
Seemed fair to thee and lovely, how today
Can she be dread and hateful? What I was
Thou knewest, and didst seek me none the less.
Thou took'st me as I was; O, keep me, as I am!
JASON. Thou hast forgot the dreadful deeds that since
Have come to pass.
MEDEA. Ay, dread they are, in sooth,
And I confess it! 'Gainst mine aged sire
I sinned most deeply, 'gainst my brother, too,
And none condemns me more than I myself.
I'll welcome punishment, and I'll repent
In joy and gladness; only thou shalt not
Pronounce the doom upon me, nay, not thou!
For all my deeds were done for love of thee.—
Come, let us flee together, once again
Made one in heart and soul! Some distant land
Will take us to its bosom.
JASON. What land, then?
And whither should we flee?
MEDEA. Whither!
JASON. Thou'rt mad,
And dost revile me, that I do not choose
To share thy raving! No! Our life together
Is done! The gods have cursed our union long,
As one with deeds of cruelty begun,
That since hath waxed and found its nourishment
In horrid crimes. E'en granting thou didst not
Thyself slay Pelias, who was there to see?
Or who would trust thy tale?
MEDEA. Thou!
JASON. Even then,
What can I do, how clear thee?—It were vain!
Come, let us yield to Fate, not stubbornly
Defy it! Let us each repentance seek,
And suffer our just doom, thou fleeing forth
Because thou may'st not stay, I tarrying here
When I would flee.
MEDEA. Methinks thou dost not choose
The harder lot!
JASON. Is it so easy, then,
To live, a stranger, in a stranger's house,
Subsisting on a stranger's pitying gifts?
MEDEA. Nay, if it seem so hard, why dost not choose
To fly with me?
JASON. But whither? Ay, and how?
MEDEA. There was a time thou hadst not shown thyself
So over-prudent, when thou camest first
To Colchis from the city of thy sires,
Seeking the glitter of an empty fame
In distant lands.
JASON. I am not what I was;
Broken my strength, the courage in my breast
A dead thing. And 'tis thou I have to thank
For such misfortune! Bitter memories
Of days long past lie like a weight of lead
Upon my anxious soul; I cannot raise
Mine eyes for heaviness of heart. And, more,
The boy of those far days is grown a man,
No longer, like a wanton, sportive child,
Gambols amid bright flow'rs, but reaches out
For ripened fruit, for what is real and sure.
Babes I have got, but have no place where they
May lay their heads; my task it is to make
An heritage for these. Shall Jason's stock
Be but a withered weed beside the road,
By all men spurned and trampled? If thou e'er
Hast truly loved me, if I e'er was dear
To thee, oh, give me proof thereof, restore
Myself to me again, and yield a grave
To me in this, my homeland!
MEDEA. And in this
Same homeland a new marriage-bed, forsooth!
Am I not right?
JASON. What idle talk is this?
MEDEA. Have I not heard how Creon named thee son,
And husband of his daughter? She it is,
Creusa, that doth charm thee, hold thee fast
In Corinth! 'Tis for her that thou wouldst stay!
Confess, I have thee there!
JASON. Thou hast me not,
And never hadst me.
MEDEA. So, thou wilt repent,
And I, thy wife Medea, I must go
Away?—I stood beside you there and wept
As thou didst trace with her your happy days
Of youth together, tarrying at each step
In sweet remembrance, till thou didst become
Naught but an echo of that distant past.—
I will not go, no, will not!
JASON. Thou'rt unjust,
And hard and wild as ever!
MEDEA. I unjust!
Thou dost not seek her, then, to wife? Say no!
JASON. I do but seek a place to lay me down
And rest. What else will come, I do not know!
MEDEA. Ay, but I know full well, and it shall be
My task to thwart thee, with the help of heaven!
JASON. Thou canst not speak with calmness, so, farewell!
[He takes a step toward the door.]
MEDEA. Jason!
JASON (turning back). What wouldst thou?
MEDEA. 'Tis, perchance, the last,
Last time that we shall speak together!
JASON. True;
Then let us without hate or rancor part.
MEDEA. Thou mad'st me love thee deeply. Wouldst thou now
Flee from my face?
JASON. I must!
MEDEA. Hast robbed me, too,
Of my dear father; and wouldst steal away
Mine husband?
JASON. I am helpless!
MEDEA. At thy hands
My brother met his death untimely. Him
Thou hast taken from me, too, and now wouldstfly
And leave me?
JASON. He was innocent; he fell.
And I am blameless, too; but I must flee thee.
MEDEA. I left my fatherland to follow thee!
JASON. Thou didst but follow thine own will, not me.
Gladly would I, if thou hadst rued thy deed,
Have sent thee back again.
MEDEA. I am accurst,
And damned by all the world—and all for thee!
And, for thy sake, I even hate myself!
Wilt thou forsake me still?
JASON. 'Tis not my will,
Nay; but a higher bidding tells me plain
That I must leave thy side. Thy fate seems hard,
But what of mine? And yet, I pity thee,
If that be any comfort!
MEDEA (falling upon her knees to him). Jason!
JASON. Well?
What wouldst thou further?
MEDEA (rising suddenly). Nothing! It is past
And done with! O proud sires, O mighty gods
Of Colchis, grant forgiveness to thy child
Who hath so humbled and dishonored you,
(Ay, and herself as well)—for I was pressed
And needs must do it. Now, receive me back!
[JASON turns to leave her.]
Jason!
JASON. Hope not that thou canst soften me!
MEDEA. Nay, never think I wished it! Give me back
My babes!
JASON. Thy children? Never!
MEDEA (wildly). They are mine!
JASON. Men call them by their father's name; and that
Shall never grace barbarians! Here in Greece
I'll rear them, to be Greeks!
MEDEA. To be despised
And scorned by offspring of thy later bed?
I tell thee, they are mine!
JASON. Nay, have a care,
Lest thou shouldst turn my pity unto hate!
And keep a quiet mien, since that is all
Can soften thy hard fate.
MEDEA. To prayers and tears
I needs must humble me! My husband!—No,
For that thou art no more! Beloved!—No,
For that thou never wert! Man, shall I say?
He is no man who breaks his solemn oath!
Lord Jason!—Pah! It is a traitor's name!
How shall I name thee? Devil!—Gentle! Good!
Give me my babes, and let me go in peace!
JASON. I cannot, I have told thee, cannot do it.
MEDEA. Hard heart! Thou tak'st the husband from the wife,
And robb'st the mother of her babes as well?
JASON. Nay, then, that thou may'st know how I have yet
Some kindness left, take with thee when thou goest
One of the babes.
MEDEA. But one? Say, only one?
JASON. Beware thou ask too much! The little I
Have just now granted, oversteps the right.
MEDEA. Which shall it be?
JASON. We'll leave the choice to them,
The babes themselves; and whichsoever will,
Him thou shalt take.
MEDEA. O thanks a thousand times,
Thou gentle, kindly man! He lies who calls
Thee traitor!
[The KING appears at the door.]
JASON. Come, my lord!
KING. Is't settled, then?
JASON. She goes; and I have granted her to take
One of the children with her.
(To one of the slaves who has accompanied the KING.)
Hasten swift
And bring the babes before us!
KING. What is this?
Here they shall stay, ay, both of them!
MEDEA. This gift
That in mine eyes so small is, seemeth it
So great a boon to thee? Hast thou no fear
Of Heaven's fell anger, harsh and violent man?
KING. The gods deal harshly with such wanton crimes
As thou hast done!
MEDEA. Yea, but they see the cause
That drove us to such deeds!
KING. 'Tis wicked thoughts,
Deep in the heart, beget such crimes as thine!
MEDEA. All causes else thou count'st for naught?
KING. With stern
And iron justice mine own self I rule,
And so, with right, judge others.
MEDEA. In the act
Of punishing my crimes, thou dost commit
A worse thyself!
JASON. She shall not say of me
That I am all hard-hearted; wherefore I
One of the babes have promised her, to be
His mother's dearest comfort in her woe.

