Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now!
Creon.
And I mine, and my child, beyond all things.
Medea.
O Loves of man, what curse is on your wings!
Creon.
Blessing or curse, 'tis as their chances flow.
Medea.
Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe!
Creon.
Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone!
Medea.
What would I with thy pains? I have mine own.
Creon.
Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . .
Medea.
Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . .
Creon.
Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task?
Medea.
I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask.
Creon.
Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand?
Medea(rising).
For one day only leave me in thy landAt peace, to find some counsel, ere the strainOf exile fall, some comfort for these twain,Mine innocents; since others take no thought,It seems, to save the babes that they begot.Ah! Thou wilt pity them! Thou also artA father: thou hast somewhere still a heartThat feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis theyThat break me, fallen upon so dire a day.
Creon.
Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a timeEre this my tenderness hath marred the chimeOf wisest counsels. And I know that nowI do mere folly. But so be it! ThouShalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear,If once the morrow's sunlight find thee hereWithin my borders, thee or child of thine,Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a lineShall waver nor abate. So linger on,If thou needs must, till the next risen sun;No further. . . . In one day there scarce can beThose perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me.
[ExitCreonwith his suite.
Chorus.
O woman, woman of sorrow,Where wilt thou turn and flee?What town shall be thine to-morrow,What land of all lands that be,What door of a strange man's home?Yea, God hath hunted thee,Medea, forth to the foamOf a trackless sea.
Medea.
Defeat on every side; what else?—But Oh,Not here the end is: think it not! I knowFor bride and groom one battle yet untried,And goodly pains for him that gave the bride.Dost dream I would have grovelled to this man,Save that I won mine end, and shaped my planFor merry deeds? My lips had never deignedSpeak word with him: my flesh been never stainedWith touching. . . . Fool, Oh, triple fool! It laySo plain for him to kill my whole essayBy exile swift: and, lo, he sets me freeThis one long day: wherein mine haters threeShall lie here dead, the father and the brideAnd husband—mine, not hers! Oh, I have triedSo many thoughts of murder to my turn,I know not which best likes me. Shall I burnTheir house with fire? Or stealing past unseenTo Jason's bed—I have a blade made keenFor that—stab, breast to breast, that wedded pair?Good, but for one thing. When I am taken there,And killed, they will laugh loud who hate me. . . .Nay,I love the old way best, the simple wayOf poison, where we too are strong as men.Ah me!And they being dead—what place shall hold me then?What friend shall rise, with land inviolateAnd trusty doors, to shelter from their hateThis flesh? . . . None anywhere! . . . A little moreI needs must wait: and, if there ope some doorOf refuge, some strong tower to shield me, good:In craft and darkness I will hunt this blood.Else, if mine hour be come and no hope nigh,Then sword in hand, full-willed and sure to die,I yet will live to slay them. I will wendMan-like, their road of daring to the end.So help me She who of all Gods hath beenThe best to me, of all my chosen queenAnd helpmate, Hecatê, who dwells apart,The flame of flame, in my fire's inmost heart:For all their strength, they shall not stab my soulAnd laugh thereafter! Dark and full of doleTheir bridal feast shall be, most dark the dayThey joined their hands, and hunted me away.Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plotThou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not.On to the peril-point! Now comes the strainOf daring. Shall they trample thee again?How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy fallWhile this thief's daughter weds, and weds withalJason? . . . A true king was thy father, yea,And born of the ancient Sun! . . . Thou know'st the way;And God hath made thee woman, things most vainFor help, but wondrous in the paths of pain.
[Medeagoes into the House.
Chorus.
Back streams the wave on the ever running river:Life, life is changed and the laws of it o'ertrod.Man shall be the slave, the affrighted, the low-liver!Man hath forgotten God.And woman, yea, woman, shall be terrible in story:The tales too, meseemeth, shall be other than of yore.For a fear there is that cometh out of Woman and a glory,And the hard hating voices shall encompass her no more!The old bards shall cease, and their memory that lingersOf frail brides and faithless, shall be shrivelled as with fire.For they loved us not, nor knew us: and our lips were dumb, our fingersCould wake not the secret of the lyre.Else, else, O God the Singer, I had sung amid their ragesA long tale of Man and his deeds for good and ill.But the old World knoweth—'tis the speech of all his ages—Man's wrong and ours: he knoweth and is still.
