Fifth Episode

(Enter the ATTENDANT with the two CHILDREN: MEDEA comes out from the house.)

ATTENDANT.Mistress, these children from their banishmentAre spared. The royal bride hath mildly bentHer hand to accept thy gifts, and all is nowPeace for the children.--Ha, why standest thouConfounded, when good fortune draweth near?

MEDEA.Ah God!

ATTENDANT.This chimes not with the news I bear.

MEDEA.O God, have mercy!

ATTENDANT.Is some word of wrathHere hidden that I knew not of? And hathMy hope to give thee joy so cheated me?

MEDEA.Thou givest what thou givest: I blame not thee.

ATTENDANT.Thy brows are all o'ercast: thine eyes are filled. . . .

MEDEA.For bitter need, Old Man! The gods have willed,And my own evil mind, that this should come.

ATTENDANT.Take heart! Thy sons one day will bring thee home.

MEDEA.Home? . . . I have others to send home. Woe's me!

ATTENDANT.Be patient. Many a mother before theeHath parted from her children. We poor thingsOf men must needs endure what fortune brings.

MEDEA.I will endure.--Go thou within, and layAll ready that my sons may need to-day.

(The ATTENDANT goes into the house.)

O children, children mine: and you have foundA land and home, where, leaving me discrownedAnd desolate, forever you will stay,Motherless children! And I go my wayTo other lands, an exile, ere you bringYour fruits home, ere I see you prosperingOr know your brides, or deck the bridal bed,All flowers, and lift your torches overhead.Oh cursed be mine own hard heart! 'Twas allIn vain, then, that I reared you up, so tallAnd fair; in vain I bore you, and was tornWith those long pitiless pains, when you were born.Ah, wondrous hopes my poor heart had in you,How you would tend me in mine age, and doThe shroud about me with your own dear hands,When I lay cold, blessed in all the landsThat knew us. And that gentle thought is dead!You go, and I live on, to eat the breadOf long years, to myself most full of pain.And never your dear eyes, never again,Shall see your mother, far away being thrownTo other shapes of life. . . . My babes, my own,Why gaze ye so?--What is it that ye see?--And laugh with that last laughter? . . . Woe is me,What shall I do?Women, my strength is gone,Gone like a dream, since once I looked uponThose shining faces. . . . I can do it not.Good-bye to all the thoughts that burned so hotAforetime! I will take and hide them far,Far, from men's eyes. Why should I seek a warSo blind: by these babes' wounds to sting againTheir father's heart, and win myself a painTwice deeper? Never, never! I forgetHenceforward all I laboured for.And yet,What is it with me? Would I be a thingMocked at, and leave mine enemies to stingUnsmitten? It must be. O coward heart,Ever to harbour such soft words!--DepartOut of my sight, ye twain.(The CHILDREN go in.)And they whose eyesShall hold it sin to share my sacrifice,On their heads be it! My hand shall swerve not now.

Ah, Ah, thou Wrath within me! Do not thou,Do not. . . . Down, down, thou tortured thing, and spareMy children! They will dwell with us, aye, thereFar off, and give thee peace.Too late, too late!By all Hell's living agonies of hate,They shall not take my little ones aliveTo make their mock with! Howsoe'er I striveThe thing is doomed; it shall not escape nowFrom being. Aye, the crown is on the brow,And the robe girt, and in the robe that highQueen dying.I know all. Yet . . . seeing that IMust go so long a journey, and these twainA longer yet and darker, I would fainSpeak with them, ere I go.

(A handmaid brings the CHILDREN out again.)

Come, children; standA little from me. There. Reach out your hand,Your right hand--so--to mother: and good-bye!

(She has kept them hitherto at arm's length: but at the touch of their hands, her resolution breaks down, and she gathers them passionately into her arms.)

Oh, darling hand! Oh, darling mouth, and eye,And royal mien, and bright brave faces clear,May you be blessed, but not here! What hereWas yours, your father stole. . . . Ah God, the glowOf cheek on cheek, the tender touch; and Oh,Sweet scent of childhood. . . . Go! Go! . . . Am I blind? . . .Mine eyes can see not, when I look to findTheir places. I am broken by the wingsOf evil. . . . Yea, I know to what bad thingsI go, but louder than all thought doth cryAnger, which maketh man's worst misery.

(She follows the CHILDREN into the house.)

CHORUS.My thoughts have roamed a cloudy land,And heard a fierier music fallThan woman's heart should stir withal:And yet some Muse majestical,Unknown, hath hold of woman's hand,Seeking for Wisdom--not in all:A feeble seed, a scattered band,Thou yet shalt find in lonely places,Not dead amongst us, nor our facesTurned alway from the Muses' call.

And thus my thought would speak: that sheWho ne'er hath borne a child nor knownIs nearer to felicity:Unlit she goeth and alone,With little understanding whatA child's touch means of joy or woe,And many toils she beareth not.

But they within whose garden fairThat gentle plant hath blown, they goDeep-written all their days with care--To rear the children, to make fastTheir hold, to win them wealth; and thenMuch darkness, if the seed at lastBear fruit in good or evil men!And one thing at the end of allAbideth, that which all men dread:The wealth is won, the limbs are bredTo manhood, and the heart withalHonest: and, lo, where Fortune smiled,Some change, and what hath fallen? Hark!'Tis death slow winging to the dark,And in his arms what was thy child.

What therefore doth it bring of gainTo man, whose cup stood full before,That God should send this one thing moreOf hunger and of dread, a doorSet wide to every wind of pain?

(MEDEA comes out alone from the house.)

MEDEA.Friends, this long hour I wait on Fortune's eyes,And strain my senses in a hot surmiseWhat passeth on that hill.--Ha! even nowThere comes . . . 'tis one of Jason's men, I trow.His wild-perturbed breath doth warrant meThe tidings of some strange calamity.

