Chapter D (1)

Go, lest her hand be hard
On the innocent: Ah, let be!
For her grief moves hitherward,
Like an angry sea.

NURSE.

That will I: though what words of mine
Or love shall move her? Let them lie
With the old lost labours! . . . Yet her eye--
Know ye the eyes of the wild kine,

The lion flash that guards their brood?
So looks she now if any thrall
Speak comfort, or draw near at all
My mistress in her evil mood.

[_The_ NURSE _goes into the house_.

CHORUS.

_A Woman._

Alas, the bold blithe bards of old
That all for joy their music made,
For feasts and dancing manifold,
That Life might listen and be glad.

But all the darkness and the wrong,
Quick deaths and dim heart-aching things,
Would no man ease them with a song
Or music of a thousand strings?

Then song had served us in our need.
What profit, o'er the banquet's swell
That lingering cry that none may heed?
The feast hath filled them: all is well!

_Others._

I heard a song, but it comes no more.
Where the tears ran over:
A keen cry but tired, tired:
A woman's cry for her heart's desired,
For a traitor's kiss and a lost lover.
But a prayer, methinks, yet riseth sore
To God, to Faith, God's ancient daughter--
The Faith that over sundering seas
Drew her to Hellas, and the breeze
Of midnight shivered, and the door
Closed of the salt unsounded water.

[_During the last words_ MEDEA _has come
out from the house_.

MEDEA.

Women of Corinth, I am come to show My face, lest ye despise me. For I know Some heads stand high and fail not, even at night Alone--far less like this, in all men's sight: And we, who study not our wayfarings But feel and cry--Oh we are drifting things, And evil! For what truth is in men's eyes, Which search no heart, but in a flash despise A strange face, shuddering back from one that ne'er Hath wronged them? . . . Sure, far-comers anywhere, I know, must bow them and be gentle. Nay, A Greek himself men praise not, who alway Should seek his own will recking not. . . . But I-- This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high, Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I stand, The cup of all life shattered in my hand, Longing to die--O friends! He, even he, Whom to know well was all the world to me, The man I loved, hath proved most evil.--Oh, Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow, A herb most bruised is woman. We must pay Our store of gold, hoarded for that one day, To buy us some man's love; and lo, they bring A master of our flesh! There comes the sting Of the whole shame. And then the jeopardy, For good or ill, what shall that master be; Reject she cannot: and if he but stays His suit, 'tis shame on all that woman's days. So thrown amid new laws, new places, why, 'Tis magic she must have, or prophecy-- Home never taught her that--how best to guide Toward peace this thing that sleepeth at her side. And she who, labouring long, shall find some way Whereby her lord may bear with her, nor fray His yoke too fiercely, blessed is the breath That woman draws! Else, let her pray for death. Her lord, if he be wearied of the face Withindoors, gets him forth; some merrier place Will ease his heart: but she waits on, her whole Vision enchained on a single soul. And then, forsooth, 'tis they that face the call Of war, while we sit sheltered, hid from all Peril!--False mocking! Sooner would I stand Three times to face their battles, shield in hand, Than bear one child. But peace! There cannot be Ever the same tale told of thee and me. Thou hast this city, and thy father's home, And joy of friends, and hope in days to come: But I, being citiless, am cast aside By him that wedded me, a savage bride Won in far seas and left--no mother near, No brother, not one kinsman anywhere For harbour in this storm. Therefore of thee I ask one thing. If chance yet ope to me Some path, if even now my hand can win Strength to requite this Jason for his sin, Betray me not! Oh, in all things but this, I know how full of fears a woman is, And faint at need, and shrinking from the light Of battle: but once spoil her of her right In man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well, No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell.

LEADER.

I will betray thee not. It is but just, Thou smite him.--And that weeping in the dust And stormy tears, how should I blame them? . . . Stay: 'Tis Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his way Hither, and bears, methinks, some word of weight.

_Enter from the right_ CREON, _the King, with armed Attendants_.

CREON.

Thou woman sullen-eyed and hot with hate Against thy lord, Medea, I here command That thou and thy two children from this land Go forth to banishment. Make no delay: Seeing ourselves, the King, are come this day To see our charge fulfilled; nor shall again Look homeward ere we have led thy children twain And thee beyond our realm's last boundary.