Some Women.
Forth from thy father's homeThou camest, O heart of fire,To the Dark Blue Rocks, to the clashing foam,To the seas of thy desire:Till the Dark Blue Bar was crossed;And, lo, by an alien riverStanding, thy lover lost,Void-armed for ever,Forth yet again, O lowestOf landless women, a rangerOf desolate ways, thou goest,From the walls of the stranger.
Others.
And the great Oath waxeth weak;And Ruth, as a thing outstriven,Is fled, fled, from the shores of the Greek,Away on the winds of heaven.Dark is the house afar,Where an old king called thee daughter;All that was once thy starIn stormy water,Dark: and, lo, in the nearerHouse that was sworn to love thee,Another, queenlier, dearer,Is thronèd above thee.
Enter from the rightJason.
Jason.
Oft have I seen, in other days than these,How a dark temper maketh maladiesNo friend can heal. 'Twas easy to have keptBoth land and home. It needed but to acceptUnstrivingly the pleasure of our lords.But thou, for mere delight in stormy words,Wilt lose all! . . . Now thy speech provokes not me.Rail on. Of all mankind let Jason beMost evil; none shall check thee. But for theseDark threats cast out against the majestiesOf Corinth, count as veriest gain thy pathOf exile. I myself, when princely wrathWas hot against thee, strove with all good willTo appease the wrath, and wished to keep thee stillBeside me. But thy mouth would never stayFrom vanity, blaspheming night and dayOur masters. Therefore thou shalt fly the land.Yet, even so, I will not hold my handFrom succouring mine own people. Here am ITo help thee, woman, pondering heedfullyThy new state. For I would not have thee flungProvisionless away—aye, and the youngChildren as well; nor lacking aught that willOf mine can bring thee. Many a lesser illHangs on the heels of exile. . . . Aye, and thoughThou hate me, dream not that my heart can knowOr fashion aught of angry will to thee.
Medea.
Evil, most evil! . . . since thou grantest meThat comfort, the worst weapon left me nowTo smite a coward. . . . Thou comest to me, thou,Mine enemy! (Turning to theChorus.) Oh, say, how call ye this,To face, and smile, the comrade whom his kissBetrayed? Scorn? Insult? Courage? None of these:'Tis but of all man's inward sicknessesThe vilest, that he knoweth not of shameNor pity! Yet I praise him that he came . . .To me it shall bring comfort, once to clearMy heart on thee, and thou shalt wince to hear.I will begin with that, 'twixt me and thee,That first befell. I saved thee. I saved thee—Let thine own Greeks be witness, every oneThat sailed on Argo—saved thee, sent aloneTo yoke with yokes the bulls of fiery breath,And sow that Acre of the Lords of Death;And mine own ancient Serpent, who did keepThe Golden Fleece, the eyes that knew not sleep,And shining coils, him also did I smiteDead for thy sake, and lifted up the lightThat bade thee live. Myself, uncounsellèd,Stole forth from father and from home, and fledWhere dark Iôlcos under Pelion lies,With thee—Oh, single-hearted more than wise!I murdered Pelias, yea, in agony,By his own daughters' hands, for sake of thee;I swept their house like War.—And hast thou thenAccepted all—O evil yet again!—And cast me off and taken thee for brideAnother? And with children at thy side!One could forgive a childless man. But no:I have borne thee children . . .Is sworn faith so lowAnd weak a thing? I understand it not.Are the old gods dead? Are the old laws forgot,And new laws made? Since not my passioning,But thine own heart, doth cry thee for a thingForsworn.[She catches sight of her own hand which she hasthrown out to denounce him.Poor, poor right hand of mine, whom heDid cling to, and these knees, so cravingly,We are unclean, thou and I; we have caught the stainOf bad men's flesh . . . and dreamed our dreams in vain.Thou comest to befriend me? Give me, then,Thy counsel. 'Tis not that I dream againFor good from thee: but, questioned, thou wilt showThe viler. Say: now whither shall I go?Back to my father? Him I did betray,And all his land, when we two fled away.To those poor Peliad maids? For them 'twere goodTo take me in, who spilled their father's blood. . . .Aye, so my whole life stands! There were at homeWho loved me well: to them I am becomeA curse. And the first friends who sheltered me,Whom most I should have spared, to pleasure theeI have turned to foes. Oh, therefore hast thou laidMy crown upon me, blest of many a maidIn Hellas, now I have won what all did crave,Thee, the world-wondered lover and the brave;Who this day looks and sees me banished, thrownAway with these two babes, all, all, alone . . .Oh, merry mocking when the lamps are red:"Where go the bridegroom's babes to beg their breadIn exile, and the woman who gave allTo save him?"O great God, shall gold withalBear thy clear mark, to sift the base and fine,And o'er man's living visage runs no signTo show the lie within, ere all too late?
