Jason and Medeia

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Jason and Medeia Page 48

by John Gardner


  jealousy rages

  like a forest fire.”

  “It was not that that stopped you. I am a foreigner, and middle-aged. I cease to serve

  your pride.”

  His square fists tightened on the bars, and I

  could hardly blame

  his anger at the woman’s unreasonableness. Though his

  jaw-muscles twitched,

  he still spoke gently: “Medeia, lady—”

  At the word, her face went white, her emotion like crackling fire. “Go!”

  she screamed.

  “Run, drunken lover! You linger too long from your

  new bride’s chamber.

  Go and be happy! May your marriage soon prove

  a pleasure you’d fain

  renounce.” Then, sobbing, she fled into the house.

  He turned heavily

  and made his way back up the worn stone steps

  to the palace.

  Not long did she weep in her fury at Jason. In her room, the oak

  door closed

  on the sewing women, she gathered from secret places

  her herbs

  and drugs, and above all the coriander for conjuring. Taking a ring she had lately received from a

  wealthy king

  named Algeus, father of Theseus—a man who’d

  travelled

  from a distant land for theurgic cure of his sterility— she placed the ring on a silver dish and murmured

  his name.

  Soon the bejewelled ring began to move. When it came

  by its own energy to the rim of the dish, the gate-ring

  clanged,

  and Medeia called to have Aigeus shown in. He arrived

  with a look

  befuddled and amused, unable to think for the life

  of him

  what had brought him here in such weather. Soon she

  had told him all

  her tragedy, and old King Aigeus, kindest of men,

  was promising

  sanctuary in his own far-distant land. He said, pulling at his beard with his wrinkled hands, “But come,

  King Kreon

  banishes you, and Jason allows it? Most base!

  Most base!”

  “His voice protests,” she said, “yet he thinks it best

  to endure it.”

  “Shameful!” King Aigeus said, and again offered

  sanctuary.

  “Perhaps if you’d swear a solemn oath to me—”

  she began.

  “You mistrust me, child? Tell me what fear still

  troubles you.”

  She touched his two hands. “I trust you, but the house

  of Pelias hates me,

  and Kreon as well. Bound by oaths, you could never

  yield me

  if ever they came to drag me from you. Bound by

  mere words,

  not solemn oaths, you’d have no defense and would

  yield to their summons

  perforce. They are powerful kings, my lord.”

  He stared above her head, mumbling: “What need for such far-sighted

  prudence here?”

  But at once he said, “I’ll do as you wish, Medeia. Name

  your gods.”

  She said: “Swear by the earth below, and the sun, my grandfather, and the whole vast race of the

  deathless gods…”

  “To perform what?—or resist what?”

  “Never yourself to expel me from your land or willingly yield me

  to enemies

  so long as you still bear life.”

  He said: “By the firm earth, by the sun’s light, and by all the gods, I swear all this, and if I fail to abide by my oath, may the gods send

  down on me

  the doom reserved for sacrilege.”

  Medeia nodded, clasping his hand. “Go thy way with my blessing,”

  she said,

  “I’m fully content.” Aigeus descended to the street,

  his heart

  grieved for Aietes’ daughter, and full of uneasiness.

  Down by the water in the sail-tent slum there were

  angry stirrings,

  huge men moving from fire to fire, hunkering for

  warmth

  in the roaring storm, and grimly exchanging the

  latest news.

  There lay a new ship there, I saw—a long, gray warship.

  I kept my distance, my right hand darkly swollen

  and throbbing

  from our last encounter. Gradually, in their restless

  shifting

  I began to see patterns, some plan taking shape. A

  few at a time,

  from various parts of the wide, tented harbor, the

  sailors began

  to move through the rain into Kreon’s city. They

  paused at the doors

  of shops, smiling in from beneath drenched hoods. They

  called out to children,

  gave greeting to snarling curs at the mouths of alleys,

  and so

  by imperceptible stages surrounded the palace,

  toward nightfall,

  taking positions, like lengthening shadows, then

  vanishing.

  In the vine-hung house, the work of the women was

  finished now—

  a delicate robe and wreath of gold, the most splendid

  attire

  that was ever seen on earth. Medeia’s fingers traced the invisible seams; her eyes drank in the boundless

  landscape

  figured in the cloth by Argus’ art. She said: “Now,

  women,

  My revenge is near at hand. I’ll tell you the whole of

  my purpose,

  though not much pleasure will you take in what I tell.

