John Gardner - Jason and Medeia

to learning,

mouthing obfuscating phrases with no more ground

in them

than tumbling Chaos, the truly learn’d seem an insult

and threat.

So my life proves. For since I have knowledge,

some find me odious,

some too stickling and, indeed, a wild fool. As for you,

you shrink

for fear of powers you imagine in me, or trust out

of rumor,

and punish me solely on the chance that I might

do injury.”

She stretched her arms out, ten feet away. Beaten

down by rain,

a woman who seemed no more deadly than a child,

she cried out, imploring,

“Kreon, look at me! Am I such a woman as to seek out

quarrels

with princes merely from impishness? Where have

you wronged me?

You have merely given your daughter to the man

you chose. No, Kreon,

it’s my husband I hate. All Corinth agrees you’ve done

wisely in this.

How can I grudge you your happiness? Then prosper,

my lord!

But grant me continued sanctuary. Wronged though

I am,

I’ll keep my silence, and yield to Jason’s will, since

I must.”

He looked at her, pitying but still afraid. And at last

he answered,

“You speak mild words. Yet rightly or wrongly, I fear

even now

that your heart in secret may be plotting some

wickedness. Now less than ever

do I trust you, Medeia. A cunning woman betrayed

into wrath

is more easily watched than one who’s silent. Be gone

at once.

Speak no more speeches. My sentence stands. Not all

your craft

can save you from exile. I know you firm-minded and

my enemy.”

Medeia moved closer, pleading in the steadily

drumming rain,

stretching her arms toward Kreon. “By your

new-wedded child,” she said …

“You’re wasting words. I cannot be persuaded.”

“You spurn me, Kreon?” “I feel no more love, let us say, than you feel for

my family.”

“O Kolchis, abandoned homeland, how I do long for

you now!”

“There’s nothing more dear, God knows, unless it’s

one’s child, perhaps.”

“God, what a murderous curse on all mankind is love!” “Curse or blessing, it depends.”

“O Zeus, let him never escape me!” “Go, woman — or must whips drive you? Spare me

that shame!”

“I need no whipping, Kreon. You’ve raised up

welts enough.”

“Then go, go — or I’ll bid my menials do what

they must.”

“I implore you—”

“You force me to violence, then?”

“I will go, Kreon. It was not for reprieve I cried out. Grant me just this:

Let me stay

for one more day in Corinth, to think out where

we may flee

and how I may care for my sons, since their father

no longer sees fit

to provide for them. Pity them, Kreon! You too are

a father.”

The old man trembled, afraid of her yet; but he

feared far more

the powers he’d struggled against all his life,

laboring to fathom,

straining in bafflement to appease. He said:

“My nature is not

a tyrant’s, Medeia.” He pursed his lips, picking at

his chin

with trembling fingers. “Many a plan I’ve ruined by

relenting,

and some I’ve ruined by relenting too late. The gods

riddle us,

tease us with theories and lure us with hopes into

dragons’ mouths.

With Oidipus once, gravely insulted, threatened

with death

on a mad false charge, I held in my wrath when by

blind striking out—

so the sequel proved — I’d have saved both the city

and a dearly loved sister.

Yet with Oidipus’ daughter I proved too stern, refused

all pause

or compromise, and there, too, horror was the issue.

I will act

by Jason’s dictum, trusting to instinct and hoping

for the best,

expecting nothing. Though I see it may well be folly,

I grant

this one day’s stay. But beware, woman! If sunrise

tomorrow

finds you still in my kingdom, you or your sons,

you will die.

What I’ve said I’ll do; have no doubt of it.”

So saying, he departed, ascending the hill through fire and rain. She returned to her house, and the women of Corinth at the door

made way for her.

Indoors, the slave Agapetika waited, gray, weighed

down

by grief. She said, “No hope for us,” then, weeping,

could say

no more. Medeia touched her, her eyes remote. She said, grown strangely calm again, “Do not think the last word has been said — not yet! Troubles are in store for the

newlyweds,

and troubles for the wily old marriage-broker. Do you

think I’d grovel

in the rain to that foolish old man if not for some

desperate purpose?

Never have I spoken to Kreon before or touched

his hand. But now in his arrogance

he grants me time to destroy him and all he loves.

And that

I will — and all I have loved myself.” Her lips went white.

“Never mind,” she whispered to herself. “Never mind.”

“Medeia, child,”

the old woman moaned, eyes wide.

The daughter of Aietes turned, and struck like lightning: “Go from me! Leave this

house! Go at once!

Live in fields, old ditches! Never let me see you!”

The Corinthian women

stared, astounded, and no one spoke. The slave

backed away,

unsteady and shaking, retreating from the room, and

in her own room fell

like a plank breaking, to groan on her bed. No one

dared comfort her.

Medeia said, as if drained of emotion — the tears

on her cheeks

independent of her mind and heart, mechanical as

stars turning—

“Go to her, one of you. Tell her I repent. My war is not with women, sad fellow-sufferers.” She closed her eyes. “Do not think I don’t love that old woman. I have

dealt with her

more gently than I can with those I love far more.”

And then,

suddenly whispering in panic and squeezing her

blue-white hands:

“Suppose them slain. What city will receive me? what

friend give refuge?

None. So I still must wait, for a time, conjure some

tower

of defense. That too I can manage, yes. By the goddess

Hekate,

first and last friend welcome to my hearth, not one

will escape me.

Your new tie, husband — my soul’s grim fire, familiar

heartache—

you’ll find more bitter than the last. You’ve proved

your cruelty.

Prepare for mine! You’ll ere long find your sweet

bedfellow

a lady Hades himself might prove reluctant to fold in his arms. So I pay you for mocking derision of a princess born

of the mightiest king on earth, a child of the sun-god’s

race!”

Then she left them, fleeing to her room to put on

dry clothes,

preparing in outer appearance for a secret and

deadly role.

The sewing women took up the golden cloth once more, their hearts quaking, too sick with sorrow and fear

to speak.

Their needles raced, in the corner Hekate in a long

black shawl,

sly-eyed and heavy, whiskered like a peasant,

and each whipstitch she sewed would prove a shackle

for the bride

who smiled now, gazing in her mirror, in Kreon’s palace.

The shadow

of Hekate, rocking on the wall, became a second ghost, the black, horned god himself in the service of Medeia.

When Jason learned, by questions to the slave Ipnolebes, what Kreon

had done,

he was filled with alarm — no less by the spiteful

gloating the slave

could scarcely hide than by knowledge of his wife.

But he bided his time,