John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

with a look

befuddled and amused, unable to think for the life

of him

what had brought him here in such weather. Soon she

had told him all

her tragedy, and old King Aigeus, kindest of men,

was promising

sanctuary in his own far-distant land. He said, pulling at his beard with his wrinkled hands, “But come,

King Kreon

banishes you, and Jason allows it? Most base!

Most base!”

“His voice protests,” she said, “yet he thinks it best

to endure it.”

“Shameful!” King Aigeus said, and again offered

sanctuary.

“Perhaps if you’d swear a solemn oath to me—”

she began.

“You mistrust me, child? Tell me what fear still

troubles you.”

She touched his two hands. “I trust you, but the house

of Pelias hates me,

and Kreon as well. Bound by oaths, you could never

yield me

if ever they came to drag me from you. Bound by

mere words,

not solemn oaths, you’d have no defense and would

yield to their summons

perforce. They are powerful kings, my lord.”

He stared above her head, mumbling: “What need for such far-sighted

prudence here?”

But at once he said, “I’ll do as you wish, Medeia. Name

your gods.”

She said: “Swear by the earth below, and the sun, my grandfather, and the whole vast race of the

deathless gods…”

“To perform what? — or resist what?”

“Never yourself to expel me from your land or willingly yield me

to enemies

so long as you still bear life.”

He said: “By the firm earth, by the sun’s light, and by all the gods, I swear all this, and if I fail to abide by my oath, may the gods send

down on me

the doom reserved for sacrilege.”

Medeia nodded, clasping his hand. “Go thy way with my blessing,”

she said,

“I’m fully content.” Aigeus descended to the street,

his heart

grieved for Aietes’ daughter, and full of uneasiness.

Down by the water in the sail-tent slum there were

angry stirrings,

huge men moving from fire to fire, hunkering for

warmth

in the roaring storm, and grimly exchanging the

latest news.

There lay a new ship there, I saw — a long, gray warship.

I kept my distance, my right hand darkly swollen

and throbbing

from our last encounter. Gradually, in their restless

shifting

I began to see patterns, some plan taking shape. A

few at a time,

from various parts of the wide, tented harbor, the

sailors began

to move through the rain into Kreon’s city. They

paused at the doors

of shops, smiling in from beneath drenched hoods. They

called out to children,

gave greeting to snarling curs at the mouths of alleys,

and so

by imperceptible stages surrounded the palace,

toward nightfall,

taking positions, like lengthening shadows, then

vanishing.

In the vine-hung house, the work of the women was

finished now—

a delicate robe and wreath of gold, the most splendid

attire

that was ever seen on earth. Medeia’s fingers traced the invisible seams; her eyes drank in the boundless

landscape

figured in the cloth by Argus’ art. She said: “Now,

women,

My revenge is near at hand. I’ll tell you the whole of

my purpose,

though not much pleasure will you take in what I tell.

I will go

to Jason tonight with his precious sons, and when

he receives us,

I’ll speak soft words, claiming I’ve come to understand,

myself,

that his plan is wise and just. Then gently, with

passionate tears,

I’ll entreat that my sons may remain in Corinth,

though I may not,

and beg that he grant them permission to carry my gifts

to the princess

to soften her heart and her father’s. If the lady accepts

these presents—

this gown and wreath of gold — and if she dresses

in them,

she’ll die horribly, and all who touch her, for with fell

poisons

the cloth will be anointed. And now the darkest part. If Jason, in a futile attempt to save his dying princess, touches the girl and dies himself, my revenge is ended, even in my heart. I’ll carry him away in a dragon chariot conjured out of ashes, and bury his remains in a

tumulus befitting

a prince so noble; and I’ll weep and lament as I would

if he’d died

for me, and I’ll honor his memory. But if Jason lives, having watched his princess die, having taken no risk

for her,

held back by prudence — Jason to the last the invincible

sea-fox—

thus will I bring down ruin upon him: I’ll murder

his sons.”

The Corinthian women all cried out at once, but

Medeia said quickly:

“Nothing can save them. I’ve sworn with solemn oaths

to do all

I’ve said. I will wreck the house of Jason to the

last beam,

then flee the ground of my dear children’s blood. So be it.

Flee and live on for what? you may ask. No home,

no country,

no refuge from grief … Nevertheless, live on I will, stripped of illusions, apparent joys, false, foolish hopes, my teeth bared to the blackness on every side, like poor mad Idas, who knew from the beginning. Feeble and

poor of spirit

let no one think me, nor indolent, taking the world

as it comes.

Say that Medeia was of use to friends and to enemies

dangerous,

sure as the seasons, remorseless as nipping,

back-cracking cold.”

Timidly then one woman spoke: “Medeia, lady, all of us here love justice, surely, and would willingly

help you,

betrayed as you are. But this! All the laws of gods

and men—”

“I forgive your words of censure. You’re not as

wronged as I am.”

“And can you find it in your heart to kill your

children, Medeia?”

“I can find no other way to bring my husband down.”

“Making yourself, in the same stroke, the unhappiest

of wives!”

“Yes. But the vow is sworn. All future words are

waste.”

And so, attended by her two old slaves, her hands

closed firmly

on her children’s hands, Medeia walked that night

through the violent storm to the palace

of Kreon — now of Jason. They waited

while guards went in for instructions. Old Kreon shook

with fright,

his small eyes widened, convinced that his house must

be filled to the beams

with devils, with Medeia so near. But Jason persuaded

him at last

to allow the party entrance — for better to know

her mood,

attend to her threats, if she made any, than seek to

guard

’gainst possibilities as ubiquarian as air. The guards went out; old Kreon and his daughter left the hall,

retiring

for safety, at Jason’s request, to their separate chambers.

And now

the carved door opened again, and there Medeia stood, her two young sons beside her, clinging in fright to her

hands.

She shook back her hood without touching it — a gesture

graceful

and accidentally defiant. Her hair came blazing into

view,

bright as the sun, and the kings were hushed by awe.

She went

to Jason, leading his children, and in front of his chair

she kneeled

like a suppliant. The two old slaves stood near.

She said: “Jason, I entreat you, forgive those words I spoke

in anger.

You must bear with me in my passionate moods,

for was there not

much love between us once? I’ve been reasoning

through your claims,

my brain less feverish now, less egomaniac— less like my poor mad father’s — and I see that your