First Episode

(During the last words MEDEA has come out from the house.)

MEDEA.Women of Corinth, I am come to showMy face, lest ye despise me. For I knowSome heads stand high and fail not, even at nightAlone--far less like this, in all men's sight:And we, who study not our wayfaringsBut feel and cry--Oh we are drifting things,And evil! For what truth is in men's eyes,Which search no heart, but in a flash despiseA strange face, shuddering back from one that ne'erHath wronged them? . . . Sure, far-comers anywhere,I know, must bow them and be gentle. Nay,A Greek himself men praise not, who alwayShould seek his own will recking not. . . . But I--This thing undreamed of, sudden from on high,Hath sapped my soul: I dazzle where I stand,The cup of all life shattered in my hand,Longing to die--O friends! He, even he,Whom to know well was all the world to me,The man I loved, hath proved most evil.--Oh,Of all things upon earth that bleed and grow,A herb most bruised is woman. We must payOur store of gold, hoarded for that one day,To buy us some man's love; and lo, they bringA master of our flesh! There comes the stingOf the whole shame. And then the jeopardy,For good or ill, what shall that master be;Reject she cannot: and if he but staysHis suit, 'tis shame on all that woman's days.So thrown amid new laws, new places, why,'Tis magic she must have, or prophecy--Home never taught her that--how best to guideToward peace this thing that sleepeth at her side.And she who, labouring long, shall find some wayWhereby her lord may bear with her, nor frayHis yoke too fiercely, blessed is the breathThat woman draws! Else, let her pray for death.Her lord, if he be wearied of the faceWithindoors, gets him forth; some merrier placeWill ease his heart: but she waits on, her wholeVision enchained on a single soul.And then, forsooth, 'tis they that face the callOf war, while we sit sheltered, hid from allPeril!--False mocking! Sooner would I standThree times to face their battles, shield in hand,Than bear one child.But peace! There cannot beEver the same tale told of thee and me.Thou hast this city, and thy father's home,And joy of friends, and hope in days to come:But I, being citiless, am cast asideBy him that wedded me, a savage brideWon in far seas and left--no mother near,No brother, not one kinsman anywhereFor harbour in this storm. Therefore of theeI ask one thing. If chance yet ope to meSome path, if even now my hand can winStrength to requite this Jason for his sin,Betray me not! Oh, in all things but this,I know how full of fears a woman is,And faint at need, and shrinking from the lightOf battle: but once spoil her of her rightIn man's love, and there moves, I warn thee well,No bloodier spirit between heaven and hell.

LEADER.I will betray thee not. It is but just,Thou smite him.--And that weeping in the dustAnd stormy tears, how should I blame them? . . .Stay:'Tis Creon, lord of Corinth, makes his wayHither, and bears, methinks, some word of weight.

(Enter from the right CREON, the King, with armed Attendants.)

CREON.Thou woman sullen-eyed and hot with hateAgainst thy lord, Medea, I here commandThat thou and thy two children from this landGo forth to banishment. Make no delay:Seeing ourselves, the King, are come this dayTo see our charge fulfilled; nor shall againLook homeward ere we have led thy children twainAnd thee beyond our realm's last boundary.

MEDEA.Lost! Lost!Mine haters at the helm with sail flung freePursuing; and for us no beach nor shoreIn the endless waters! . . . Yet, though stricken sore,I still will ask thee, for what crime, what thingUnlawful, wilt thou cast me out, O King?

CREON.What crime? I fear thee, woman--little needTo cloak my reasons--lest thou work some deedOf darkness on my child. And in that fearReasons enough have part. Thou comest hereA wise-woman confessed, and full of loreIn unknown ways of evil. Thou art soreIn heart, being parted from thy lover's arms.And more, thou hast made menace . . . so the alarmsBut now have reached mine ear . . . on bride and groom,And him who gave the bride, to work thy doomOf vengeance. Which, ere yet it be too late,I sweep aside. I choose to earn thine hateOf set will now, not palter with the moodOf mercy, and hereafter weep in blood.

MEDEA.'Tis not the first nor second time, O King,That fame hath hurt me, and come nigh to bringMy ruin. . . . How can any man, whose eyesAre wholesome, seek to rear his children wiseBeyond men's wont? Much helplessness in artsOf common life, and in their townsmen's heartsEnvy deep-set . . . so much their learning brings!Come unto fools with knowledge of new things,They deem it vanity, not knowledge. Aye,And men that erst for wisdom were held high,Feel thee a thorn to fret them, privilyHeld higher than they. So hath it been with me.A wise-woman I am; and for that sinTo divers ill names men would pen me in;A seed of strife; an eastern dreamer; oneOf brand not theirs; one hard to play upon . . .Ah, I am not so wondrous wise!--And now,To thee, I am terrible! What fearest thou?What dire deed? Do I tread so proud a path--Fear me not thou!--that I should brave the wrathOf princes? Thou: what has thou ever doneTo wrong me? Granted thine own child to oneWhom thy soul chose.--Ah, him out of my heartI hate; but thou, meseems, hast done thy partNot ill. And for thine houses' happinessI hold no grudge. Go: marry, and God blessYour issues. Only suffer me to restSomewhere within this land. Though sore oppressed,I will be still, knowing mine own defeat.