CREUSA enters with the children.

CREUSA. One told me that these babes were summoned here.
What will ye have? What deeds are now afoot?
Behold how they do love me, though they were
But now brought here to Corinth! 'Tis as if
Long years already we had seen and known
Each one the other. 'Twas my gentle words
That won them; for, poor babes, they were not used
To loving treatment; and their sore distress,
Their loneliness did straightway win my heart.
MEDEA. One of the babes goes with me!
CREUSA. What is this?
Leaves us?
KING. E'en so. It is their father's will!
(To MEDEA, who stands in deep meditation.)
Here are thy children. Let them make their choice!
MEDEA (wildly).
The babes! My children! Ay, 'tis they, in sooth!
The one thing left me in this bitter world!
Ye gods, forget those dark and wicked thoughts
That late I harbored; grant me both my babes,
Yea, both, and I'll go forth from out this land
Praising your mercy! Yea, I'll e'en forgive
My husband there, and her—No! Her I'll not
Forgive—nor Jason, either! Come to me,
Come here, my babes!—Why stand ye silent there
And cling upon the breast of my false foe?
Ah, could ye know how she hath humbled me,
Ye would arm your tiny hands, curve into claws
Those little, weakling fingers, rend and tear
That soft and tender form, whereto ye cling
So lovingly!—Wouldst hold my children back
From coming to me? Let them go!
CREUSA. In sooth,
Unhappy woman, I restrain them not!
MEDEA. Not with thy hand, I know, but with thy glance,
Thy false, deceitful face, that seems all love,
And holds my husband from me, too! Thou laugh'st?
I promise thee thou'lt weep hot tears in days
To come!
CREUSA. Now may the gods chastise me if I had
A thought of laughing!
KING. Woman, break not forth
In insults and in anger! Do what thou
Hast yet to do, or go!
MEDEA. Thou'rt right, O king,
Most just of kings! Not so much kind of heart
As just! How do thy bidding? Yet will I
Strive to do both. Hark, children! List to me!
They send your mother forth, to wander wide
O'er sea and land. Who knows where she shall come?
These kindly folk, thy father, and that just
And gentle king that standeth there, have said
That I may take, to share my lonely fate,
One of my babes, but only one. Ye gods,
Hear ye this sentence? One, and one alone!
Now, whichsoever of you loves me more,
Let that one come to join me, for I may
Not have you both; the other here must stay
Beside his father, and with that false king's
Still falser daughter!—Hear ye what I say?
Why linger there?
KING. Thou seest they will not come!
MEDEA. Thou liest, false and wicked king! They would,
Save that thy daughter hath enchanted them
And keeps them from me!—Heard ye not, my babes?—
Accurst and monstrous children, bane and curse
Of your poor mother, image of your sire!
JASON. They will not come!
MEDEA (pointing to CREUSA). Let her but go away!
They love me! Am I not their mother? Look
How she doth beckon, nod to them, and draw
Them further from me!
CREUSA. I will go away,
Though I deserve not thy suspicious hate.
MEDEA. Come to me, children!—Come!—O viper brood!
[She advances toward them threateningly; the children fly to CREUSA
for protection.]
MEDEA. They fly from me! They fly!
KING. Thou seest, Medea,
The children will not come—so, get thee gone!
MEDEA. They will not? These my babes do fear to come
Unto their mother?—No, it is not true,
It cannot be!—Aeson, my elder son,
My best beloved! See, thy mother calls!
Come to her! Nay, no more will I be harsh,
No more enangered with thee! Thou shalt be
Most precious in mine eyes, the one thing left
I call mine own! Hark to thy mother! Come!—
He turns his face away, and will not! O
Thou thankless child, thou image of thy sire,
Like him in each false feature, in mine eyes
Hateful, as he is! Stay, then, where thou art!
I know thee not!—But thou, Absyrtus, child
Of my sore travail, with the merry face
Of my lost brother whom with bitter tears
I mourn, and mild and gentle as was he,
See how thy mother kneels upon the ground
And, weeping, calls thee! O let not her prayers
Be all in vain! Absyrtus, come to me,
My little son! Come to thy mother!—What?
He tarries where he is! Thou, too? Thou, too?
Give me a dagger, quick, that I may slay
These whelps, and then myself!
[She springs up.]
JASON. Nay, thou must thank thyself that thy wild ways
Have startled them, estranged them, turned their hearts
Unto that mild and gentle maid they love.
They do but echo what the gods decree!—
Depart now; but the babes, they tarry here.
MEDEA. O children, hear me!
JASON. See, they hearken not!
MEDEA. O children, children!
KING (to CREUSA). Lead them back again
Into the palace! 'Tis not meet they hate
The mother that did bear them.
[CREUSA moves away with the children.]
MEDEA. Woe is me!
They flee! My children flee before my face!
KING (to JASON).
Come we away! To weep for what must be
Is fruitless!
[They depart.]
MEDEA. O my babes, my little babes!

