Part 3
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.
Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not thou, Do not. . . . Down, down, thou tortured thing, and spare My children! They will dwell with us, aye, there Far off, and give thee peace. Too late, too late! By all Hell's living agonies of hate, They shall not take my little ones alive To make their mock with! Howsoe'er I strive The thing is doomed; it shall not escape now From being. Aye, the crown is on the brow, And the robe girt, and in the robe that high Queen dying. I know all. Yet . . . seeing that I Must go so long a journey, and these twain A longer yet and darker, I would fain Speak with them, ere I go.
[_A handmaid brings the_ CHILDREN _out again_.
Come, children; stand A little from me. There. Reach out your hand, Your right hand--so--to mother: and good-bye!
[_She has kept them hitherto at arm's length: but at the touch of their hands, her resolution breaks down, and she gathers them passionately into her arms._