Jason and Medeia

Home > Literature > Jason and Medeia > Page 46
Jason and Medeia Page 46

by John Gardner


  dangerous,

  a failure in the mystic groves, unloved by the gods,

  while the man

  is pitied as a victim, sought out and gently attended to by soft-lipped blissoming maidens. Then this: by

  ancient custom,

  the bride must abandon all things familiar for the

  strange new ways

  of her husband’s house, divine like a seer—since she

  never learned

  these things at home—how best to deal with the animal

  she’s trapped,

  slow-witted, moody, his body deadly as a weapon.

  If in this

  the wife is successful, her life is such joy that the

  gods themselves

  must envy her: her dear lord lies like a sachet of myrrh between her breasts. In poverty or wealth, her bed is

  all green,

  and her husband, in her mind, is like a young stag.

  When he stands at the gate,

  the lord of her heart is more noble than the towering

  cedars of the east.

  But woeful the life of the woman whose husband

  is vexed by the yoke!

  He flies to find solace elsewhere; as he pleases

  he comes and goes,

  while his wife looks to him alone for comfort.

  “How different your life and mine, good women of Corinth! You have friends,

  and you live at your ease

  in the city of your fathers. But I, forlorn and homeless,

  despised

  by my once-dear lord, a war-prize captured from

  a faraway land,

  I have no mother or brother or kinsman to lend me

  harbor

  in a clattering storm of troubles. I therefore beg of you one favor: If I should find some means, some stratagem to requite my lord for these cruel wrongs, never

  betray me!

  Though a woman may be in all else fearful, in the hour

  when she’s wronged

  in wedlock there is no spirit on earth more murderous.”

  So she spoke, staring at the outer storm—the

  darkening garden,

  oaktrees and heavy old olive trees twisting, snapping

  like grass,

  in the god-filled, blustering wind. The hemlocks by

  the wall stood hunched,

  crushed under eagres of slashing water. When

  lightning flashed,

  cinereal, the shattered rosebushes writhing on the stones

  in churning

  spray formed a ghostly furnace, swirls of heatless fire. No torches burned by the walls of the palace above,

  and the glow

  leaking from within was gray and unsteady, like

  a dragon’s eyes

  by a new stone bier in a cluttered and cobwebbed vault,

  a stone-walled

  crowd set deep in the earth. In the roar of the storm,

  no sound

  came down to the room where Medeia stood with her

  seamstresses,

  no faintest whisper of a trumpet, but like a vast

  sepulchre,

  a palace in the ancient kingdom of Mu sunk deep

  in the Atlantic,

  the great house loomed, the hour of its trouble come

  round. The women

  gazed in sorrow at Medeia. “We’ll not betray you,”

  one said.

  Some, needles flying on the golden cloth, were afraid

  of her,

  the room full of shadows not easily explained.

  And some shed tears.

  So through the night they sewed, minutely following

  the instructions

  of Aietes’ daughter. And sometimes among the eleven

  a twelfth

  sat stitching, measuring, easing seams—a fat

  old farm-wife

  with the eyes of a wolf—the goddess of the witchcraft,

  Hekate.

  And so through the night in the palace of Kreon

  the revels ran on,

  the slave in black, Ipnolebes, watching with eyes

  like smoke.

  Thus swiftly, shamefully married—or so it seemed

  to many—

  the lord of the Argonauts turned on his children and

  wife, his mind

  supported by high-sounding reasons and noble

  intentions. Near dawn,

  when the storm had grown steady, prepared to continue

  for days, it seemed,

  the lord led his bride to the marriage bed—a cavernous

  room

  scented like a funeral chamber with flowers and

  crammed wall to wall

  with the gifts of Kreon, his vassals and allies. Strong

  guards, black slaves,

  took posts by the door to protect the pair from

  impious eyes,

  and kings melodious with wine sang the hymeneal.

  Then I saw

  on the lip of Corinth’s harbor—high and dry on logs and sheltered from the storm by a long dark barn—

  the proud-necked Argo,

  blacker than midnight, on her bows a virl of

  gleaming silver

  like the drapery carved on a casket’s sides. It loomed

  enormous

  in the barn’s thick night, oars stacked and roped on

  the rowing benches,

  sails rolled below—all waiting like a gun. White

  crests of waves,

  plangent as the roaring storm, came climbing the

  steep rock slope

  calling the ship out to sea. I could feel in my bones,

  that night,

  that the Argo was alive, though sleeping—the whole

  black night alive,

  like a forest in springtime watching for the first grim

  stirring of bears.