Leader.
Dire and beyond all healing is the hateWhen hearts that loved are turned to enmity.
Jason.
In speech at least, meseemeth, I must beNot evil; but, as some old pilot goesFurled to his sail's last edge, when danger blowsToo fiery, run before the wind and swell,Woman, of thy loud storms.—And thus I tellMy tale. Since thou wilt build so wondrous highThy deeds of service in my jeopardy,To all my crew and quest I know but oneSaviour, of Gods or mortals one alone,The Cyprian. Oh, thou hast both brain and wit,Yet underneath . . . nay, all the tale of itWere graceless telling; how sheer love, a fireOf poison-shafts, compelled thee with desireTo save me. But enough. I will not scoreThat count too close. 'Twas good help: and thereforI give thee thanks, howe'er the help was wrought.Howbeit, in my deliverance, thou hast gotFar more than given. A good Greek land hath beenThy lasting home, not barbary. Thou hast seenOur ordered life, and justice, and the longStill grasp of law not changing with the strongMan's pleasure. Then, all Hellas far and nearHath learned thy wisdom, and in every earThy fame is. Had thy days run by unseenOn that last edge of the world, where then had beenThe story of great Medea? Thou and I . . .What worth to us were treasures heapèd highIn rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of goldMore sweet than ever rang from Orpheus old,Unless our deeds have glory?Speak I so,Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did throwThe challenge down. Next for thy cavillingOf wrath at mine alliance with a king,Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and freeFrom touch of passion, and a friend to theeMost potent, and my children . . . Nay, be still!When first I stood in Corinth, clogged with illFrom many a desperate mischance, what blissCould I that day have dreamed of, like to this,To wed with a king's daughter, I exiledAnd beggared? Not—what makes thy passion wild—From loathing of thy bed; not over-fraughtWith love for this new bride; not that I soughtTo upbuild mine house with offspring: 'tis enough,What thou hast borne: I make no word thereof:But, first and greatest, that we all might dwellIn a fair house and want not, knowing wellThat poor men have no friends, but far and nearShunning and silence. Next, I sought to rearOur sons in nurture worthy of my race,And, raising brethren to them, in one placeJoin both my houses, and be all from nowPrince-like and happy. What more need hast thouOf children? And for me, it serves my starTo link in strength the children that now areWith those that shall be.Have I counselled ill?Not thine own self would say it, couldst thou stillOne hour thy jealous flesh.—'Tis ever so!Who looks for more in women? When the flowOf love runs plain, why, all the world is fair:But, once there fall some ill chance anywhereTo baulk that thirst, down in swift hate are trodMen's dearest aims and noblest. Would to GodWe mortals by some other seed could raiseOur fruits, and no blind women block our ways!Then had there been no curse to wreck mankind.
Leader.
Lord Jason, very subtly hast thou twinedThy speech: but yet, though all athwart thy willI speak, this is not well thou dost, but ill,Betraying her who loved thee and was true.
