John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

the wolf,

the adder joyfully strikes at the shepherd’s heel. But

Lord,

O holy father of gods and men, I’ve earned some place in all that hungry rush! Imagine her kingdom with all my power shut down — no joy in the world but the

shoddy glint

of wealth, stern labor, knowledge-grubbing — no gentle

eyes

to drip their sweetness on rich men’s rings, no loving

hands

to smooth the pain from the farmer’s back when his

long day ends,

no dazzled maiden to flood the alchemist’s sulphurous

rooms

with the light of her music, her rainsoft fingers on his

arm! If my work

is meaningless, say so. I’ll trouble your halls no morel”

Bright tears

welled in her eyes and her bosom heaved. Her lips were

taut.

The ghastly creatures attending her gave out goatish

wails.

Hera’s face turned slowly to the king’s. “Beautiful

performance,”

she said, and smiled. The king said nothing. Dark

Aphrodite

glared, her glance like a dart of fire, and the muscles of

her face

trembled like the face of the plains when earthquakes

crack their beams.

A gentler goddess came forward then, a gray-eyed

goddess

with a crown like a city on a shining silver hill. At her

side

philosophers stood, their lean backs bent under thick,

smudged scrolls,

their eyes rolled up out of sight; behind her, nervous

kings,

each with his own set of tics (quick lip-jerks, twists,

winks, nods,

features overcome from time to time by a sudden

widening

of the eyes, like shocked recognition); then fat

merchants, wiping

their foreheads, clucking, wincing with distaste, their

tongues in motion

ceaseless as the sea, wetting their thick, chapped lips;

behind

the merchants, poets and musicians, all looking wry at

the smell

of the merchants, making ingenious jokes at the

merchants’ garish

or grandly funereal dress. — But when, from time to

time,

a merchant, philosopher, or king keeled over, slain by

the light

or brushed by a careless god, the poets and musicians

would praise

the nature of man, abstracted to green, magnificent

song,

their eyes like waterfalls.

The gray-eyed goddess kneeled

at Zeus’s feet and, speaking softly, eyes cast down, she said, “My Lord, Almighty Ruler of the Universe, most just, most wise, I pray you, do not forget the needs of Corinth, Queen of Cities. I have tended her lovingly, cherished her, guided her gently through stunning

catastrophes.

Throne after throne I have watched kicked down

through the whimsical will

of malicious, barbarous gods — gods who amuse

themselves

like boys pulling wings off butterflies. Yet I’ve kept her

pillars,

shrine of the arts, seat of all taste and nobility. Preserve my work! Give Jason the throne — for the

city’s sake.

Surely a city means more in your sight than one mere

woman!

Pity Athena as she’d have you pity our beloved

Aphrodite!

Grant my request, and grant Aphrodite some other gift still dearer to her.”

Hera smiled, but the gray-eyed Athena

maintained her mask of innocence. Those who

attended her

bowed, heavy with solemnity, and tapped their scrolls, their money-boxes, crowns, and harps. Aphrodite’s cheek burned dark red. Zeus said nothing.

Her head bent

as if in supplication to the Father of the Gods,

Aphrodite

rolled her eyes toward her sister. “Don’t play games

with me,”

she whispered, “immortal bitch! How wonderfully

reasonable

you always make your desires sound! Do you think

they’re fooled,

these gods you play to? They know what you’re after.

Power, goddess!

You want your way no matter what — no matter who

you walk on.

But you can’t come right out and say it, can you? That

wouldn’t be civil,

and the lovely Athena is nothing if not civil! — Well,

so are

sewers! indoor toilets!” She trembled with rage. Athena smiled, as calm and serene as the moon above roiling,

passionate

seas. Suddenly the goddess of love burst into tears, wept like a shepherdess betrayed. The gray-eyed goddess

of cities,

magnificent queen of mind, shot a quick glance at Zeus,

then widened

her eyes as if in amazement. “Why Aphrodite!” she

exclaimed,

“my poor, poor love!” She gathered her sister goddess

gently

in her arms like a child, and Aphrodite cried on

Athena’s breast.

Hera smiled.

But the brow of Zeus was troubled. He looked

from the love-goddess to Athena. “Enough!” he said.

The hall

grew still. The stillness expanded. The eyes of the

Father God

were like thunderheads. After some minutes had passed,

he said,

“You’re clever, Athena. You’d outfox a gryphon. Yet

even so,

you may be wrong, and Aphrodite right. You talk of cities, of how they’re more important than a single

life.

But the city in which that’s true would be not worth

living in.

I’ve known such cities. One by one I’ve ground them

underfoot,

slaughtered their poets and priests and planted their

vineyards to salt.

You pleaded against such a city yourself for Antigone,

goddess!

Has it slipped your mind? ‘Where the dead are left

to the crows,’ you said,

‘where a life means nothing, let the whole white hovel

be crows’ fodder.’

Justice demands that I grant Aphrodite’s wish.” He

was silent.

Then Hera turned to him. Her eyes flamed. “And my

wish, sir?”

she hissed. “I knew I was a fool to leave my business

to Athena!

How can mere reason compete with that?” She pointed.

Aphrodite

covered her bosom, blushing. “I agree, it’s wrong to make cities more important than the

people who live in them.

Cities exist to make possible the splendid life — the life of mind and sense in harmony, fulfilled to the utmost.

Good!

But what of Jason’s life? But that doesn’t matter, of

course. Not to you!

Not with her there, pleading with her big pink boobs!

What counts with you,

O mixed-up Master Planner? You reason by whim, like

the rest of us,

for all your pompous, grandiose pretensions. Fact! You purse your lips, you muse in beatific silence, you

nod,

and you do what you damn well please! Well not to me,

husband!

I want what I want, and I’m not putting elegant names

on it.”

Hardly moving, Zeus glanced at her. The queen’s lips

closed.

Then no one spoke for a long time. The attendant

gods

shifted uncomfortably, sullen, from leg to leg. Yet more than a few in that hall, I thought, would have backed

her if they dared. Athena

gazed demurely at the floor, as if checking a smile.

Zeus sat

with one hand over his eyes.

At length, as if contrite,

Athena said softly, “It’s fair and just that you

upbraid me, Lord.

But my heart spoke truer than my tongue. I gave you,

foolishly,

the reasons I thought expedient. But it was not the

survival

of the city — not that alone — that I meant to beg of you. I plead for a good and patient man, a long-suffering

man,

one who merits what I ask for him. Aphrodite’s madness has chained him too long. Without the assistance of

any god,

he’s seen through it. O kind, wise Lord, don’t frustrate

the climb

of a virtuous man on the rising scale of Good! I claim no special virtues for cities, but this much, surely,