MEDEA.

Lost! Lost! Mine haters at the helm with sail flung free Pursuing; and for us no beach nor shore In the endless waters! . . . Yet, though stricken sore, I still will ask thee, for what crime, what thing Unlawful, wilt thou cast me out, O King?

CREON.

What crime? I fear thee, woman--little need To cloak my reasons--lest thou work some deed Of darkness on my child. And in that fear Reasons enough have part. Thou comest here A wise-woman confessed, and full of lore In unknown ways of evil. Thou art sore In heart, being parted from thy lover's arms. And more, thou hast made menace . . . so the alarms But now have reached mine ear . . . on bride and groom, And him who gave the bride, to work thy doom Of vengeance. Which, ere yet it be too late, I sweep aside. I choose to earn thine hate Of set will now, not palter with the mood Of mercy, and hereafter weep in blood.

MEDEA.

'Tis not the first nor second time, O King, That fame hath hurt me, and come nigh to bring My ruin. . . . How can any man, whose eyes Are wholesome, seek to rear his children wise Beyond men's wont? Much helplessness in arts Of common life, and in their townsmen's hearts Envy deep-set . . . so much their learning brings! Come unto fools with knowledge of new things, They deem it vanity, not knowledge. Aye, And men that erst for wisdom were held high, Feel thee a thorn to fret them, privily Held higher than they. So hath it been with me. A wise-woman I am; and for that sin To divers ill names men would pen me in; A seed of strife; an eastern dreamer; one Of brand not theirs; one hard to play upon . . . Ah, I am not so wondrous wise!--And now, To thee, I am terrible! What fearest thou? What dire deed? Do I tread so proud a path-- Fear me not thou!--that I should brave the wrath Of princes? Thou: what has thou ever done To wrong me? Granted thine own child to one Whom thy soul chose.--Ah, _him_ out of my heart I hate; but thou, meseems, hast done thy part Not ill. And for thine houses' happiness I hold no grudge. Go: marry, and God bless Your issues. Only suffer me to rest Somewhere within this land. Though sore oppressed, I will be still, knowing mine own defeat.

CREON.

Thy words be gentle: but I fear me yet Lest even now there creep some wickedness Deep hid within thee. And for that the less I trust thee now than ere these words began. A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man, Is easier watching than the cold and still. Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock not my will With words. This doom is passed beyond recall; Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being withal My manifest foe, to linger at my side.

MEDEA (_suddenly throwing herself down
and clinging to_ CREON).

Oh, by thy knees! By that new-wedded bride . . .

CREON.

'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me.

MEDEA.

Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee?

CREON.

'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou.

MEDEA.

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 land At peace, to find some counsel, ere the strain Of 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 art A father: thou hast somewhere still a heart That feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis they That break me, fallen upon so dire a day.

CREON.

Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a time Ere this my tenderness hath marred the chime Of wisest counsels. And I know that now I do mere folly. But so be it! Thou Shalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear, If once the morrow's sunlight find thee here Within my borders, thee or child of thine, Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a line Shall waver nor abate. So linger on, If thou needs must, till the next risen sun; No further. . . . In one day there scarce can be Those perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me.

[_Exit_ CREON _with 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 foam
Of a trackless sea.

MEDEA.

Defeat on every side; what else?--But Oh, Not here the end is: think it not! I know For 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 plan For merry deeds? My lips had never deigned Speak word with him: my flesh been never stained With touching. . . . Fool, Oh, triple fool! It lay So plain for him to kill my whole essay By exile swift: and, lo, he sets me free This one long day: wherein mine haters three Shall lie here dead, the father and the bride And husband--mine, not hers! Oh, I have tried So many thoughts of murder to my turn, I know not which best likes me. Shall I burn Their house with fire? Or stealing past unseen To Jason's bed--I have a blade made keen For 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 way Of 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 inviolate And trusty doors, to shelter from their hate This flesh? . . . None anywhere! . . . A little more I needs must wait: and, if there ope some door Of 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 wend Man-like, their road of daring to the end. So help me She who of all Gods hath been The best to me, of all my chosen queen And helpmate, Hecate, who dwells apart, The flame of flame, in my fire's inmost heart: For all their strength, they shall not stab my soul And laugh thereafter! Dark and full of dole Their bridal feast shall be, most dark the day They joined their hands, and hunted me away. Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plot Thou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not. On to the peril-point! Now comes the strain Of daring. Shall they trample thee again? How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy fall While this thief's daughter weds, and weds withal Jason? . . . 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 vain For help, but wondrous in the paths of pain.