Medea.
Surely I have my thoughts, and not a fewHave held me strange. To me it seemeth, whenA crafty tongue is given to evil men'Tis like to wreck, not help them. Their own brainTempts them with lies to dare and dare again,Till . . . no man hath enough of subtlety.As thou—be not so seeming-fair to meNor deft of speech. One word will make thee fall.Wert thou not false, 'twas thine to tell me all,And charge me help thy marriage path, as IDid love thee; not befool me with a lie.
Jason.
An easy task had that been! Aye, and thouA loving aid, who canst not, even now,Still that loud heart that surges like the tide!
Medea.
That moved thee not. Thine old barbarian bride,The dog out of the east who loved thee sore,She grew grey-haired, she served thy pride no more.
Jason.
Now understand for once! The girl to meIs nothing, in this web of sovrantyI hold. I do but seek to save, even yet,Thee: and for brethren to our sons begetYoung kings, to prosper all our lives again.
Medea.
God shelter me from prosperous days of pain,And wealth that maketh wounds about my heart.
Jason.
Wilt change that prayer, and choose a wiser part?Pray not to hold true sense for pain, nor rateThyself unhappy, being too fortunate.
Medea.
Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head,But I go naked to mine exile.
Jason.
TreadThine own path! Thou hast made it all to be.
Medea.
How? By seducing and forsaking thee?
Jason.
By those vile curses on the royal hallsLet loose. . . .
Medea.
On thy house also, as chance falls,I am a living curse.
Jason.
Oh, peace! EnoughOf these vain wars: I will no more thereof.If thou wilt take from all that I possessAid for these babes and thine own helplessnessOf exile, speak thy bidding. Here I standFull-willed to succour thee with stintless hand,And send my signet to old friends that dwellOn foreign shores, who will entreat thee well.Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most vain.But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt gainMuch, and lose little for thine anger's sake.
Medea.
I will not seek thy friends. I will not takeThy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a stemUnholy bring no blessing after them.
Jason.
Now God in heaven be witness, all my heartIs willing, in all ways, to do its partFor thee and for thy babes. But nothing goodCan please thee. In sheer savageness of moodThou drivest from thee every friend. WhereforeI warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more.
[He goes slowly away.
Medea.
Go: thou art weary for the new delightThou wooest, so long tarrying out of sightOf her sweet chamber. Go, fulfil thy pride,O bridegroom! For it may be, such a brideShall wait thee,—yea, God heareth me in this—As thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss.
Chorus.
Alas, the Love that falleth like a flood,Strong-winged and transitory:Why praise ye him? What beareth he of goodTo man, or glory?Yet Love there is that moves in gentleness,Heart-filling, sweetest of all powers that bless.Loose not on me, O Holder of man's heart,Thy golden quiver,Nor steep in poison of desire the dartThat heals not ever.The pent hate of the word that cavilleth,The strife that hath no fill,Where once was fondness; and the mad heart's breathFor strange love panting still:O Cyprian, cast me not on these; but sift,Keen-eyed, of love the good and evil gift.Make Innocence my friend, God's fairest star,Yea, and abate notThe rare sweet beat of bosoms without war,That love, and hate not.
Others.
Home of my heart, land of my own,Cast me not, nay, for pity,Out on my ways, helpless, alone,Where the feet fail in the mire and stone,A woman without a city.Ah, not that! Better the end:The green grave cover me rather,If a break must come in the days I know,And the skies be changed and the earth below;For the weariest road that man may wendIs forth from the home of his father.Lo, we have seen: 'tis not a songSung, nor learned of another.For whom hast thou in thy direst wrongFor comfort? Never a city strongTo hide thee, never a brother.Ah, but the man—cursèd be he,Cursèd beyond recover,Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal,A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel,Deaf unto love: never in meFriend shall he know nor lover.
[WhileMedeais waiting downcast, seated upon her door-step, there passes from the left a traveller with followers. As he catches sight ofMedeahe stops.
