down on me
the doom reserved for sacrilege.”
Medeia nodded, clasping his hand. “Go thy way with my blessing,”
she said,
“I’m fully content.” Aigeus descended to the street,
his heart
grieved for Aietes’ daughter, and full of uneasiness.
Down by the water in the sail-tent slum there were
angry stirrings,
huge men moving from fire to fire, hunkering for
warmth
in the roaring storm, and grimly exchanging the
latest news.
There lay a new ship there, I saw — a long, gray warship.
I kept my distance, my right hand darkly swollen
and throbbing
from our last encounter. Gradually, in their restless
shifting
I began to see patterns, some plan taking shape. A
few at a time,
from various parts of the wide, tented harbor, the
sailors began
to move through the rain into Kreon’s city. They
paused at the doors
of shops, smiling in from beneath drenched hoods. They
called out to children,
gave greeting to snarling curs at the mouths of alleys,
and so
by imperceptible stages surrounded the palace,
toward nightfall,
taking positions, like lengthening shadows, then
vanishing.
In the vine-hung house, the work of the women was
finished now—
a delicate robe and wreath of gold, the most splendid
attire
that was ever seen on earth. Medeia’s fingers traced the invisible seams; her eyes drank in the boundless
landscape
figured in the cloth by Argus’ art. She said: “Now,
women,
My revenge is near at hand. I’ll tell you the whole of
my purpose,
though not much pleasure will you take in what I tell.
I will go
to Jason tonight with his precious sons, and when
he receives us,
I’ll speak soft words, claiming I’ve come to understand,
myself,
that his plan is wise and just. Then gently, with
passionate tears,
I’ll entreat that my sons may remain in Corinth,
though I may not,
and beg that he grant them permission to carry my gifts
to the princess
to soften her heart and her father’s. If the lady accepts
these presents—
this gown and wreath of gold — and if she dresses
in them,
she’ll die horribly, and all who touch her, for with fell
poisons
the cloth will be anointed. And now the darkest part. If Jason, in a futile attempt to save his dying princess, touches the girl and dies himself, my revenge is ended, even in my heart. I’ll carry him away in a dragon chariot conjured out of ashes, and bury his remains in a
tumulus befitting
a prince so noble; and I’ll weep and lament as I would
if he’d died
for me, and I’ll honor his memory. But if Jason lives, having watched his princess die, having taken no risk
for her,
held back by prudence — Jason to the last the invincible
sea-fox—
thus will I bring down ruin upon him: I’ll murder
his sons.”
The Corinthian women all cried out at once, but
Medeia said quickly:
“Nothing can save them. I’ve sworn with solemn oaths
to do all
I’ve said. I will wreck the house of Jason to the
last beam,
then flee the ground of my dear children’s blood. So be it.
Flee and live on for what? you may ask. No home,
no country,
no refuge from grief … Nevertheless, live on I will, stripped of illusions, apparent joys, false, foolish hopes, my teeth bared to the blackness on every side, like poor mad Idas, who knew from the beginning. Feeble and
poor of spirit
let no one think me, nor indolent, taking the world
as it comes.
Say that Medeia was of use to friends and to enemies
dangerous,
sure as the seasons, remorseless as nipping,
back-cracking cold.”
Timidly then one woman spoke: “Medeia, lady, all of us here love justice, surely, and would willingly
help you,
betrayed as you are. But this! All the laws of gods
and men—”
“I forgive your words of censure. You’re not as
wronged as I am.”
“And can you find it in your heart to kill your
children, Medeia?”
“I can find no other way to bring my husband down.”
“Making yourself, in the same stroke, the unhappiest
of wives!”
“Yes. But the vow is sworn. All future words are
waste.”
And so, attended by her two old slaves, her hands
closed firmly
on her children’s hands, Medeia walked that night
through the violent storm to the palace
of Kreon — now of Jason. They waited
while guards went in for instructions. Old Kreon shook
with fright,
his small eyes widened, convinced that his house must
be filled to the beams
with devils, with Medeia so near. But Jason persuaded
him at last
to allow the party entrance — for better to know
her mood,
attend to her threats, if she made any, than seek to
guard
’gainst possibilities as ubiquarian as air. The guards went out; old Kreon and his daughter left the hall,
retiring
for safety, at Jason’s request, to their separate chambers.
And now
the carved door opened again, and there Medeia stood, her two young sons beside her, clinging in fright to her
hands.
She shook back her hood without touching it — a gesture
graceful
and accidentally defiant. Her hair came blazing into
view,
bright as the sun, and the kings were hushed by awe.
She went
to Jason, leading his children, and in front of his chair
she kneeled
like a suppliant. The two old slaves stood near.
She said: “Jason, I entreat you, forgive those words I spoke
in anger.
You must bear with me in my passionate moods,
for was there not
much love between us once? I’ve been reasoning
through your claims,
my brain less feverish now, less egomaniac— less like my poor mad father’s — and I see that your
plan is right.
I chide myself: Why this madness, Medeia? Why this
anger
at the land’s rulers, and the lord who acts for your own
good
and the children’s? Why this sorrow? Is heaven not
once again
proved kind? Have you forgotten, woman, that the four
of you
are friendless exiles bound to fight in whatever way you can for survival? So, by stages, I’ve come to
myself
and have seen how dangerously foolish I was. So now
I’ve come
to grant my approval of all you’ve done, and to beg your
forgiveness.
It was I myself who was wrong; you were not. I should
have shared
in your plans and lent you aid; I should have
countenanced
the match and ministered joyfully to your bride. But
we are
as we are — I will not say evil, but — women. You were
wise, as always,
refusing to vie with me, matching folly against folly.
My spirit
is saner now. I yield to you and confess, I was wrong.” Then, to the children: “Sons, speak to your father. Be