[MEDEA _goes 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 lingers
Of frail brides and faithless, shall be shrivelled as with fire.
For they loved us not, nor knew us: and our lips were dumb, our fingers
Could wake not the secret of the lyre.
Else, else, O God the Singer, I had sung amid their rages
A 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 home
Thou 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 river
Standing, thy lover lost,
Void-armed for ever,

Forth yet again, O lowest
Of landless women, a ranger
Of 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 star
In stormy water,

Dark: and, lo, in the nearer
House that was sworn to love thee,
Another, queenlier, dearer,
Is throned above thee.

_Enter from the right_ JASON.

JASON.

Oft have I seen, in other days than these, How a dark temper maketh maladies No friend can heal. 'Twas easy to have kept Both land and home. It needed but to accept Unstrivingly 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 be Most evil; none shall check thee. But for these Dark threats cast out against the majesties Of Corinth, count as veriest gain thy path Of exile. I myself, when princely wrath Was hot against thee, strove with all good will To appease the wrath, and wished to keep thee still Beside me. But thy mouth would never stay From vanity, blaspheming night and day Our masters. Therefore thou shalt fly the land. Yet, even so, I will not hold my hand From succouring mine own people. Here am I To help thee, woman, pondering heedfully Thy new state. For I would not have thee flung Provisionless away--aye, and the young Children as well; nor lacking aught that will Of mine can bring thee. Many a lesser ill Hangs on the heels of exile. . . . Aye, and though Thou hate me, dream not that my heart can know Or fashion aught of angry will to thee.

MEDEA.

Evil, most evil! . . . since thou grantest me That comfort, the worst weapon left me now To smite a coward. . . . Thou comest to me, thou, Mine enemy! (_Turning to the_ CHORUS.) Oh, say, how call ye this, To face, and smile, the comrade whom his kiss Betrayed? Scorn? Insult? Courage? None of these: 'Tis but of all man's inward sicknesses The vilest, that he knoweth not of shame Nor pity! Yet I praise him that he came . . . To me it shall bring comfort, once to clear My 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 one That sailed on Argo--saved thee, sent alone To yoke with yokes the bulls of fiery breath, And sow that Acre of the Lords of Death; And mine own ancient Serpent, who did keep The Golden Fleece, the eyes that knew not sleep, And shining coils, him also did I smite Dead for thy sake, and lifted up the light That bade thee live. Myself, uncounselled, Stole forth from father and from home, and fled Where dark Iolcos 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 then Accepted all--O evil yet again!-- And cast me off and taken thee for bride Another? And with children at thy side! One could forgive a childless man. But no: I have borne thee children . . . Is sworn faith so low And 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 thing Forsworn.

[_She catches sight of her own hand which
she has thrown out to denounce him._

Poor, poor right hand of mine, whom he Did cling to, and these knees, so cravingly, We are unclean, thou and I; we have caught the stain Of 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 again For good from thee: but, questioned, thou wilt show The 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 good To take me in, who spilled their father's blood. . . . Aye, so my whole life stands! There were at home Who loved me well: to them I am become A curse. And the first friends who sheltered me, Whom most I should have spared, to pleasure thee I have turned to foes. Oh, therefore hast thou laid My crown upon me, blest of many a maid In 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, thrown Away with these two babes, all, all, alone . . . Oh, merry mocking when the lamps are red: "Where go the bridegroom's babes to beg their bread In exile, and the woman who gave all To save him?" O great God, shall gold withal Bear thy clear mark, to sift the base and fine, And o'er man's living visage runs no sign To show the lie within, ere all too late?

LEADER.

Dire and beyond all healing is the hate When hearts that loved are turned to enmity.

JASON.