Aegeus.
Have joy, Medea! 'Tis the homeliestWord that old friends can greet with, and the best.
Medea(looking up, surprised).
Oh, joy on thee, too, Aegeus, gentle kingOf Athens!—But whence com'st thou journeying?
Aegeus.
From Delphi now and the old encaverned stair. . . .
Medea.
Where Earth's heart speaks in song? What mad'st thou there?
Aegeus.
Prayed heaven for children—the same search alway.
Medea.
Children? Ah God! Art childless to this day?
Aegeus.
So God hath willed. Childless and desolate.
Medea.
What word did Phœbus speak, to change thy fate?
Aegeus.
Riddles, too hard for mortal man to read.
Medea.
Which I may hear?
Aegeus.
Assuredly: they needA rarer wit.
Medea.
How said he?
Aegeus.
Not to spillLife's wine, nor seek for more. . . .
Medea.
Until?
Aegeus.
UntilI tread the hearth-stone of my sires of yore.
Medea.
And what should bring thee here, by Creon's shore?
Aegeus.
One Pittheus know'st thou, high lord of Trozên?
Medea.
Aye, Pelops' son, a man most pure of sin.
Aegeus.
Him I would ask, touching Apollo's will.
Medea.
Much use in God's ways hath he, and much skill.
Aegeus.
And, long years back he was my battle-friend,The truest e'er man had.
Medea.
Well, may God sendGood hap to thee, and grant all thy desire.
Aegeus.
But thou . . . ? Thy frame is wasted, and the fireDead in thine eyes.
Medea.
Aegeus, my husband isThe falsest man in the world.
Aegeus.
What word is this?Say clearly what thus makes thy visage dim?
Medea.
He is false to me, who never injured him.
Aegeus.
What hath he done? Show all, that Imaysee.
Medea.
Ta'en him a wife; a wife, set over meTo rule his house.
Aegeus.
He hath not dared to do,Jason, a thing so shameful?
Medea.
Aye, 'tis true:And those he loved of yore have no place now.
Aegeus.
Some passion sweepeth him? Or is it thouHe turns from?
Medea.
Passion, passion to betrayHis dearest!
Aegeus.
Shame be his, so fallen awayFrom honour!
Medea.
Passion to be near a throne,A king's heir!
Aegeus.
How, who gives the bride? Say on.
Medea.
Creon, who o'er all Corinth standeth chief.
Aegeus.
Woman, thou hast indeed much cause for grief.
Medea.
'Tis ruin.—And they have cast me out as well.
Aegeus.
Who? 'Tis a new wrong this, and terrible.
Medea.
Creon the king, from every land and shore. . . .
Aegeus.
And Jason suffers him? Oh, 'tis too sore!
Medea.
He loveth to bear bravely ills like these!But, Aegeus, by thy beard, oh, by thy knees,I pray thee, and I give me for thine own,Thy suppliant, pity me! Oh, pity oneSo miserable. Thou never wilt stand thereAnd see me cast out friendless to despair.Give me a home in Athens . . . by the fireOf thine own hearth! Oh, so may thy desireOf children be fulfilled of God, and thouDie happy! . . . Thou canst know not; even nowThy prize is won! I, I will make of theeA childless man no more. The seed shall be,I swear it, sown. Such magic herbs I know.
Aegeus.
Woman, indeed my heart goes forth to showThis help to thee, first for religion's sake,Then for thy promised hope, to heal my acheOf childlessness. 'Tis this hath made mine wholeLife as a shadow, and starved out my soul.But thus it stands with me. Once make thy wayTo Attic earth, I, as in law I may,Will keep thee and befriend. But in this land,Where Creon rules, I may not raise my handTo shelter thee. Move of thine own essayTo seek my house, there thou shalt alway stay,Inviolate, never to be seized again.But come thyself from Corinth. I would fainEven in foreigneyesbe alway just.
Medea.
'Tis well. Give me an oath wherein to trustAnd all that man could ask thou hast granted me.
Aegeus.