GORA enters quickly.

GORA. Come, calm thyself, nor grant to these thy foes
The joy of seeing how they've conquered thee!
MEDEA (flinging herself upon the ground).
Conquered I am, at last, made nothing worth,
Trampled beneath my foes' triumphant feet!
They flee me, flee me! Mine own children flee me!
GORA (bending over her).
Thou must not die!
MEDEA. Nay, let me die! My babes,
My little babes!

ACT IV

The outer court of CREON's palace, as in the preceding act. It is
twilight. MEDEA lies prone upon the steps that lead to her apartments;
GORA is standing before her.

GORA. Up, Medea, speak!
Why liest thou there so silent, staring
Blindly before thee? Rise, and speak!
O, help our sore distress!
MEDEA. My babes! My babes!
GORA. Forth must we flee ere night shall fall,
And already the twilight draweth down.
Up! Rouse thee, and gird thee for flight!
Swiftly they come to slay!
MEDEA. Alas, my children!
GORA. Nay, up! I say, unhappy one,
Nor kill me with thy cries of woe!
Hadst thou but heeded when I warned,
Still should we be at home
In Colchis, safe; thy kinsmen yet
Were living; all were well with us.
Rise up! What use are tears? Come, rise!
[MEDEA drags herself half up and kneels on the steps.]
MEDEA. 'Twas so I knelt, 'twas so I lay
And stretched my hands for pity out
To mine own children; begged and wept
And prayed for one, for only one
Of my dear children! Death itself
Were not so bitter, as to leave
One of them here!—But to have none—!
And neither came! They turned away
With terror on their baby lips,
And fled for comfort to the breast
Of her—my bitterest enemy!
[She springs up suddenly.]
But he,—he laughed to see, and she
Did laugh as well!
GORA. O, woe is me!
O, woe and heavy sorrow!
MEDEA. O gods, is this your vengeance, then,
Your retribution? All for love
I followed him, as wife should e'er
Follow her lord. My father died,
But was it I that slew him? No!
My brother fell. Was't, then, my hand
That dealt the stroke? I've wept for them
With heavy mourning, poured hot tears
To serve as sad libation for
Their resting-place so far away!
Ye gods! These woes so measureless
That I have suffered at your hands—
Call ye these justice,—retribution?
GORA. Thou didst leave thine own—
Thine own desert thee now!
MEDEA. Then will I visit punishment
On them, as Heaven on me!
There shall no deed of wickedness
In all the wide world scathless go!
Leave vengeance to my hand, O gods above!
GORA. Nay, think how thou mayst save thyself;
All else forget!
MEDEA. What fear is this
That makes thy heart so craven-soft?
First thou wert grim and savage, spak'st
Fierce threats of vengeance, now art full
Of fears and trembling!
GORA. Let me be!
That moment when I saw thy babes
Flee their own mother's yearning arms,
Flee from the arms of her that bare
And reared them, then I knew at last
'Twas the gods' hand had struck thee down!
Then brake my heart, my courage sank!
These babes, whom it was all my joy
To tend and rear, had been the last
Of all the royal Colchian line,
On whom I still could lavish all
My love for my far fatherland.
Long since, my love for thee was dead;
But in these babes I seemed to see
Again my homeland, thy dear sire,
Thy murdered brother, all the line
Of princely Colchians,—ay, thyself,
As once thou wert,—and art no more!
So, all my thought was how to shield
And rear these babes; I guarded them
E'en as the apple of mine eye,
And now—
MEDEA. They have repaid thy love
As thanklessness doth e'er repay!
GORA. Chide not the babes! They're innocent!
MEDEA. How, innocent? And flee their mother?
Innocent? They are Jason's babes,
Like him in form, in heart, and in
My bitter hate! If I could hold them here,
Their life or death depending on my hand,
E'en on this hand I reach out, so, and one
Swift stroke sufficed to slay them, bring to naught
All that they were, or are, or e'er can be,—
Look! they should be no more!
GORA. O, woe to thee,
Cruel mother, who canst hate those little babes
Thyself didst bear!
MEDEA. What hopes have they, what hopes?
If here they tarry with their sire,
That sire so base and infamous,
What shall their lot be then?
The children of this latest bed
Will scorn them, do despite to them
And to their mother, that wild thing
From distant Colchis' strand!
Their lot will be to serve as slaves;
Or else their anger, gnawing deep
And ever deeper at their hearts,
Will make them bitter, hard,
Until they grow to hate themselves.
For, if misfortune often is begot
By crime, more often far are wicked deeds
The offspring of misfortune!—What have they
To live for, then? I would my sire
Had slain me long, long years agone
When I was small, and had not yet
Drunk deep of woe, as now I do—
Thought heavy thoughts, as now!
GORA. Thou tremblest! What dost think to do?
MEDEA. That I must forth, is sure; what else
May chance ere that, I cannot see.
My heart leaps up, when I recall
The foul injustice I have borne,