In speech at least, meseemeth, I must be Not evil; but, as some old pilot goes Furled to his sail's last edge, when danger blows Too fiery, run before the wind and swell, Woman, of thy loud storms.--And thus I tell My tale. Since thou wilt build so wondrous high Thy deeds of service in my jeopardy, To all my crew and quest I know but one Saviour, of Gods or mortals one alone, The Cyprian. Oh, thou hast both brain and wit, Yet underneath . . . nay, all the tale of it Were graceless telling; how sheer love, a fire Of poison-shafts, compelled thee with desire To save me. But enough. I will not score That count too close. 'Twas good help: and therefor I give thee thanks, howe'er the help was wrought. Howbeit, in my deliverance, thou hast got Far more than given. A good Greek land hath been Thy lasting home, not barbary. Thou hast seen Our ordered life, and justice, and the long Still grasp of law not changing with the strong Man's pleasure. Then, all Hellas far and near Hath learned thy wisdom, and in every ear Thy fame is. Had thy days run by unseen On that last edge of the world, where then had been The story of great Medea? Thou and I . . . What worth to us were treasures heaped high In rich kings' rooms; what worth a voice of gold More sweet than ever rang from Orpheus old, Unless our deeds have glory? Speak I so, Touching the Quest I wrought, thyself did throw The challenge down. Next for thy cavilling Of wrath at mine alliance with a king, Here thou shalt see I both was wise, and free From touch of passion, and a friend to thee Most potent, and my children . . . Nay, be still! When first I stood in Corinth, clogged with ill From many a desperate mischance, what bliss Could I that day have dreamed of, like to this, To wed with a king's daughter, I exiled And beggared? Not--what makes thy passion wild-- From loathing of thy bed; not over-fraught With love for this new bride; not that I sought To upbuild mine house with offspring: 'tis enough, What thou hast borne: I make no word thereof: But, first and greatest, that we all might dwell In a fair house and want not, knowing well That poor men have no friends, but far and near Shunning and silence. Next, I sought to rear Our sons in nurture worthy of my race, And, raising brethren to them, in one place Join both my houses, and be all from now Prince-like and happy. What more need hast thou Of children? And for me, it serves my star To link in strength the children that now are With those that shall be. Have I counselled ill? Not thine own self would say it, couldst thou still One hour thy jealous flesh.--'Tis ever so! Who looks for more in women? When the flow Of love runs plain, why, all the world is fair: But, once there fall some ill chance anywhere To baulk that thirst, down in swift hate are trod Men's dearest aims and noblest. Would to God We mortals by some other seed could raise Our fruits, and no blind women block our ways! Then had there been no curse to wreck mankind.

LEADER.

Lord Jason, very subtly hast thou twined Thy speech: but yet, though all athwart thy will I 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 few Have held me strange. To me it seemeth, when A crafty tongue is given to evil men 'Tis like to wreck, not help them. Their own brain Tempts them with lies to dare and dare again, Till . . . no man hath enough of subtlety. As thou--be not so seeming-fair to me Nor 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 I Did love thee; not befool me with a lie.

JASON.

An easy task had that been! Aye, and thou A 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 me Is nothing, in this web of sovranty I hold. I do but seek to save, even yet, Thee: and for brethren to our sons beget Young 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 rate Thyself unhappy, being too fortunate.

MEDEA.

Aye, mock me; thou hast where to lay thine head, But I go naked to mine exile.

JASON.

Tread
Thine own path! Thou hast made it all to be.

MEDEA.

How? By seducing and forsaking thee?

JASON.

By those vile curses on the royal halls Let loose. . . .

MEDEA.

On thy house also, as chance falls,
I am a living curse.

JASON.

Oh, peace! Enough Of these vain wars: I will no more thereof. If thou wilt take from all that I possess Aid for these babes and thine own helplessness Of exile, speak thy bidding. Here I stand Full-willed to succour thee with stintless hand, And send my signet to old friends that dwell On foreign shores, who will entreat thee well. Refuse, and thou shalt do a deed most vain. But cast thy rage away, and thou shalt gain Much, and lose little for thine anger's sake.

MEDEA.

I will not seek thy friends. I will not take Thy givings. Give them not. Fruits of a stem Unholy bring no blessing after them.

JASON.

Now God in heaven be witness, all my heart Is willing, in all ways, to do its part For thee and for thy babes. But nothing good Can please thee. In sheer savageness of mood Thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more.

[_He goes slowly away._

MEDEA.