  I will go

  to Jason tonight with his precious sons, and when

  he receives us,

  I’ll speak soft words, claiming I’ve come to understand,

  myself,

  that his plan is wise and just. Then gently, with

  passionate tears,

  I’ll entreat that my sons may remain in Corinth,

  though I may not,

  and beg that he grant them permission to carry my gifts

  to the princess

  to soften her heart and her father’s. If the lady accepts

  these presents—

  this gown and wreath of gold—and if she dresses

  in them,

  she’ll die horribly, and all who touch her, for with fell

  poisons

  the cloth will be anointed. And now the darkest part. If Jason, in a futile attempt to save his dying princess, touches the girl and dies himself, my revenge is ended, even in my heart. I’ll carry him away in a dragon chariot conjured out of ashes, and bury his remains in a

  tumulus befitting

  a prince so noble; and I’ll weep and lament as I would

  if he’d died

  for me, and I’ll honor his memory. But if Jason lives, having watched his princess die, having taken no risk

  for her,

  held back by prudence—Jason to the last the invincible

  sea-fox—

  thus will I bring down ruin upon him: I’ll murder

  his sons.”

  The Corinthian women all cried out at once, but

  Medeia said quickly:

  “Nothing can save them. I’ve sworn with solemn oaths

  to do all

  I’ve said. I will wreck the house of Jason to the

  last beam,

  then flee the ground of my dear children’s blood. So be it.

  Flee and live on for what? you may ask. No home,

  no country,

  no refuge from grief … Nevertheless, live on I will, stripped of illusions, apparent joys, false, foolish hopes, my teeth bared to the blackness on every side, like poor mad Idas, who knew from the beginning. Feeble and

&
nbsp; poor of spirit

  let no one think me, nor indolent, taking the world

  as it comes.

  Say that Medeia was of use to friends and to enemies

  dangerous,

  sure as the seasons, remorseless as nipping,

  back-cracking cold.”

  Timidly then one woman spoke: “Medeia, lady, all of us here love justice, surely, and would willingly

  help you,

  betrayed as you are. But this! All the laws of gods

  and men—”

  “I forgive your words of censure. You’re not as

  wronged as I am.”

  “And can you find it in your heart to kill your

  children, Medeia?”

  “I can find no other way to bring my husband down.”

  “Making yourself, in the same stroke, the unhappiest

  of wives!”

  “Yes. But the vow is sworn. All future words are

  waste.”

  And so, attended by her two old slaves, her hands

  closed firmly

  on her children’s hands, Medeia walked that night

  through the violent storm to the palace

  of Kreon—now of Jason. They waited

  while guards went in for instructions. Old Kreon shook

  with fright,

  his small eyes widened, convinced that his house must

  be filled to the beams

  with devils, with Medeia so near. But Jason persuaded

  him at last

  to allow the party entrance—for better to know

  her mood,

  attend to her threats, if she made any, than seek to

  guard

  ’gainst possibilities as ubiquarian as air. The guards went out; old Kreon and his daughter left the hall,

  retiring

  for safety, at Jason’s request, to their separate chambers.

  And now

  the carved door opened again, and there Medeia stood, her two young sons beside her, clinging in fright to her

  hands.

  She shook back her hood without touching it—a gesture

  graceful

  and accidentally defiant. Her hair came blazing into

  view,

  bright as the sun, and the kings were hushed by awe.

  She went

  to Jason, leading his children, and in front of his chair

  she kneeled

  like a suppliant. The two old slaves stood near.

  She said: “Jason, I entreat you, forgive those words I spoke

  in anger.

  You must bear with me in my passionate moods,

  for was there not

  much love between us once? I’ve been reasoning

  through your claims,

  my brain less feverish now, less egomaniac— less like my poor mad father’s—and I see that your

  plan is right.

  I chide myself: Why this madness, Medeia? Why this

  anger

  at the land’s rulers, and the lord who acts for your own

  good

  and the children’s? Why this sorrow? Is heaven not

  once again

  proved kind? Have you forgotten, woman, that the four

  of you

  are friendless exiles bound to fight in whatever way you can for survival? So, by stages, I’ve come to

  myself

  and have seen how dangerously foolish I was. So now

  I’ve come

  to grant my approval of all you’ve done, and to beg your

  forgiveness.

  It was I myself who was wrong; you were not. I should

  have shared

  in your plans and lent you aid; I should have

  countenanced

  the match and ministered joyfully to your bride. But

  we are

  as we are—I will not say evil, but—women. You were

  wise, as always,

  refusing to vie with me, matching folly against folly.

  My spirit

  is saner now. I yield to you and confess, I was wrong.” Then, to the children: “Sons, speak to your father. Be

  reconciled.