And glows with fierce revenge! No deed
So dread or awful but I would
Put hand to it!—
He loves these babes,
Forsooth, because he sees in them
His own self mirrored back again,
Himself—his idol!—Nay, he ne'er
Shall have them, shall not!—Nor will I!
I hate them!
GORA. Come within! Nay, why
Wouldst tarry here?
MEDEA. All empty is that house,
And all deserted! Desolation broods
Upon those silent walls, and all is dead
Within, save bitter memories and grief!
GORA. Look! They are coming who would drive us hence.
Come thou within!
MEDEA. Thou saidst the Argonauts
Found each and every one a grave unblest,
The wages of their treachery and sin?
GORA. Ay, sooth, and such a grave shall Jason find!
MEDEA. He shall, I promise thee, he shall, indeed!
Hylas was swallowed in a watery grave;
The gloomy King of Shades holds Theseus bound;
And how was that Greek woman called—the one
That on her own blood bloody vengeance took?
How was she called, then? Speak!
GORA. I do not know
What thou dost mean.
MEDEA. Althea was her name!
GORA. She who did slay her son?
MEDEA. The very same!
How came it, then? Tell me the tale once more.
GORA. Unwitting, in the chase, he had struck down
Her brother.
MEDEA. Him alone? He did not slay
Her father, too? Nor fled his mother's arms,
Nor thrust her from him, spurned her scornfully?
And yet she struck him dead—that mighty man,
Grim Meleager, her own son! And she—
She was a Greek! Althea was her name.
Well, when her son lay dead—?
GORA. Nay, there the tale
Doth end.
MEDEA. Doth end! Thou'rt right, for death ends all!
GORA. Why stand we here and talk?
MEDEA. Dost think that I
Lack courage for the venture? Hark! I swear
By the high gods, if he had giv'n me both
My babes—But no! If I could take them hence
To journey with me, at his own behest,
If I could love them still, as deep as now
I hate them, if in all this lone, wide world
One single thing were left me that was not
Poisoned, or brought in ruin on my head—
Perchance I might go forth e'en now in peace
And leave my vengeance in the hands of Heaven.
But no! It may not be!
They name me cruel
And wanton, but I was not ever so;
Though I can feel how one may learn to be.
For dread and awful thoughts do shape themselves
Within my soul; I shudder—yet rejoice
Thereat! When all is finished—Gora, hither!
GORA. What wouldst thou?
MEDEA. Come to me!
GORA. And why?
MEDEA. Come hither!
See! There they lay, the babes—ay, and the bride,
Bleeding, and dead! And he, the bridegroom, stood
And looked and tore his hair! A fearful sight
And ghastly!
GORA. Heaven forfend! What mean these words?
MEDEA. Ha, ha! Thou'rt struck with terror then, at last?
Nay, 'tis but empty words that I did speak.
My old, fierce will yet lives, but all my strength
Is vanished. Oh, were I Medea still—!
But no, I am no more! O Jason, why,
Why hast thou used me so? I sheltered thee,
Saved thee, and gave thee all my heart to keep;
All that was mine, I flung away for thee!
Why wilt thou cast me off, why spurn my love,
Why drive the kindly spirits from my heart
And set fierce thoughts of vengeance in their place?
I dream of vengeance, when I have no more
The power to wreak revenge! The charms I had
From my own mother, that grim Colchian queen,
From Hecate, that bound dark gods to me
To do my bidding, I have buried them,
Ay, and for love of thee!—have sunk them deep
In the dim bosom of our mother Earth;
The ebon wand, the veil of bloody hue,
Gone!—and I stand here helpless, to my foes
No more a thing of terror, but of scorn!
GORA. Then speak not of them if they'll serve thee not!
MEDEA. I know well where they lie;
For yonder on the plashy ocean-strand
I coffined them and sank them deep in earth.
'Tis but to toss away a little mold,
And they are mine! But in my inmost soul
I shudder when I think on such a venture,
And on that blood-stained Fleece. Methinks the ghosts
Of father, brother, brood upon their grave
And will not let them go. Dost thou recall
How on the pavement lay my old, gray sire
Weeping for his dead son, and cursing loud
His daughter? But lord Jason swung the Fleece
High o'er his head, with fierce, triumphant shouts!
'Twas then I swore revenge upon this traitor
Who first did slay my best-beloved, now
Would slay me, too! Had I my bloody charms
And secret magic here, I'd keep that vow!
But no, I dare not fetch them, for I fear
Lest, shining through the Fleece's golden blaze,
Mine eyes should see my father's ghostly face
Stare forth at me—and oh! I should go mad!
GORA. What wilt thou do, then?
MEDEA (wearily). Even let them come
And slay me, if they will! I can no more!
Not one step will I stir from where I stand;
My dearest wish is death! And when he sees
Me lying dead, mayhap he'll follow me,
Deep-smitten with remorse!
GORA. The King draws nigh;
Look to thyself!
MEDEA. Nay, all my strength is gone,
What can I do? If he would trample me
Beneath his feet—well, let him have his will!