Go: thou art weary for the new delight Thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight Of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfil thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride Shall 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 good
To 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 dart
That 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 breath
For 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 not
The 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 wend
Is forth from the home of his father.

Lo, we have seen: 'tis not a song
Sung, nor learned of another.
For whom hast thou in thy direst wrong
For comfort? Never a city strong
To hide thee, never a brother.
Ah, but the man--cursed be he,
Cursed beyond recover,
Who openeth, shattering, seal by seal,
A friend's clean heart, then turns his heel,
Deaf unto love: never in me
Friend shall he know nor lover.

[_While_ MEDEA _is waiting downcast, seated upon her
door-step, there passes from the left a traveller
with followers. As he catches sight of_ MEDEA
_he stops_.

AEGEUS.

Have joy, Medea! 'Tis the homeliest Word that old friends can greet with, and the best.

MEDEA (_looking up, surprised_).

Oh, joy on thee, too, Aegeus, gentle king Of 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 Phoebus speak, to change thy fate?

AEGEUS.

Riddles, too hard for mortal man to read.

MEDEA.

Which I may hear?

AEGEUS.

Assuredly: they need
A rarer wit.

MEDEA.

How said he?

AEGEUS.

Not to spill
Life's wine, nor seek for more. . . .

MEDEA.

Until?

AEGEUS.

Until
I 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 Trozen?

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 send
Good hap to thee, and grant all thy desire.

AEGEUS.

But thou . . . ? Thy frame is wasted, and the fire Dead in thine eyes.

MEDEA.

Aegeus, my husband is
The 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 I may see.

MEDEA.

Ta'en him a wife; a wife, set over me To 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 thou He turns from?

MEDEA.

Passion, passion to betray
His dearest!

AEGEUS.

Shame be his, so fallen away
From 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 one So miserable. Thou never wilt stand there And see me cast out friendless to despair. Give me a home in Athens . . . by the fire Of thine own hearth! Oh, so may thy desire Of children be fulfilled of God, and thou Die happy! . . . Thou canst know not; even now Thy prize is won! I, I will make of thee A 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 show This help to thee, first for religion's sake, Then for thy promised hope, to heal my ache Of childlessness. 'Tis this hath made mine whole Life as a shadow, and starved out my soul. But thus it stands with me. Once make thy way To 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 hand To shelter thee. Move of thine own essay To seek my house, there thou shalt alway stay, Inviolate, never to be seized again. But come thyself from Corinth. I would fain Even in foreign eyes be alway just.

MEDEA.

'Tis well. Give me an oath wherein to trust And 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 here Creon. Once bound by oaths and sanctities Thou canst not yield me up for such as these To 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 know Thou 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 loath Am I to serve thee. Mine own hand is so The stronger, if I have this plea to show Thy persecutors: and for thee withal The 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 star Of 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 bright And clear before me. Go: and ere the night Myself will follow, when the deed is done I purpose, and the end I thirst for won.

[AEGEUS _and his train depart_.

CHORUS.

Farewell: and Maia's guiding Son
Back lead thee to thy hearth and fire,
Aegeus; and all the long desire
That 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 eyes See, and my foot is on the mountain's brow. Mine enemies! Mine enemies, oh, now Atonement cometh! Here at my worst hour A friend is found, a very port of power To save my shipwreck. Here will I make fast Mine anchor, and escape them at the last In Athens' walled 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 thrall To 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 things Are well, touching this marriage-bed of kings For which I am betrayed--all wise and rare And profitable! Yet will I make one prayer, That my two children be no more exiled But stay. . . . Oh, not that I would leave a child Here upon angry shores till those have laughed Who hate me: 'tis that I will slay by craft The 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 fold About her, a foul death that girl shall die And all who touch her in her agony. Such poison shall they drink, my robe and wreath! Howbeit, of that no more. I gnash my teeth Thinking on what a path my feet must tread Thereafter. I shall lay those children dead-- Mine, whom no hand shall steal from me away! Then, leaving Jason childless, and the day As night above him, I will go my road To exile, flying, flying from the blood Of these my best-beloved, and having wrought All 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 long Halls of my father out I stole, my will Chained 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 see Hereafter living, never child beget From his new bride, who this day, desolate Even as she made me desolate, shall die Shrieking amid my poisons. . . . Names have I Among your folk? One light? One weak of hand? An eastern dreamer?--Nay, but with the brand Of 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 us I, loving thee, and helping in their need Man's laws, adjure thee, dream not of this deed!

