Part 2
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._