The KING enters.

KING. Night falls apace, thine hours of grace are fled!
MEDEA. I know it.
KING. Art thou ready to go forth?
MEDEA. Thou tauntest me! If I were not prepared,
Must I the less go forth?
KING. My heart is glad
To find thee minded so. 'Twill make thee think
Less bitterly upon thy sorry fate,
And for thy children it doth spell great good:
For now they may remember who she was
That bare them.
MEDEA. May remember? If they will,
Thou meanest!
KING. That they shall, must be my care.
I'll rear them to be mighty heroes both;
And then—who knows?—on some far-distant day
Their hero-deeds may bring them to the shores
Of Colchis, where they'll find thee once again,
Older in years, grown soft and gentle now,
And with fond love will press thee to their hearts.
MEDEA. Alas!
KING. What say'st thou?
MEDEA. Naught! I did but think
On happy days long vanished, and forgot
All that hath happened since.—Was this the cause
That brought thee here, or hast thou aught to say
Besides?
KING. Nay, I forgot one other word,
But I will speak it now. Thy husband brought
Much treasure when he fled to Corinth here
From far Iolcos, when his uncle died.
MEDEA. There in the house it lies, still guarded safe;
Go in and take it!
KING. And that trinket fair
Of dazzling gold, the Fleece—the gleaming prize
The Argo brought—is that within, as well?
Why turnest thou away, and wouldst depart?
Give answer! Is it there?
MEDEA. No!
KING. Where, then? Where?
MEDEA. I know not.
KING. Yet thyself didst bear it forth
From Pelias' chamber—so the Herald said.
MEDEA. Nay, if he said so, it must needs be true!
KING. Where is it?
MEDEA. Nay, I know not.
KING. Never think
To cheat us thus!
MEDEA. If thou wouldst give it me,
I would requite thee even with my life;
For, if I had it here, thou shouldst not stand
Before me, shouting threats!
KING. Didst thou not seize
And bear it with thee from Iolcos?
MEDEA. Yea!
KING. And now—?
MEDEA. I have it not.
KING. Who hath it, then?
MEDEA. The earth doth hold it.
KING. Ha! I understand!
So it was there, in sooth?
[He turns to his attendants.]
Go, fetch me here
That which I bade you. What I mean, ye know!
[The attendants go out.]
Ha! Didst thou think to cheat us with thy words
Of double meaning? Earth doth hold it! Now
I understand thee! Nay, look not away!
Look here at me, and harken!—Yonder there
Upon the seashore, where last night ye lay,
I gave command to raise a sacred fane
To Pelias' shades; and, as my henchmen toiled,
They found—thou palest!—freshly buried there
An ebon casket, marked with curious signs.
[The attendants bring in the chest.]
Look! Is it thine?
MEDEA (rushing eagerly to the chest).
Yea, mine!
KING. And is the Fleece
Therein?
MEDEA. It is.
KING. Then give it me!
MEDEA. I will!
KING. Almost I do regret I pitied thee,
Since thou hast sought to cozen us!
MEDEA. Fear not!
For thou shalt have thy due! Once more I am
Medea! Thanks to thee, kind gods!
KING. Unlock
Thy casket, quick, and give the Fleece to me!
MEDEA. Not yet!
KING. But when?
MEDEA. Right soon, ay, all too soon!
KING. Send it to where Creusa waits.
MEDEA. To her?
This Fleece to thy fair daughter? Ay, I will!
KING. Holdeth this casket aught besides the Fleece?
MEDEA. Yea, many things!
KING. Thine own?
MEDEA. Mine own. From these
A gift I'd send her.
KING. Nay, I would demand
Naught else of thee. Keep that which is thine own.
MEDEA. Surely thou wilt permit me one small gift!
Thy daughter was so mild to me, so good,
And she will be a mother to my babes.
I fain would win her love! Thou dost desire
Naught but the Fleece; perchance some trinkets rare
Would please her eyes.
KING. Do even as thou wilt;
Only, bethink thee of thy needs. Thou knowest
Already how she loves thee. But an hour
Agone she begged to send thy babes to thee
That thou might'st see them once again, and take
A last farewell before thou settest forth
Upon thy weary way. I said her nay,
For I had seen thy fury. Now thou art
Quiet again, and so shalt have that grace.
MEDEA. Oh, thanks to thee, thou good and pious King!
KING. Wait here. I'll send the children to thee straight.
[He departs.]
MEDEA. He's gone—and to his doom! Fool! Didst thou not
Tremble and shudder when thou took'st away
Her last possession from the woman thou
Hadst robbed already? Yet, I thank thee for it,
Ay, thank thee! Thou hast given me back myself!
—Unlock the casket!
GORA (fumbling at it). That I cannot do.
MEDEA. Nay, I forgot how I did lock it up!
The key is kept by friends I know full well.
[She turns toward the chest.]
Up from below!
Down from o'erhead!
Open, thou secretest
Tomb of the dead!
The lid springs open, and I am no more
A weak and powerless woman! There they lie,
My staff, my veil of crimson! Mine! Ah, mine!
[She takes them out of the casket.]
I take thee in my hands, thou mighty staff
Of mine own mother, and through heart and limbs
Unfailing strength streams forth from thee to me!
And thee, beloved wimple, on my brow
I bind once more!
[She veils herself.]
How warm, how soft thou art,
How dost thou pour new life through all my frame!
Now come, come all my foes in close-set ranks,
Banded against me, banded for your doom!
GORA. Look! Yonder flares a light!
MEDEA. Nay, let it flare!
'Twill soon be quenched in blood!—
Here are the presents I would send to her;
And thou shalt be the bearer of my gifts!
GORA. I?
MEDEA. Thou! Go quickly to the chamber where
Creusa sits, speak soft and honied words,
Bring her Medea's greetings, and her gifts!
[She takes the gifts out of the chest one by one.]
This golden box, first, that doth treasure up
Most precious ointments. Ah, the bride will shine
Like blazing stars, if she will ope its lid!
But bear it heedfully, and shake it not!
GORA. Woe's me!
[She has grasped the ointment-box firmly in her left hand; as she
steadies it with her right hand, she slightly jars the cover open, and a
blinding flame leaps forth.]
MEDEA. I warned thee not to shake it, fool!
Back to thy house again,
Serpent with forked tongue!
Wait till the knell hath rung;
Thou shalt not wait in vain!
Now clasp it tightly, carry it with heed!
GORA. I fear some dreadful thing will come of this!
MEDEA. So! Thou wouldst warn me? 'Tis a wise old crone!
GORA. And I must bear it?
MEDEA. Yea! Obey, thou slave!
How darest thou presume to answer me?
Be silent! Nay, thou shalt, thou must!
And next
Here on this salver, high-embossed with gold,
I set this jeweled chalice, rich and fair
To see, and o'er it lay the best of all,
The thing her heart most craves—the Golden Fleece!—
Go hence and do thine errand. Nay, but first
Spread o'er these gifts this mantle—fair it is
And richly broidered, made to grace a queen—
To cover all from sight and keep them hid.—
Now, go, and do what I commanded thee,
And take these gifts, that foe doth send to foe!
[A slave-woman enters with the children.]
SLAVE. My lord the king hath sent these children hither;
And when an hour is gone I take them back.
MEDEA. Sooth, they come early to the marriage feast!
Now to thy mistress lead my servant here;
She takes a message from me, bears rich gifts.
(She turns to GORA.)
And thou, remember what I told thee late!
Nay, not a word! It is my will!
(To the slave-woman.)
Away!
And bring her to thy mistress.
[GORA and the slave-woman depart together.]
Well begun,
But not yet ended! Easy is my path,
Now I see clearly what I have to do!
[The children, hand in hand, make as if to follow the slave-woman.]
Where go ye?
BOY. In the house!
MEDEA. What seek ye there?