CREON.Thy words be gentle: but I fear me yetLest even now there creep some wickednessDeep hid within thee. And for that the lessI trust thee now than ere these words began.A woman quick of wrath, aye, or a man,Is easier watching than the cold and still.Up, straight, and find thy road! Mock not my willWith words. This doom is passed beyond recall;Nor all thy crafts shall help thee, being withalMy manifest foe, to linger at my side.

MEDEA (suddenly throwing herself down and clinging to CREON).Oh, by thy knees! By that new-wedded bride . . .

CREON.'Tis waste of words. Thou shalt not weaken me.

MEDEA.Wilt hunt me? Spurn me when I kneel to thee?

CREON.'Tis mine own house that kneels to me, not thou.

MEDEA.Home, my lost home, how I desire thee now!

CREON.And I mine, and my child, beyond all things.

MEDEA.O Loves of man, what curse is on your wings!

CREON.Blessing or curse, 'tis as their chances flow.

MEDEA.Remember, Zeus, the cause of all this woe!

CREON.Oh, rid me of my pains! Up, get thee gone!

MEDEA.What would I with thy pains? I have mine own.

CREON.Up: or, 'fore God, my soldiers here shall fling . . .

MEDEA.Not that! Not that! . . . I do but pray, O King . . .

CREON.Thou wilt not? I must face the harsher task?

MEDEA.I accept mine exile. 'Tis not that I ask.

CREON.Why then so wild? Why clinging to mine hand?

MEDEA (rising).For one day only leave me in thy landAt peace, to find some counsel, ere the strainOf exile fall, some comfort for these twain,Mine innocents; since others take no thought,It seems, to save the babes that they begot.Ah! Thou wilt pity them! Thou also artA father: thou hast somewhere still a heartThat feels. . . . I reck not of myself: 'tis theyThat break me, fallen upon so dire a day.

CREON.Mine is no tyrant's mood. Aye, many a timeEre this my tenderness hath marred the chimeOf wisest counsels. And I know that nowI do mere folly. But so be it! ThouShalt have this grace . . . But this I warn thee clear,If once the morrow's sunlight find thee hereWithin my borders, thee or child of thine,Thou diest! . . . Of this judgment not a lineShall waver nor abate. So linger on,If thou needs must, till the next risen sun;No further. . . . In one day there scarce can beThose perils wrought whose dread yet haunteth me.

(Exit CREON with his suite.)

CHORUS.O woman, woman of sorrow,Where wilt thou turn and flee?What town shall be thine to-morrow,What land of all lands that be,What door of a strange man's home?Yea, God hath hunted thee,Medea, forth to the foamOf a trackless sea.

MEDEA.Defeat on every side; what else?--But Oh,Not here the end is: think it not! I knowFor bride and groom one battle yet untried,And goodly pains for him that gave the bride.Dost dream I would have grovelled to this man,Save that I won mine end, and shaped my planFor merry deeds? My lips had never deignedSpeak word with him: my flesh been never stainedWith touching. . . . Fool, Oh, triple fool! It laySo plain for him to kill my whole essayBy exile swift: and, lo, he sets me freeThis one long day: wherein mine haters threeShall lie here dead, the father and the brideAnd husband--mine, not hers! Oh, I have triedSo many thoughts of murder to my turn,I know not which best likes me. Shall I burnTheir house with fire? Or stealing past unseenTo Jason's bed--I have a blade made keenFor that--stab, breast to breast, that wedded pair?Good, but for one thing. When I am taken there,And killed, they will laugh loud who hate me. . . .Nay,I love the old way best, the simple wayOf poison, where we too are strong as men.Ah me!And they being dead--what place shall hold me then?What friend shall rise, with land inviolateAnd trusty doors, to shelter from their hateThis flesh? . . . None anywhere! . . . A little moreI needs must wait: and, if there ope some doorOf refuge, some strong tower to shield me, good:In craft and darkness I will hunt this blood.Else, if mine hour be come and no hope nigh,Then sword in hand, full-willed and sure to die,I yet will live to slay them. I will wendMan-like, their road of daring to the end.So help me She who of all Gods hath beenThe best to me, of all my chosen queenAnd helpmate, Hecate, who dwells apart,The flame of flame, in my fire's inmost heart:For all their strength, they shall not stab my soulAnd laugh thereafter! Dark and full of doleTheir bridal feast shall be, most dark the dayThey joined their hands, and hunted me away.Awake thee now, Medea! Whatso plotThou hast, or cunning, strive and falter not.On to the peril-point! Now comes the strainOf daring. Shall they trample thee again?How? And with Hellas laughing o'er thy fallWhile this thief's daughter weds, and weds withalJason? . . . A true king was thy father, yea,And born of the ancient Sun! . . . Thou know'st the way;And God hath made thee woman, things most vainFor help, but wondrous in the paths of pain.

(MEDEA goes into the House.)