Dost trust me not? Or what thing troubleth thee?
Medea.
I trust thee. But so many, far and near,Do hate me—all King Pelias' house, and hereCreon. Once bound by oaths and sanctitiesThou canst not yield me up for such as theseTo drag from Athens. But a spoken word,No more, to bind thee, which no God hath heard. . .The embassies, methinks, would come and go:They all are friends to thee. . . . Ah me, I knowThou wilt not list to me! So weak am I,And they full-filled with gold and majesty.
Aegeus.
Methinks 'tis a far foresight, this thine oath.Still, if thou so wilt have it, nothing loathAm I to serve thee. Mine own hand is soThe stronger, if I have this plea to showThy persecutors: and for thee withalThe bond more sure.—On what God shall I call?
Medea.
Swear by the Earth thou treadest, by the Sun,Sire of my sires, and all the gods as one. . . .
Aegeus.
To do what thing or not do? Make all plain.
Medea.
Never thyself to cast me out again.Nor let another, whatsoe'er his plea,Take me, while thou yet livest and art free.
Aegeus.
Never: so hear me, Earth, and the great starOf daylight, and all other gods that are!
Medea.
'Tis well: and if thou falter from thy vow . . . ?
Aegeus.
God's judgment on the godless break my brow!
Medea.
Go! Go thy ways rejoicing.—All is brightAnd clear before me. Go: and ere the nightMyself will follow, when the deed is doneI purpose, and the end I thirst for won.
[Aegeusand his train depart.
Chorus.
Farewell: and Maia's guiding SonBack lead thee to thy hearth and fire,Aegeus; and all the long desireThat wasteth thee, at last be won:Our eyes have seen thee as thou art,A gentle and a righteous heart.
Medea.
God, and God's Justice, and ye blinding Skies!At last the victory dawneth! Yea, mine eyesSee, and my foot is on the mountain's brow.Mine enemies! Mine enemies, oh, nowAtonement cometh! Here at my worst hourA friend is found, a very port of powerTo save my shipwreck. Here will I make fastMine anchor, and escape them at the lastIn Athens' wallèd hill.—But ere the end'Tis meet I show thee all my counsel, friend:Take it, no tale to make men laugh withal!Straightway to Jason I will send some thrallTo entreat him to my presence. Comes he here,Then with soft reasons will I feed his ear,How his will now is my will, how all thingsAre well, touching this marriage-bed of kingsFor which I am betrayed—all wise and rareAnd profitable! Yet will I make one prayer,That my two children be no more exiledBut stay. . . . Oh, not that I would leave a childHere upon angry shores till those have laughedWho hate me: 'tis that I will slay by craftThe king's daughter. With gifts they shall be sent,Gifts to the bride to spare their banishment,Fine robings and a carcanet of gold.Which raiment let her once but take, and foldAbout her, a foul death that girl shall dieAnd all who touch her in her agony.Such poison shall they drink, my robe and wreath!Howbeit, of that no more. I gnash my teethThinking on what a path my feet must treadThereafter. I shall lay those children dead—Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me away!Then, leaving Jason childless, and the dayAs night above him, I will go my roadTo exile, flying, flying from the bloodOf these my best-beloved, and having wroughtAll horror, so but one thing reach me not,The laugh of them that hate us.Let it come!What profits life to me? I have no home,No country now, nor shield from any wrong.That was my evil hour, when down the longHalls of my father out I stole, my willChained by a Greek man's voice, who still, oh, still,If God yet live, shall all requited be.For never child of mine shall Jason seeHereafter living, never child begetFrom his new bride, who this day, desolateEven as she made me desolate, shall dieShrieking amid my poisons. . . . Names have IAmong your folk? One light? One weak of hand?An eastern dreamer?—Nay, but with the brandOf strange suns burnt, my hate, by God above,A perilous thing, and passing sweet my love!For these it is that make life glorious.
Leader.
Since thou has bared thy fell intent to usI, loving thee, and helping in their needMan's laws, adjure thee, dream not of this deed!
Medea.