BOY. Our father told us we should stay with her.
MEDEA. Thy mother bids you tarry. Wait, I say!—
When I bethink me how they are my blood,
My very flesh, the babes I bore so long
In my own womb, and nourished at my breast,
When I bethink me 'tis my very self
That turns against me, in my inmost soul
Fierce anger stabs me knife-like, bloody thoughts
Rise fast within me!—
(To the children.)
What hath mother done,
To make you flee her sight and run away
To hide in strangers' bosoms?
BOY. Thou dost seek
To steal us both away, and shut us up
Within thy boat again, where we were both
So sick and dizzy. We would rather stay
Here, would we not, my brother?
YOUNGER BOY. Yea!
MEDEA. Thou, too,
Absyrtus? But 'tis better, better so!
Come hither!
BOY. I'm afraid!
MEDEA. Come here, I say!
BOY. Nay, thou wilt hurt me!
MEDEA. Hurt thee? Thou hast done
Naught to deserve it!
BOY. Once thou flung'st me down
Upon the pavement, hard, because I looked
So like my father. But he loves me for it!
I'd rather stay with him, and with that good
And gentle lady!
MEDEA. Thou shalt go to her,
E'en to that gentle lady!—How his mien
Is like to his, the traitor's! How his words
Are syllabled like Jason's!—Patience! Wait!
YOUNGER BOY. I'm sleepy!
BOY. Let's lie down and go to sleep.
It's late.
MEDEA. Ye'll have your fill of sleep ere long!
Go, lay you down upon those steps to rest,
While I take counsel with myself.—Ah, see
How watchfully he guides the younger one,
Takes off his little mantle, wraps it warm
And close about his shoulders, now lies down
Beside him, clasping hands!—He never was
A naughty child!—O children, children mine!
BOY (starting up).
Dost want us?
MEDEA. Nay, lie down, and go to sleep!
What would I give, if I could sleep as sound!
[The boy lies down again, and both go to sleep. MEDEA seats
herself on a bench opposite the children. It grows darker and darker.]
MEDEA. The night is falling, stars are climbing high,
Shedding their kindly beams on all below—
The same that shone there yestere'en, as though
All things today were as they were before.
And yet 'twixt now and yesterday there yawns
A gulf, as wide as that which sunders joy
Made perfect and grim death! How changeless e'er
Is Nature—and man's life and happiness
How fitful, fleeting!
When I tell the tale
Of my unhappy life, it is as though
I listened, while another told it me,
And now would stop him: "Nay, that cannot be,
My friend! This woman here, that harbors dark
And murderous thoughts—how can she be the same
That once, long years agone, on Colchis' strand
Trod, free and happy, 'neath these very stars,
As pure, as mild, as free from any sin
As new-born child upon its mother's breast?"
Where goes she, then? She seeks the peasant's hut
To comfort the poor serf, whose little crops
Were trampled by her father's huntsmen late,
And brings him gold to ease his bitter heart.
Why trips she down the forest-path? She hastes
To meet her brother who is waiting there
In some green copse. Together then they wend
Homeward their way along the well-known path,
Like twin-stars shining through the forest-gloom.
Another draweth nigh; his brow is crowned
With coronet of gold; he is the King,
Their royal father, and he lays his hand
In blessing on their heads, and names them both
His joy, his dearest treasure.—Welcome, then,
Most dear and friendly faces! Are ye come
To comfort me in this my loneliness?
Draw nearer, nearer yet! I fain would look
Into your eyes! Dear brother, dost thou smile
So friendly on me? Ah, how fair thou art,
My heart's best treasure! But my father's face
Is sober, earnest; yet he loves me still,
Yea, loveth his good daughter!
[She springs up suddenly.]
Good? Ha, good?
'Tis a false lie! For know, thou old, gray man,
She will betray thee, hath betrayed thee, thee,
Ay, and herself! But thou didst curse her sore:
"Know thou shalt be thrust forth
Like a beast of the wilderness," thou saidst;
"Friendless and homeless, with no place
To lay thy head! And he, for whom
Thou hast betrayed me, he will be
First to take vengeance on thee, first
To leave thee, thrust thee forth, and first
To slay thee!" See, thy words were true!
For here I stand, thrust forth indeed,
By all men like a monster shunned,
Deserted by the wretch for whom
I gave thee up, and with no place
To lay me down; alas! not dead;
Black thoughts of murder in my heart!—
Dost thou rejoice at thy revenge?
Com'st closer?—Children! O my babes!
[She rushes across to where the children lie sleeping, and shakes
them violently.]
My children, did ye hear? Awake!
BOY (waking).
What wouldst thou?
MEDEA (pressing them fiercely to her).
Clasp your arms about me close!
BOY. I slept so soundly.
MEDEA. Slept? How could ye sleep?
Thought ye, because your mother watched you here,
That ye were safe? Ye ne'er were in the hands
Of any foe more dangerous! Sleep? With me,
Your mother, near? How could ye?—Go within,
And there ye shall find rest, indeed!
[The children sleepily mount the steps and disappear down the
colonnade into the palace.]
They're gone,
And all is well again!—Yet, now they're gone,
How am I bettered? Must I aught the less
Flee forth, today, and leave them in the hands
Of these my bitter foes? Is Jason less
A traitor? Will the bride make aught the less
Of feasting on her bridal day, forsooth?
Tomorrow, when the sun shall rise,
Then shall I be alone,
The world a desert waste for me,
My babes, my husband—gone!
A wand'rer I, with weary feet
All torn and bleeding sore,
And bound for exile!—Whither, then?
I know no more!
My foes stay here and make a joyous feast,
And laugh to think me gone;
My babes cling tightly to a stranger's breast,
Estranged from me forever, far away
From where I needs must come!
And wilt thou suffer that?
Is it not even now too late,
Too late to grant forgiveness?
Hath not Creusa even now the robes,
Ay, and the chalice, that fierce-flaming cup?
Hark! Nay, not yet!—But soon enough
Will come the shriek of agony
Ringing through all the palace halls!
Then they will come and slay me,
Nor spare the babes!
Hark! What a cry was that! Ha! Tongues of flame
Leap curling from the palace! It is done!
No more may I retreat, repent!
Let come what must! Set forward!
[GORA bursts out of the palace in a frenzy.]
GORA. Oh, horror, horror!
MEDEA (hurrying to her). So the deed is done?
GORA. Woe, woe! Creusa dead, the palace red
With mounting flames!
MEDEA. So, art thou gone at last,
Thou snow-white, spotless bride? Or seek'st thou still
To charm my children from me? Wouldst thou? Wouldst thou?
Wouldst take them whither thou art gone?
Nay, to the gods I give them now,
And not to thee, nay, not to thee!
GORA. What hast thou done?—Look, look, they come!
MEDEA. They come? Too late! Too late!
[She vanishes down the colonnade.]
GORA. Alas that I, so old and gray, should aid,
Unknowing, such dark deeds! I counseled her
To take revenge: but such revenge—oh, gods!
Where are the babes? 'Twas here I left them late.
Where art thou, O Medea? And thy babes—
Ah, where are they?
[She, too, disappears down the colonnade. Through the windows of the
palace in the background the rapidly mounting flames now burst forth.]
JASON's VOICE.
Creusa! O Creusa!
KING'S VOICE (from within). O my daughter!
[GORA bursts out of the palace and falls upon her knees in the middle
of the stage, covering her face with her hands.]
GORA. What have I seen?—Oh, horror!
[MEDEA appears at the entrance to the colonnade; in her left hand she
brandishes a dagger; she raises her right hand to command silence.]
[The curtain falls.]