(Enter MESSENGER.)

MESSENGER.O dire and ghastly deed! Get thee away,Medea! Fly! Nor let behind thee stayOne chariot's wing, one keel that sweeps the seas. . . .

MEDEA.And what hath chanced, to cause such flights as these?

MESSENGER.The maiden princess lieth--and her sire,The king--both murdered by thy poison-fire.

MEDEA.Most happy tiding! Which thy name prefersHenceforth among my friends and well-wishers.

MESSENGER.What say'st thou? Woman, is thy mind withinClear, and not raving? Thou art found in sinMost bloody wrought against the king's high head,And laughest at the tale, and hast no dread?

MEDEA.I have words also that could answer wellThy word. But take thine ease, good friend, and tell,How died they? Hath it been a very foulDeath, prithee? That were comfort to my soul.

MESSENGER.When thy two children, hand in hand entwined,Came with their father, and passed on to findThe new-made bridal rooms, Oh, we were glad,We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and hadGrief in thy grief. And straight there passed a wordFrom ear to ear, that thou and thy false lordHad poured peace offering upon wrath foregone.A right glad welcome gave we them, and oneKissed the small hand, and one the shining hair:Myself, for very joy, I followed whereThe women's rooms are. There our mistress . . . sheWhom now we name so . . . thinking not to seeThy little pair, with glad and eager browSate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and slowShrouded her eyes, and backward turned again,Sick that thy children should come near her. ThenThy husband quick went forward, to entreatThe young maid's fitful wrath. "Thou will not meetLove's coming with unkindness? Nay, refrainThy suddenness, and turn thy face again,Holding as friends all that to me are dear,Thine husband. And accept these robes they bearAs gifts: and beg thy father to unmakeHis doom of exile on them--for my sake."When once she saw the raiment, she could stillHer joy no more, but gave him all his will.And almost ere the father and the twoChildren were gone from out the room, she drewThe flowered garments forth, and sate her downTo her arraying: bound the golden crownThrough her long curls, and in a mirror fairArranged their separate clusters, smiling thereAt the dead self that faced her. Then asideShe pushed her seat, and paced those chambers wideAlone, her white foot poising delicately--So passing joyful in those gifts was she!--And many a time would pause, straight-limbed, and wheelHer head to watch the long fold to her heelSweeping. And then came something strange. Her cheekSeemed pale, and back with crooked steps and weakGroping of arms she walked, and scarcely foundHer old seat, that she fell not to the ground.Among the handmaids was a woman oldAnd grey, who deemed, I think, that Pan had holdUpon her, or some spirit, and raised a keenAwakening shout; till through her lips was seenA white foam crawling, and her eyeballs backTwisted, and all her face dead pale for lackOf life: and while that old dame called, the cryTurned strangely to its opposite, to dieSobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flewTo seek her father's rooms, one for the newBridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the placeWas loud with hurrying feet.So long a spaceAs a swift walker on a measured wayWould pace a furlong's course in, there she laySpeechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her eyesShe oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise,Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolledOf stabbing death. The carcanet of goldThat gripped her brow was molten in a direAnd wondrous river of devouring fire.And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave--God's mercy!--everywhere did lap and laveThe delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled,A fiery pillar, shaking locks and headThis way and that, seeking to cast the crownSomewhere away. But like a thing nailed downThe burning gold held fast the anadem,And through her locks, the more she scattered them,Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fellA thing--save to her sire--scarce nameable,And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien,Where was it--or the place where eyes had been?Only from crown and temples came faint bloodShot through with fire. The very flesh, it stoodOut from the bones, as from a wounded pineThe gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fineBit in the dark--a ghastly sight! And touchThe dead we durst not. We had seen too much.But that poor father, knowing not, had sped,Swift to his daughter's room, and there the deadLay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low,Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: "Oh,Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hathSo hideously undone thee? Or what wrathOf gods, to make this old grey sepulchreChildless of thee? Would God but lay me thereTo die with thee, my daughter!" So he cried.But after, when he stayed from tears, and triedTo uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the foldsOf those fine robes it held, as ivy holdsStrangling among your laurel boughs. Oh, thenA ghastly struggle came! Again, again,Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breastClung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed,He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the liveFlesh parted; and he laid him down to striveNo more with death, but perish; for the deepHad risen above his soul. And there they sleep,At last, the old proud father and the bride,Even as his tears had craved it, side by side.For thee--Oh, no word more! Thyself will knowHow best to baffle vengeance. . . . Long agoI looked upon man's days, and found a greyShadow. And this thing more I surely say,That those of all men who are counted wise,Strong wits, devisers of great policies,Do pay the bitterest toll. Since life began,Hath there in God's eye stood one happy man?Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or lessOf fortune, but to no man happiness.

(Exit MESSENGER.)

CHORUS. Some Women.Wrath upon wrath, meseems, this day shall fallFrom God on Jason! He hath earned it all.

Other Women.O miserable maiden, all my heartIs torn for thee, so sudden to departFrom thy king's chambers and the light aboveTo darkness, all for sake of Jason's love!

MEDEA.Women, my mind is clear. I go to slayMy children with all speed, and then, awayFrom hence; not wait yet longer till they standBeneath another and an angrier handTo die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, dieThey must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis IShall slay them, I their mother, touched of noneBeside. Oh, up and get thine armour on,My heart! Why longer tarry we to winOur crown of dire inevitable sin?Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine,Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn lineWhere life turns agony. Let there be naughtOf softness now: and keep thee from that thought,'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now,For one brief day, forget thy children: thouShalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yetSweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate.

(She goes into the house.)