MEDEA.

There is no other way.--I pardon thee Thy littleness, who art not wronged like me.

LEADER.

Thou canst not kill the fruit thy body bore!

MEDEA.

Yes: if the man I hate be pained the more.

LEADER.

And thou made miserable, most miserable?

MEDEA.

Oh, let it come! All words of good or ill Are wasted now.

[_She claps her hands: the_ NURSE _comes out
from the house_.

Ho, woman; get thee gone And lead lord Jason hither. . . . There is none Like thee, to work me these high services. But speak no word of what my purpose is, As thou art faithful, thou, and bold to try All succours, and a woman even as I!

[_The_ NURSE _departs_.

* * * * *

CHORUS.

The sons of Erechtheus, the olden,
Whom high gods planted of yore
In an old land of heaven upholden,
A proud land untrodden of war:
They are hungered, and, lo, their desire
With wisdom is fed as with meat:
In their skies is a shining of fire,
A joy in the fall of their feet:
And thither, with manifold dowers,
From the North, from the hills, from the morn,
The Muses did gather their powers,
That a child of the Nine should be born;
And Harmony, sown as the flowers,
Grew gold in the acres of corn.

And Cephisus, the fair-flowing river--
The Cyprian dipping her hand
Hath drawn of his dew, and the shiver
Of her touch is as joy in the land.
For her breathing in fragrance is written,
And in music her path as she goes,
And the cloud of her hair, it is litten
With stars of the wind-woven rose.
So fareth she ever and ever,
And forth of her bosom is blown,
As dews on the winds of the river,
An hunger of passions unknown.
Strong Loves of all godlike endeavour,
Whom Wisdom shall throne on her throne.

_Some Women._

But Cephisus the fair-flowing,
Will he bear thee on his shore?
Shall the land that succours all, succour thee,
Who art foul among thy kind,
With the tears of children blind?
Dost thou see the red gash growing,
Thine own burden dost thou see?
Every side, Every way,
Lo, we kneel to thee and pray:
By thy knees, by thy soul, O woman wild!
One at least thou canst not slay,
Not thy child!

_Others._

Hast thou ice that thou shalt bind it
To thy breast, and make thee dead
To thy children, to thine own spirit's pain?
When the hand knows what it dares,
When thine eyes look into theirs,
Shalt thou keep by tears unblinded
Thy dividing of the slain?
These be deeds Not for thee:
These be things that cannot be!
Thy babes--though thine hardihood be fell,
When they cling about thy knee,
'Twill be well!

_Enter_ JASON.

JASON.

I answer to thy call. Though full of hate Thou be, I yet will not so far abate My kindness for thee, nor refuse mine ear. Say in what new desire thou hast called me here.

MEDEA.

Jason, I pray thee, for my words but now Spoken, forgive me. My bad moods. . . . Oh, thou At least wilt strive to bear with them! There be Many old deeds of love 'twixt me and thee. Lo, I have reasoned with myself apart And chidden: "Why must I be mad, O heart Of mine: and raging against one whose word Is wisdom: making me a thing abhorred To them that rule the land, and to mine own Husband, who doth but that which, being done, Will help us all--to wed a queen, and get Young kings for brethren to my sons? And yet I rage alone, and cannot quit my rage-- What aileth me?--when God sends harbourage So simple? Have I not my children? Know I not we are but exiles, and must go Beggared and friendless else?" Thought upon thought So pressed me, till I knew myself full-fraught With bitterness of heart and blinded eyes. So now--I give thee thanks: and hold thee wise To have caught this anchor for our aid. The fool Was I; who should have been thy friend, thy tool; Gone wooing with thee, stood at thy bed-side Serving, and welcomed duteously thy bride. But, as we are, we are--I will not say Mere evil--women! Why must thou to-day Turn strange, and make thee like some evil thing, Childish, to meet my childish passioning? See, I surrender: and confess that then I had bad thoughts, but now have turned again And found my wiser mind. [_She claps her hands._ Ho, children! Run Quickly! Come hither, out into the sun,

[_The_ CHILDREN _come from the house, followed
by their_ ATTENDANT.

