Studies in the Poetry of Italy, I. Roman Part 2

Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine, Who now must sue.-- O changeful Fortune, thou my throne Hast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.

Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strew Their treasures to the winds. Lo _this_ is regal, this The work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo: To succor the afflicted, to provide at need A trusty refuge for the suppliant. This alone I brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown, This very flower of fame,--that by my arts I saved The bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the G.o.ds.

My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bard, Who can the trees in willing bondage draw, and melt The crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' winged sons, And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he Whose glance can pierce the distant view; yea, all the Greeks, Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings, The leader of the leaders: he is mine alone, My labor's recompense. The rest I give to you.

Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehea.r.s.e my crimes.

But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crime Of which I stand accused is this--the _Argo_ saved.

Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed; Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand: Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fate All Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this thy son-in-law Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there.

Nay, nay, let Fortune when she will my doom decree; I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me.

But what reward I reap for all my glorious deeds Is in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin, But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see, I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know, When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant, And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency.

Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again, O let some nook remote within thy broad domain Be found for me!

Creon claims to have been merciful in having shielded Jason and Medea all these years from the just resentment of the king of Thessaly.

Jason's cause would be easy enough to defend, for he has been innocent of guilt; but it is impossible longer to shield Medea, who has committed so many b.l.o.o.d.y deeds in the past, and is capable of doing the like again.

_Creon._ Then go thou hence and purge our kingdom of its stain; Bear with thee in thy flight thy fatal poisons; free The state from fear; abiding in some other land, Outwear the patience of the G.o.ds.

_Medea._ Thou bidst me flee?

Then give me back my bark in which to flee. Restore The partner of my flight. Why should I flee alone?

I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st, Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish me From Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome; For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm, My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain, And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.

Deep-dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soul The sin of profit lieth not.

_Creon._ Why seek delay By speech? Too long thou tarriest.

_Medea._ I go, but grant This last request: let not the mother's fall o'erwhelm her hapless babes.

_Creon._ Then go in peace; for I to them A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.

_Medea._ Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day, And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure From changeful fate's a.s.sault, I pray thee grant from flight A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.

_Creon._ A time Thou seek'st for treachery.

_Medea._ What fraud can be devised In one short hour?

_Creon._ To those on mischief bent, be sure, The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.

_Medea._ Dost thou refuse me, then, one little s.p.a.ce for tears?

_Creon._ Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea, A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.

_Medea._ Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink, And I'll depart content.

_Creon._ Thy life shall surely pay The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still In Corinth.

But the voice of Hymen calls away To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.

Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.

The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the _Argo's_ voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence, their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years, when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.

_Nurse._ My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?

O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy pa.s.sion's force.

But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse, looking after her, reflects in deep distress:

As some wild baccha.n.a.l, whose fury's raging fire The G.o.d inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows, And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on, Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe, With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries and tears, And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath, Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.--Whither tends This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?

When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?

No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold, Her face betrays her madness. O ye G.o.ds, may these Our fears prove vain forebodings!

Our own imaginations and our fears keep pace with those of the devoted nurse, and we listen in fearful silence while Medea, communing with her tortured soul, reveals the depth of suffering and hate into which she has been plunged.

_Medea._ For thy hate, poor soul, Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.

And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?

And shall this day go uneventful by, this day So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay; While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall bear The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round, And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun And stars in due procession pa.s.s; while round the pole The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?

What sea-engulfing pool? What burning aetna placed On impious t.i.tan's heaving breast? No torrent stream, Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by the gale, Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will Is set on limitless revenge!

But this wild rage can lead nowhere. She struggles to calm her terrible pa.s.sion to still more terrible reason and resolve.

Will Jason say He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?-- True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear: He might at least have sought his wife with one last word Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart, He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.

But time's short s.p.a.ce I'll not bewail; though brief in hours, In consequence it stretches out eternally.

This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.-- But now I'll go and pray the G.o.ds, and move high heaven But I shall work my will!

As Medea hastens from the scene, Jason himself enters; and now we hear from his own lips the fatal dilemma in which he finds himself. Regard for his marriage vows, love for his children, and fear of death at the hands of Creon--all are at variance and must be faced. It is the usual tragedy of fate.

_Jason._ O heartless fate, if frowns or smiles bedeck thy brow!

How often are thy cures far worse than the disease They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay The forfeit; if I shrink from death, my guilty soul Must perjured be. I fear no power that man can wield, But in my heart paternal love unmans me quite; For well I know that in my death my children's fate Is sealed. O sacred Justice, if in heaven thou dwell'st, Be witness now that for my children's sake I act.

Nay, sure am I that even she, Medea's self, Though fierce she is of soul, and brooking no restraint, Will see her children's good outweighing all her wrongs.

With this good argument my purpose now is fixed, In humble wise to brave her wrath.

[_Re-enter Medea._] But lo! at sight Of me her fury flames anew! Hate, like a shield, She bears, and in her face is pictured all her woe.

But Medea's pa.s.sion has for the moment spent itself. She is now no sorceress, no mad woman breathing out dreadful threatenings; but only the forsaken wife, indignant, indeed, but pathetic in her appeals for sympathy and help from him for whose sake she had given up all her maiden glory, and broken every tie that held her to the past. Her quiet self-control is in marked contrast to her recent ravings.

_Medea._ Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thing To suffer exile; but the cause of flight is strange; For with thee I was wont to flee, not from thee. Yes, I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'st From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again, My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?

What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again Where once I saved the n.o.ble kings of Greece and thee, Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait, The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me back To fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I, For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.

But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee, But show'st no way or means of flight.

[_In bitter sarcasm._] But 'tis enough: The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey.

Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all.

Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am, With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains; And let me be immured in dungeons black as night: Still will my punishment be less than my offense.-- O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull, And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when, Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forth To meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they, The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too, The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard, The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command; My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell, When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire, Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee.

In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgot Mine own.

And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes, By thine established house, by all the monsters slain For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held To work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven, And sea that witnessed at my wedlock--pity me!

Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee: That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribes Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth, And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store I left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire, My reputation--all; and with this dower I came.

If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth, Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.

And now again we have a situation which only the quick, sharp flashes, the clash of words like steel on steel, can relieve. Here is no chance for long periods, nor flights of oratory; but sentences as short and sharp as swords, flashes of feeling, stinging epigrams.

_Jason._ Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life, I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.

_Medea._ I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see, A gracious boon!

_Jason._ O flee, while still the respite holds.

Provoke him not, for deadly is the wrath of kings.

_Medea._ Not so. 'Tis for Creusa's love thou sayest this; Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.