Prologue

(The Scene represents the front of MEDEA'S House in Corinth. A road to the right leads towards the royal castle, one on the left to the harbour. The NURSE is discovered alone.)

NURSE.Would God no Argo e'er had winged the seasTo Colchis through the blue Symplegades:No shaft of riven pine in Pelion's glenShaped that first oar-blade in the hands of menValiant, who won, to save King Pelias' vow,The fleece All-golden! Never then, I trow,Mine own princess, her spirit wounded soreWith love of Jason, to the encastled shoreHad sailed of old Iolcos: never wroughtThe daughters of King Pelias, knowing not,To spill their father's life: nor fled in fear,Hunted for that fierce sin, to Corinth hereWith Jason and her babes. This folk at needStood friend to her, and she in word and deedServed alway Jason. Surely this doth bind,Through all ill days, the hurts of humankind,When man and woman in one music move.But now, the world is angry, and true loveSick as with poison. Jason doth forsakeMy mistress and his own two sons, to makeHis couch in a king's chamber. He must wed:Wed with this Creon's child, who now is headAnd chief of Corinth. Wherefore sore betrayedMedea calleth up the oath they made,They two, and wakes the clasped hands again,The troth surpassing speech, and cries amainOn God in heaven to mark the end, and howJason hath paid his debt.All fasting nowAnd cold, her body yielded up to pain,Her days a waste of weeping, she hath lain,Since first she knew that he was false. Her eyesAre lifted not; and all her visage liesIn the dust. If friends will speak, she hears no moreThan some dead rock or wave that beats the shore:Only the white throat in a sudden shameMay writhe, and all alone she moans the nameOf father, and land, and home, forsook that dayFor this man's sake, who casteth her away.Not to be quite shut out from home . . . alas,She knoweth now how rare a thing that was!Methinks she hath a dread, not joy, to seeHer children near. 'Tis this that maketh meMost tremble, lest she do I know not what.Her heart is no light thing, and useth notTo brook much wrong. I know that woman, aye,And dread her! Will she creep alone to dieBleeding in that old room, where still is laidLord Jason's bed? She hath for that a bladeMade keen. Or slay the bridegroom and the king,And win herself God knows what direr thing?'Tis a fell spirit. Few, I ween, shall stirHer hate unscathed, or lightly humble her.Ha! 'Tis the children from their games again,Rested and gay; and all their mother's painForgotten! Young lives ever turn from gloom!

(The CHILDREN and their ATTENDANT come in.)

ATTENDANT.Thou ancient treasure of my lady's room,What mak'st thou here before the gates alone,And alway turning on thy lips some moanOf old mischances? Will our mistress beContent, this long time to be left by thee?

NURSE.Grey guard of Jason's children, a good thrallHath his own grief, if any hurt befallHis masters. Aye, it holds one's heart! . . .MeseemsI have strayed out so deep in evil dreams,I longed to rest me here alone, and cryMedea's wrongs to this still Earth and Sky.

ATTENDANT.How? Are the tears yet running in her eyes?

NURSE.'Twere good to be like thee! . . . Her sorrow liesScarce wakened yet, not half its perils wrought.

ATTENDANT.Mad spirit! . . . if a man may speak his thoughtOf masters mad.--And nothing in her earsHath sounded yet of her last cause for tears!

(He moves towards the house, but the NURSE checks him.)

NURSE.What cause, old man? . . . Nay, grudge me not one word.

ATTENDANT.'Tis nothing. Best forget what thou hast heard.

NURSE.Nay, housemate, by thy beard! Hold it not hidFrom me. . . . I will keep silence if thou bid.

ATTENDANT.I heard an old man talking, where he sateAt draughts in the sun, beside the fountain gate,And never thought of me, there standing stillBeside him. And he said, 'Twas Creon's will,Being lord of all this land, that she be sent,And with her her two sons, to banishment.Maybe 'tis all false. For myself, I knowNo further, and I would it were not so.

NURSE.Jason will never bear it--his own sonsBanished,--however hot his anger runsAgainst their mother!

ATTENDANT.Old love burneth lowWhen new love wakes, men say. He is not nowHusband nor father here, nor any kin.

NURSE.But this is ruin! New waves breaking inTo wreck us, ere we are righted from the old!

ATTENDANT.Well, hold thy peace. Our mistress will be toldAll in good time. Speak thou no word hereof.

NURSE.My babes! What think ye of your father's love?God curse him not, he is my master still:But, oh, to them that loved him, 'tis an illFriend. . . .

ATTENDANT.And what man on earth is different? How?Hast thou lived all these years, and learned but nowThat every man more loveth his own headThan other men's? He dreameth of the bedOf this new bride, and thinks not of his sons.

NURSE.Go: run into the house, my little ones:All will end happily! . . . Keep them apart:Let not their mother meet them while her heartIs darkened. Yester night I saw a flameStand in her eye, as though she hated them,And would I know not what. For sure her wrathWill never turn nor slumber, till she hath . . .Go: and if some must suffer, may it beNot we who love her, but some enemy!

VOICE (within).Oh shame and pain: O woe is me!Would I could die in my misery!

(The CHILDREN and the ATTENDANT go in.)

NURSE.Ah, children, hark! She moves againHer frozen heart, her sleeping wrath.In, quick! And never cross her path,Nor rouse that dark eye in its pain;

That fell sea-spirit, and the direSpring of a will untaught, unbowed.Quick, now!--Methinks this weeping cloudHath in its heart some thunder-fire,

Slow gathering, that must flash ere long.I know not how, for ill or well,It turns, this uncontrollableTempestuous spirit, blind with wrong.

VOICE (within).Have I not suffered? Doth it callNo tears? . . . Ha, ye beside the wallUnfathered children, God hate youAs I am hated, and him, too,That gat you, and this house and all!

NURSE.For pity! What have they to do,Babes, with their father's sin? Why callThy curse on these? . . . Ah, children, allThese days my bosom bleeds for you.

Rude are the wills of princes: yea,Prevailing alway, seldom crossed,On fitful winds their moods are tossed:'Tis best men tread the equal way.

Aye, not with glory but with peaceMay the long summers find me crowned:For gentleness--her very soundIs magic, and her usages.

All wholesome: but the fiercely greatHath little music on his road,And falleth, when the hand of GodShall move, most deep and desolate.