And greet your father. Welcome him with us, And throw quite, quite away, as mother does, Your anger against one so dear. Our peace Is made, and all the old bad war shall cease For ever.--Go, and take his hand. . . .

[_As the_ CHILDREN _go to_ JASON, _she suddenly
bursts into tears. The_ CHILDREN _quickly
return to her: she recovers herself, smiling
amid her tears_.

Ah me, I am full of hidden horrors! . . . Shall it be A long time more, my children, that ye live To reach to me those dear, dear arms? . . . Forgive! I am so ready with my tears to-day, And full of dread. . . . I sought to smooth away The long strife with your father, and, lo, now I have all drowned with tears this little brow!

[_She wipes the child's face._

LEADER.

O'er mine eyes too there stealeth a pale tear: Let the evil rest, O God, let it rest here!

JASON.

Woman, indeed I praise thee now, nor say Ill of thine other hour. 'Tis nature's way, A woman needs must stir herself to wrath, When work of marriage by so strange a path Crosseth her lord. But thou, thine heart doth wend The happier road. Thou hast seen, ere quite the end, What choice must needs be stronger: which to do Shows a wise-minded woman. . . . And for you, Children; your father never has forgot Your needs. If God but help him, he hath wrought A strong deliverance for your weakness. Yea, I think you, with your brethren, yet one day Shall be the mightiest voices in this land. Do you grow tall and strong. Your father's hand Guideth all else, and whatso power divine Hath alway helped him. . . . Ah, may it be mine To see you yet in manhood, stern of brow, Strong-armed, set high o'er those that hate me. . . . How? Woman, thy face is turned. Thy cheek is swept With pallor of strange tears. Dost not accept Gladly and of good will my benisons?

MEDEA.

'Tis nothing. Thinking of these little ones. . . .

JASON.

Take heart, then. I will guard them from all ill.

MEDEA.

I do take heart. Thy word I never will Mistrust. Alas, a woman's bosom bears But woman's courage, a thing born for tears.

JASON.

What ails thee?--All too sore thou weepest there.

MEDEA.

I was their mother! When I heard thy prayer Of long life for them, there swept over me A horror, wondering how these things shall be. But for the matter of my need that thou Should speak with me, part I have said, and now Will finish.--Seeing it is the king's behest To cast me out from Corinth . . . aye, and best, Far best, for me--I know it--not to stay Longer to trouble thee and those who sway The realm, being held to all their house a foe. . . . Behold, I spread my sails, and meekly go To exile. But our children. . . . Could this land Be still their home awhile: could thine own hand But guide their boyhood. . . . Seek the king, and pray His pity, that he bid thy children stay!

JASON.

He is hard to move. Yet surely 'twere well done.

MEDEA.

Bid her--for thy sake, for a daughters boon. . . .

JASON.

Well thought! Her I can fashion to my mind.

MEDEA.

Surely. She is a woman like her kind. . . . Yet I will aid thee in thy labour; I Will send her gifts, the fairest gifts that lie In the hands of men, things of the days of old, Fine robings and a carcanet of gold, By the boys' hands.--Go, quick, some handmaiden, And fetch the raiment.

[_A handmaid goes into the house._

Ah, her cup shall then Be filled indeed! What more should woman crave, Being wed with thee, the bravest of the brave, And girt with raiment which of old the sire Of all my house, the Sun, gave, steeped in fire, To his own fiery race?

[_The handmaid has returned bearing the Gifts._

Come, children, lift With heed these caskets. Bear them as your gift To her, being bride and princess and of right Blessed!--I think she will not hold them light.

JASON.

Fond woman, why wilt empty thus thine hand Of treasure? Doth King Creon's castle stand In stint of raiment, or in stint of gold? Keep these, and make no gift. For if she hold Jason of any worth at all, I swear Chattels like these will not weigh more with her.

MEDEA.

Ah, chide me not! 'Tis written, gifts persuade The gods in heaven; and gold is stronger made Than words innumerable to bend men's ways. Fortune is hers. God maketh great her days: Young and a crowned queen! And banishment For those two babes. . . . I would not gold were spent, But life's blood, ere that come. My children, go Forth into those rich halls, and, bowing low, Beseech your father's bride, whom I obey, Ye be not, of her mercy, cast away Exiled: and give the caskets--above all Mark this!--to none but her, to hold withal And keep. . . . Go quick! And let your mother know Soon the good tiding that she longs for. . . . Go!