  Then gray dawn came—the Corinthian women sewed

  on in silence,

  Medeia like marble, in her thirst for revenge

  hydroptic, as if bitten

  by the dispas serpent whose fangs leave a thirst not

  all the water

  in the world can quench. Her heavy old slave

  Agapetika prayed

  at the shrine in her room, stubbornly, futilely

  urging her will

  ’gainst Fate’s rock wall. The male slave fed the children,

  keeping them

  far from their mother, his mind abstracted, his stiff,

  knobbed fingers

  automatic, even his reproaches automatic, holding

  those quarrelsome

  voices to a whisper—for something of the crepitating

  anger in the house

  had reached their sleep, had filled them with suspicions

  and obscure fears,

  so that now, whatever the old man’s labors, there were

  sharp cries of “Stop!”

  and “Hand it back to me!” If Medeia heard them,

  she revealed no sign.

  In the palace, though he’d hardly slept, the Argonaut

  opened his eyes,

  suddenly remembering, and raised up in his bed,

  leaning on an elbow,

  to gaze through arches eagerly, as he’d gazed in

  his youth

  to the north and west on some nameless island, hoping

  for a break

  in the stretch of bad weather that pinned him to land,

  the black ship hawsered,

  dragged half its length up on shore for protection from

  the breakers’ blows.

  Rain was still falling, the mountains in the distance

  as gray as the sea,

  the sky like a corpse, bloodless, praeternaturally hushed.

  He must wait

  for the king to rise, wait for old Kreon in his own

  good time

  to relinquish the sceptre. There were th
ings to be done—

  mad Idas and his men

  wasting in the dungeon—a dangerous mistake indeed,

  he knew,

  the fierce brother watching from a hundred miles off,

  with motionless eyes.

  Above, Kreon was awake, old man who never slept. He stood at the balusters, peering intently at the city

  as his slaves

  powdered and patted him, dressed him in the royal

  attire he’d wear

  this morning for the last time. They put on his corselet

  of bronze,

  his glittering helmet, his footguards and shin-greaves,

  finally his gauntlets,

  and over his bronze-armed shoulders they draped his

  purple cloak,

  and they placed in his hand his jewel-studded sceptre.

  Then, armed

  as well as a man can be against powers from

  underground,

  the king descended to the hall where his counsellors

  and officers waited,

  and tall guards stiffly at attention, hands on sword-hilts.

  He eyed

  his retinue, sullenly brooding, and gave them a nod.

  Then, chaired

  by slaves, canopied from rain, he went down to the

  dark house of Jason.

  She came to meet him at the gate. The old man

  feared to go nearer,

  finding her dressed all in black, her eyes too quiet.

  The rain

  drenched her in a moment; she seemed to be wholly

  unaware of it.

  He raised his sceptre, a protection from Almighty Zeus

  against charms

  and spells.

  In the presence of nobles, in the lead-gray

  rain, he said:

  “Woman whose eyes scowl forth thy dangerous rage

  against Jason—

  daughter of mad King Aietes—I bid thee go hence

  from this land,

  exiled forever, and thy two sons with thee. Neither

  find excuses

  for tarrying longer. I’ve come here in person to see

  that the sentence

  is fulfilled, and I’ll not turn homeward again till I see

  thee cast forth

  from the outer limits of my kingdom.”

  So he spoke, and Medeia stared through him, her spirit staggering, but her body like a rock. “Now my

  destruction

  is complete,” she whispered. “My enemies all bear

  down on me

  full sail, and no safe landing-place from ruin.”

  But at once,

  steeling herself, only the tips of her fingers touching

  the vine-thick gatepost of stone for steadiness,

  Medeia asked:

  “For what crime do you banish me, Kreon?”

  “I fear you,” he said. “I needn’t mince words. I fear you may do to my child

  and throne

  some mischief too terrible for cure. I have reason

  enough for that dread.

  You are subtle, deep-versed in evil lore. Losing the love of your husband, you are much aggrieved. Moreover,

  it’s said you threaten

  not only vengeance on your husband but also on his

  bride and on me.

  It’s surely my duty to guard against all such strokes.

  Far better

  to earn full measure of your hatred at once than

  relent now

  and repent it hereafter.” Though his words were stern

  and his lower teeth

  laid bare, I could see no hatred in him. His fear of

  the woman

  was plain to see, yet he seemed more harried than

  wrathful.

  She said:

  “Not for the first time, Kreon, has gossipping opinion

  wronged me

  and brought me shame and agony. Woe to the man who

  teaches

  arts more subtle than those of the herd! Bring to

  the ignorant

  new learning and they judge you not learned but

  a dangerous trouble-maker;

  and both to those untaught and to those who pretend

  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 bafflemen
t 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.

 

‹ Prev