in exile.
Hardships enough you’ll suffer with your sons. So for
all your hatred,
take what I give you, Medeia.”
When first he began to speak she listened with anger locked in, as if, despite her fury, she intended to answer with restraint; but as Jason
continued, speaking
of Kreon as king (I realized now with a shock that
she knew
all that happened in the palace, informed by
black-winged spies),
her fury broke from its prison. She screamed,
“O vile, vile, vilest!
Rail I may well! Do you come to me—to me, Jason? This is no mere self-assurance, no manly hardihood. It’s shamelessness! And yet I’m glad you’ve come,
husband.
I do have one joy left, and that’s berating you.
As all Akhaia knows, I saved your life. I helped you tame those fiery bulls and sow that dangerous tilth. The snake wreathed coil on coil around that
cursèd fleece
I put to sleep for you. I fled my father and home, arranged my brother’s death and later King Pelias’ death, at his own children’s hands. Such deeds I’ve done
for you,
and yet you trade me away like a worn-out cow for
a heifer,
though I bore you sons. If you’d still been childless,
I might perhaps
have pardoned your wish for a second wife.
But now farewell
all faith — for this you know in your souclass="underline" You swore
me oaths.
“Come, let me ask you questions as I would a friend.
Where should
I turn? To my father’s house? To Aia? You know
well enough
how they love me there — kinsmen I betrayed for you.
Shall I go
to the Peliad sisters? Perhaps we can all have a good
laugh now
at that monstrous birthday party. You see how it is:
by those
who loved me at home I am now hated; and those
who least
deserved my wrath, I have turned to foes — for you.”
He listened, hands on the gatebars, his head bent. When her
rantings ceased,
he said — not troubling to shout against the rain—
“Again and again
you’ve preached all that, and again and again I’ve
allowed it to pass,
though surely it’s true that I need thank no one but
the goddess of love
for the services you mention. But let that be; I find no fault with your devotion. And as for the marriage
you hate,
I say again what I’ve said before: with calm dispassion I made that choice, and partly for you and my sons.
No, hear me!
Not out of loathing for your bed, Medeia (the thought
that galls you)
and not through lust for a new bride or for numerous
offspring—
with the sons you’ve borne me I’m well content—
but for this alone
I’ve made my choice: to win for my family, my sons
and you,
such safety and comfort as only a king can be sure of.
My plan
is wise enough; you’d admit it if it weren’t for your
jealousy.
“But why do I waste my words on you? When
nothing mars
your love, you imagine you’re queen of the planet.
But if some slight shadow
clouds your happiness, the best and fairest of lots
seems hateful,
and the finest of houses a shanty in a field
of thorntrees.”
At this Medeia grew angrier still, tied hand and foot
by arguments,
as usual, and straining against the injustice like
a penned-
up bull. I could have told her the futility of trying
to fight
by Jason’s rules; but they looked — both of them—
so dangerous,
and the surrounding storm was so violent, such a
fiery menace,
I kept to my safe hiding place in the dark, thick vines. She said: “If you were not vile, as I’ve claimed—
if all these things
you say to me weren’t shameless lies — you’d have asked
straight out for consent
to your plan, not slyly deceived me.”
He laughed. “No doubt you’d have helped me nobly, since even now your
jealousy rages
like a forest fire.”
“It was not that that stopped you. I am a foreigner, and middle-aged. I cease to serve
your pride.”
His square fists tightened on the bars, and I
could hardly blame
his anger at the woman’s unreasonableness. Though his
jaw-muscles twitched,
he still spoke gently: “Medeia, lady—”
At the word, her face went white, her emotion like crackling fire. “Go!”
she screamed.
“Run, drunken lover! You linger too long from your
new bride’s chamber.
Go and be happy! May your marriage soon prove
a pleasure you’d fain
renounce.” Then, sobbing, she fled into the house.
He turned heavily
and made his way back up the worn stone steps
to the palace.
Not long did she weep in her fury at Jason. In her room, the oak
door closed
on the sewing women, she gathered from secret places
her herbs
and drugs, and above all the coriander for conjuring. Taking a ring she had lately received from a
wealthy king
named Algeus, father of Theseus — a man who’d
travelled
from a distant land for theurgic cure of his sterility— she placed the ring on a silver dish and murmured
his name.
Soon the bejewelled ring began to move. When it came
by its own energy to the rim of the dish, the gate-ring
clanged,
and Medeia called to have Aigeus shown in. He arrived
with a look
befuddled and amused, unable to think for the life
of him
what had brought him here in such weather. Soon she
had told him all
her tragedy, and old King Aigeus, kindest of men,
was promising
sanctuary in his own far-distant land. He said, pulling at his beard with his wrinkled hands, “But come,
King Kreon
banishes you, and Jason allows it? Most base!
Most base!”
“His voice protests,” she said, “yet he thinks it best
to endure it.”
“Shameful!” King Aigeus said, and again offered
sanctuary.
“Perhaps if you’d swear a solemn oath to me—”
she began.
“You mistrust me, child? Tell me what fear still
troubles you.”
She touched his two hands. “I trust you, but the house
of Pelias hates me,
and Kreon as well. Bound by oaths, you could never
yield me
if ever they came to drag me from you. Bound by
mere words,
not solemn oaths, you’d have no defense and would
yield to their summons
perforce. They are powerful kings, my lord.”
He stared above her head, mumbling: “What need for such far-sighted
prudence here?”
But at once he said, “I’ll do as you wish, Medeia. Name
your gods.”
She said: “Swear by the earth below, and the sun, my grandfather, and the whole vast race of the
deathless gods…”
“To perform what? — or resist what?”
“Never yourself to expel me from your land or willingly yield me
to enemies
so long as you still bear life.”
He said: “By the firm earth, by the sun’s light, and by all the gods, I swear all this, and if I fail to abide by my oath, may the gods send