[_She goes quickly into the house._ JASON _and the_
CHILDREN _with their_ ATTENDANT _depart_.

* * * * *

CHORUS.

Now I have no hope more of the children's living; No hope more. They are gone forth unto death. The bride, she taketh the poison of their giving: She taketh the bounden gold and openeth; And the crown, the crown, she lifteth about her brow, Where the light brown curls are clustering. No hope now!

O sweet and cloudy gleam of the garments golden! The robe, it hath clasped her breast and the crown her head. Then, then, she decketh the bride, as a bride of olden Story, that goeth pale to the kiss of the dead. For the ring hath closed, and the portion of death is there; And she flieth not, but perisheth unaware.

_Some Women._

O bridegroom, bridegroom of the kiss so cold,
Art thou wed with princes, art thou girt with gold,
Who know'st not, suing
For thy child's undoing,
And, on her thou lovest, for a doom untold?
How art thou fallen from thy place of old!

_Others._

O Mother, Mother, what hast thou to reap, When the harvest cometh, between wake and sleep? For a heart unslaken, For a troth forsaken, Lo, babes that call thee from a bloody deep: And thy love returns not. Get thee forth and weep!

[_Enter the_ ATTENDANT _with the two_ CHILDREN:
MEDEA _comes out from the house_.

ATTENDANT.

Mistress, these children from their banishment Are spared. The royal bride hath mildly bent Her hand to accept thy gifts, and all is now Peace for the children.--Ha, why standest thou Confounded, when good fortune draweth near?

MEDEA.

Ah God!

ATTENDANT.

This chimes not with the news I bear.

MEDEA.

O God, have mercy!

ATTENDANT.

Is some word of wrath Here hidden that I knew not of? And hath My hope to give thee joy so cheated me?

MEDEA.

Thou givest what thou givest: I blame not thee.

ATTENDANT.

Thy brows are all o'ercast: thine eyes are filled. . . .

MEDEA.

For bitter need, Old Man! The gods have willed, And my own evil mind, that this should come.

ATTENDANT.

Take heart! Thy sons one day will bring thee home.

MEDEA.

Home? . . . I have others to send home. Woe's me!

ATTENDANT.

Be patient. Many a mother before thee Hath parted from her children. We poor things Of men must needs endure what fortune brings.

MEDEA.

I will endure.--Go thou within, and lay All ready that my sons may need to-day.

[_The_ ATTENDANT _goes into the house_.

O children, children mine: and you have found A land and home, where, leaving me discrowned And desolate, forever you will stay, Motherless children! And I go my way To other lands, an exile, ere you bring Your fruits home, ere I see you prospering Or know your brides, or deck the bridal bed, All flowers, and lift your torches overhead. Oh cursed be mine own hard heart! 'Twas all In vain, then, that I reared you up, so tall And fair; in vain I bore you, and was torn With those long pitiless pains, when you were born. Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in you, How you would tend me in mine age, and do The shroud about me with your own dear hands, When I lay cold, blessed in all the lands That knew us. And that gentle thought is dead! You go, and I live on, to eat the bread Of long years, to myself most full of pain. And never your dear eyes, never again, Shall see your mother, far away being thrown To other shapes of life. . . . My babes, my own, Why gaze ye so?--What is it that ye see?-- And laugh with that last laughter? . . . Woe is me, What shall I do? Women, my strength is gone, Gone like a dream, since once I looked upon Those shining faces. . . . I can do it not. Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned so hot Aforetime! I will take and hide them far, Far, from men's eyes. Why should I seek a war So blind: by these babes' wounds to sting again Their father's heart, and win myself a pain Twice deeper? Never, never! I forget Henceforward all I laboured for. And yet, What is it with me? Would I be a thing Mocked at, and leave mine enemies to sting Unsmitten? It must be. O coward heart, Ever to harbour such soft words!--Depart Out of my sight, ye twain. [_The_ CHILDREN _go in_. And they whose eyes Shall hold it sin to share my sacrifice, On their heads be it! My hand shall swerve not now.