The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vi Part 48

JASON. Wouldst thou thrust me forth?

KING. I banish thee my sight.

JASON. What shall I do?

KING. Some G.o.d will answer that!

JASON. Who, then, will guide My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand?

For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore By falling firebrands! How? All silent, then?

And none will guide me, none companion me, None follow me, whom once so many joyed To follow? Spirits of my babes, lead ye The way, and guide your father to the grave That waits him!

[_He goes slowly away._]

KING (_to his attendants_).

Quick, to work! And after that, Mourning that hath no end!

[_He goes away in the other direction._]

_The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut. A rustic enters._

RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly G.o.ds, After the storm and fury of the night, Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!

[_He goes into the hut._]

(JASON _comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword._)

JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within!

My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth!

Is none within there? Must I die of thirst, And all alone?--Ha! Yon's the very hut That gave me shelter when I came this way Before, a rich man still, a happy father, My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!

[_He knocks at the door._]

'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place To lay me down and die!

[_The peasant comes out of the house._]

RUSTIC. Who knocks?--Poor man, Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!

JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink!

See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide, The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece!

A prince--a king--and of the Argonauts The mighty leader, Jason!

RUSTIC. Art thou, then, In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set A foot upon my threshold, to pollute My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now Death to the daughter of my lord the King!

Then seek not shelter at the meanest door Of any of his subjects!

[_He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him._]

JASON. He is gone, And leaves me here to lie upon the earth, Bowed in the dust, for any that may pa.s.s To trample on!--O Death, on thee I call!

Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!

[_He sinks down upon the ground._]

MEDEA _makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle._

MEDEA. Jason!

JASON (_half raising himself_).

Who calls me?--Ha! What spectral form Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea?

Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!

[_He tries to rise, but falls weakly back._]

Woe's me!

My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie, A broken wreck!

MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved To be the victim of another's hand, And not of thine!

JASON. My babes!--Where has thou them?

MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!

JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?

MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou Or I shall ever be!

JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!

MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes?

I know a far more wretched one--to be Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life Far, far above its worth, we were not now In such a pa.s.s. But we must bear our weight Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes Are spared that grief, at least!

JASON. And thou canst stand So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?

MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was, Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain Which, ever swelling like an angry sea, Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight In awful desolation, sweeps it forth O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not Because the babes are dead; my only grief Is that they ever lived, that thou and I Must still live on!

JASON. Alas!

MEDEA. Bear thou the lot That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth, Thou richly hast deserved it!--Even as thou Before me liest on the naked earth, So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet And craved protection--but thou wouldst not hear!

Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift Upon the golden prize, although I cried, "'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"--Take it, then, That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek, Even Death!

I leave thee now, forevermore.

'Tis the last time-for all eternity The very last--that I shall speak with thee, My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth, 'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in On every side, in face of all the grief That threatens for the future, still I say, "Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come What may, abide it firmly, show thyself Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me, And it shall comfort thee to know how mine Is bitterer far, because I set my hand To deeds, to which thou only gav'st a.s.sent.

I go my way, and take my heavy weight Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world.

A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed; But no! it may not be! It were not meet Medea perish at Medea's hands.

My earlier life, before I stooped to sin, Doth make me worthy of a better judge Than I could be--I go to Delphi's shrine, And there, before the altar of the G.o.d, The very spot whence Phrixus long ago Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again, Restore to that dark G.o.d what is his own-- The Golden Fleece--the only thing the flames Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped Safe from the b.l.o.o.d.y, fiery death that slew That fair Corinthian princess.--To the priests I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will, Ay, though they take my life to expiate My grievous sins, or though they send me forth To wander still through some far desert-waste, My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!

_[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]_

Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive So eagerly to win, which seemed to thee The shining crown of all thy famous deeds?