ACT V

The outer court of CREON's palace, as in the preceding act; the royal
apartments in the background lie in blackened ruins whence smoke is still
curling up; the court-yard is filled with various palace attendants busied in
various ways. The dawn is just breaking.
The KING appears, dragging GORA out of the palace; a train of CREUSA's
slave-women follows him.

KING. Away with thee! It was thy wicked hand
That to my daughter brought those bloody gifts
Which were her doom! My daughter! Oh, Creusa!
My child, my child!
[He turns to the slave-women.]
'Twas she?
GORA. Yea, it was I!
I knew not that my hands bore doom of death
Within thy dwelling.
KING. Knew'st not. Never think
To 'scape my wrath on this wise!
GORA. Dost thou think
I shudder at thy wrath? Mine eyes have seen—
Woe's me!—the children weltering in their blood,
Slain by the hand of her that bore them, ay,
Medea's very hand! And after that,
All other horrors are to me but jest!
KING. Creusa! Oh, my child, my pure, true child!
Say, did thy hand not shake, thou grisly dame,
When to her side thou broughtest death?
GORA. I shed no tears for her! She had her due!
Why would she seek to snatch away the last
Possession of my most unhappy mistress?
I weep for these my babes, whom I did love
So tenderly, and whom I saw but now
Butchered—and by their mother! Ah, I would
Ye all were in your graves, and by your side
That traitor that doth call himself Lord Jason!
I would I were in Colchis with Medea
And these poor babes in safety! Would I ne'er
Had seen your faces, or your city here,
Whereon this grievous fate so justly falls!
KING. These insults thou wilt soon enough put by,
When thou shalt feel my heavy hand of doom!
But is it certain that my child is dead?
So many cry her dead, though I can find
None that did see her fall! Is there no way
To 'scape the fire? And can the flames wax strong
So quickly? See how slow they lick and curl
Along the fallen rafters of my house!
Do ye not see? And yet ye say she's dead?
An hour ago she stood before mine eyes
A blooming flower, instinct with happy life—
And now she's dead! Nay, I cannot believe,
And will not! 'Gainst my will I turn mine eyes
Now here, now there, and cannot but believe
That now, or now, or now at least, she must
Appear in all her stainless purity
And beauty, glide in safety to me here
Through those black, smoldering ruins!—Who was by?
Who saw her perish?—Thou?—Quick, speak!—Nay, then,
Roll not thine eyes in horror! Tell thy tale,
E'en though it kill me! Is she dead, indeed?
A SLAVE-WOMAN.
Dead!
KING. And thou saw'st it?
SLAVE-WOMAN. With my very eyes!
Saw how the flames leaped forth from out that box
Of gold, and caught her flesh—
KING. Hold! Hold! Enough!
This woman saw it! Creusa is no more!
Creusa! Oh, my daughter, my dear child!
Once, many years agone, she burnt her hand
Against the altar; she was but a child,
And cried aloud with pain. I rushed to her
And caught her in my arms, and to my lips
I put her poor scorched fingers, blowing hard
To ease the burning pain. The little maid
E'en through her bitter tears smiled up at me
And, softly sobbing, whispered in my ear,
"It is not much! I do not mind the pain!"
Gods! That she should be burned to death? Oh, gods!
[He turns fiercely upon GORA.]
And as for thee,—if I should plunge my sword
Ten, twenty times, up to the hilt, clean through
Thy body, would that bring my daughter back?
Or, could I find that hideous witch-wife—Stay!
Where went she, that hath robbed me of my child?
I'll shake an answer straight from out thy mouth,
Ay, though thy soul come with it, if thou'lt not
Declare to me this instant where she's gone!
GORA. I know not—and I care no whit to know!
Let her go forth alone to her sure doom.
Why dost thou tarry? Slay me! For I have
No wish to live!
KING. We'll speak of that anon;
But first I'll have thy answer!
JASON (behind the scenes). Where's Medea?
Bring her before my face! Medea!
[He enters suddenly with drawn sword.]
Nay,
They told me she was caught! Where is she, then?
(To GORA.)
Ha! Thou here? Where's thy mistress?

GORA. Fled away!
JASON. Hath she the children?
GORA. Nay!
JASON. Then they are—?
GORA. Dead!
Yea, dead! thou smooth-tongued traitor, dead, I say!
She sought to put them where thine eyes could ne'er
Take joy in them again; but, knowing well
No spot on earth so sacred was but thou
To find them wouldst break in, she hid them, safe
Forever, in the grave! Ay, stand aghast,
And stare upon the pavement! Thou canst ne'er
Recall thy babes to life! They're gone for aye!
And, for their sake, I'm glad! No, I am not,
For their sake—but because thou dost despair,
That, smooth-tongued traitor, glads my heart indeed!
Was it not thou that drove her to this crime,
And thou, false King, with thine hypocrisy?
She was a noble creature—but ye drew
Your nets of shameful treachery too close
About her, till, in wild despair, cut off
From all escape else, she o'erleaped your snares,
And made thy crown, the kingly ornament
Of royal heads, to be the awful tool
Of her unnatural crime! Ay, wring your hands,
But wring them for your own most grievous fate!
(Turning to the KING.)
Why sought thy child another woman's bed?
(Turning to JASON.)
Why must thou steal her, bring her here to Greece,
If thou didst never love her? If thou didst
Right truly love her, why, then, thrust her forth?
Though others cry her murderess, yea, though I
Myself must name her so, yet none the less
Ye have but met your just deserts!—For me,
I have no wish to live another day!
Two of my babes are dead, the third I needs
Must hate forever! Take me, lead me hence
And slay me, if ye will! Fair hopes I have
At last, of justice in that other world,
Now I have seen Heaven's vengeance on you hurled!
[She is led away by some of the KING's attendants.]
(Pause.)
KING. Nay, if I wronged her,—by the gods in Heaven
I swear I meant it not!—Now haste we all
To search these smoking ruins for what trace
Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay
Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last
In Earth's kind bosom!
[He turns to JASON.]
But, for thee—straightway
Thou must go forth, where'er thy feet may choose
To carry thee! Pollution such as thine
Spells woe for all about thee, as I've proved.
Oh, had I never seen, ne'er rescued thee,
Ne'er acted friendship's part and welcomed thee
Within my palace! And, for thanks, thou took'st
My daughter from me! Go, lest thou shouldst take
As well the only comfort left me now—
To weep her memory!
JASON. Wouldst thou thrust me forth?
KING. I banish thee my sight.
JASON. What shall I do?
KING. Some god will answer that!
JASON. Who, then, will guide
My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand?
For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore
By falling firebrands! How? All silent, then?
And none will guide me, none companion me,
None follow me, whom once so many joyed
To follow? Spirits of my babes, lead ye
The way, and guide your father to the grave
That waits him!
[He goes slowly away.]
KING (to his attendants). Quick, to work! And after that,
Mourning that hath no end!
[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and
lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies
a mean hut. A rustic enters.

RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly gods,
After the storm and fury of the night,
Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!
[He goes into the hut.]
(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)
JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head
Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within!
My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth!
Is none within there? Must I die of thirst,
And all alone?—Ha! Yon's the very hut
That gave me shelter when I came this way
Before, a rich man still, a happy father,
My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!
[He knocks at the door.]
'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place
To lay me down and die!
[The peasant comes out of the house.]
RUSTIC. Who knocks?—Poor man,
Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!
JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink!
See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide,
The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece!
A prince—a king—and of the Argonauts
The mighty leader, Jason!
RUSTIC. Art thou, then,
In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone
And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set
A foot upon my threshold, to pollute
My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now
Death to the daughter of my lord the King!
Then seek not shelter at the meanest door
Of any of his subjects!
[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]
JASON. He is gone,
And leaves me here to lie upon the earth,
Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass
To trample on!—O Death, on thee I call!
Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!
[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him,
the Golden Fleece flung over'her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA. Jason!
JASON (half raising himself).
Who calls me?—Ha! What spectral form
Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea?
Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again
Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!
[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]
Woe's me!
My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie,
A broken wreck!
MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts
Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved
To be the victim of another's hand,
And not of thine!
JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?
MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!
JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?
MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou
Or I shall ever be!
JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!
MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes?
I know a far more wretched one—to be
Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life
Far, far above its worth, we were not now
In such a pass. But we must bear our weight
Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes
Are spared that grief, at least!
JASON. And thou canst stand
So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?
MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart
Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was,
Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain
Which, ever swelling like an angry sea,
Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck
That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight
In awful desolation, sweeps it forth
O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not
Because the babes are dead; my only grief
Is that they ever lived, that thou and I
Must still live on!
JASON. Alas!
MEDEA. Bear thou the lot
That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth,
Thou richly hast deserved it!—Even as thou
Before me liest on the naked earth,
So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet
And craved protection—but thou wouldst not hear!
Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands
In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift
Upon the golden prize, although I cried,
" 'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"—Take it, then,
That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek,
Even Death!
I leave thee now, forevermore.
'Tis the last time—for all eternity
The very last—that I shall speak with thee,
My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all
The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth,
'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in
On every side, in face of all the grief
That threatens for the future, still I say,
"Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee
A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come
What may, abide it firmly, show thyself
Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds
Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe
Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me,
And it shall comfort thee to know how mine
Is bitterer far, because I set my hand
To deeds, to which thou only gav'st assent.
I go my way, and take my heavy weight
Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world.
A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed;
But no! it may not be! It were not meet
Medea perish at Medea's hands.
My earlier life, before I stooped to sin,
Doth make me worthy of a better judge
Than I could be.—I go to Delphi's shrine,
And there, before the altar of the god,
The very spot whence Phrixus long ago
Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again,
Restore to that dark god what is his own—
The Golden Fleece—the only thing the flames
Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped
Safe from the bloody, fiery death that slew
That fair Corinthian princess.—To the priests
I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will,
Ay, though they take my life to expiate
My grievous sins, or though they send me forth
To wander still through some far desert-waste,
My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight
Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!
[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]
Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive
So eagely to win, which seemed to thee
The shining crown of all thy famous deeds?
What is the happiness the world can give?—
A shadow! What the fame it can bestow?—
An empty dream! Poor man! Thy dreams were all
Of shadows! And the dreams are ended now,
But not the long, black Night!—Farewell to thee,
My husband, for I go! That was a day
Of heavy sorrows when we first did meet;
Today, 'mid heavier sorrows, we must part!
Farewell!
JASON. Deserted! All alone! My babes!
MEDEA. Endure!
JASON. Lost! Lost!
MEDEA. Be patient!
JASON. Let me die!
MEDEA. I go, and nevermore thine eyes shall see
My face again!
[As she departs, winding her way among the tumbled rocks, the curtain
falls.]

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