  Let this terrible battle between dear friends be ended.” Weeping, she raised their hands to Jason’s knees, and

  Jason

  took them, clasping them fondly, his eyes full of tears.

  No wonder

  if his heart refused, that instant, to believe it treachery.

  He said: “Lady, most noble of all women living, I praise you now beyond all praise in the past. And I gladly excuse your

  anger.

  Small wonder if a woman’s wrath be kindled when her

  husband turns

  to another wife. But now your mood’s more sane, and

  you

  perceive, though late, where our welfare lies. And you,

  my sons,

  away with these tears! For I dare to hope—the gods

  willing—

  you’ll be rich and powerful yet in Corinth. Grow strong!

  Leave all

  the rest in your father’s hands. May I live to see you

  reach

  the prime of youthful vigor, envy of my enemies!”

  He paused, studying Medeia. “Why these fresh tears?”

  he said.

  “Why this turning away of your face?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “My heart was brooding on the children.”

  “But why in such terrible sorrow?” “I bore them. And when you prayed just now that they

  reach their prime,

  a sad foreboding came over me, a fear of the future.” He looked at her, his face thoughtful and sorrowful at

  once.

  “Take heart, Medeia,” he said. They shall not lack my

  protection.”

  She nodded. “I will, husband, and will not mistrust your

  words.

  —But of that which I came here to say I’ve said only a

  part, my lord.

  Let me say now the rest: Since it’s Kreon’s will that I be banished—and I grant that’s best, vexatious to

  Kreon’s house

  and to you—I will go into exile. But as for our two

  dear sons,

  I beg you, let Kreon not banish them, nor banish them

  yourself,

  since you’ve won more power in this hall than you like

  to admit. Let them live

  in Corinth, reared in the palace, so that no one may

  doubt the right

  you’ve promised them.”

  “I doubt I have power sufficient to move him so far, Medeia,” he said, “though I may have such power

  in theory.

  And yet I’ll try.”

  “Let your bride entreat him, for surely then—” “I will, yes.” He thought about it for a moment,

  frowning.

  “I may persuade her.”

  “You will, if the woman’s like other women. And I’ll help you, Jason. I’ll send our children with gifts

  for her,

  a golden gown and wreath so beautiful no living mortal has seen their match.” She turned to the slave

  Agapetika

  and took those gifts from the old woman’s hands. The

  old woman’s eyes

  threw a wild appeal to Jason, but she could not speak,

  her tongue

  turned stone by Medeia’s spell. Medeia said, “She’ll be

  blessed

  a thousandfold, winning you, most splendid of heroes,

  for her spouse

  and dowered with treasures from Helios.” And then, to

  her sons:

  “Children, take these gifts in your hands and carry them

  to her

  as your father directs. They’re gifts no woman could

  refuse.”

  But Jason held back in fear, having recognized the cloth. He said, casting about for some s
tratagem by which he might be more sure of her, “No, wait, Medeia! Why cast away this finest of treasures?—for surely that cloth is the

  fleece from Aia.

  The princess has robes and gold enough. Keep it for

  yourself,

  a sure protection from hardship and suffering in exile.

  If my bride

  esteems me at all, she’ll prize my wish beyond any

  mere treasure.”

  Medeia said, “My lord, I have not chosen lightly these gifts I bring.” Sadly, solemnly, she met his eyes. “How is a woman to prove to the man she’s given her life that, following his wish, she renounces all earthly claim

  to him?

  This cloth was, to me, chief proof and symbol of our

  steadfast love.

  Giving it away—that which I prize beyond all other

  wealth—

  I give you away, my husband, and all our past together, for our sons. To me, it’s a gift no less than Khalkiope

  gave

  for hers. Do not shame me, or reduce me to

  insignificance,

  by refusing this queenly gesture. I’m left with no other

  I can make.

  You know me, Jason. Have mercy on my pride. I’d give

  my life,

  not merely gold, to save my sons from banishment.”

  Then Jason believed her, and, placing the golden

  gown and wreath

  in his two sons’ hands, he said, “Wait here, and we’ll

  test the power

  of your gifts at once,” and he rose to lead them to

  Pyripta’s room.

  Medeia said, “Children, speak bravely when you meet

  with your father’s new bride,

  my mistress now, and beg her to save you from

  banishment.

  And don’t forget: with her own hands she must receive

  our presents.

  Hurry now, and the gods be with you! Return to me soon with the news I’m eager to hear.”

  Then the children left with Jason, the old male slave attending. The sea-kings watched

  them leave,

  no man daring a whisper. In time they returned again, and Jason said, “You’ve done well, Medeia. Your sons

  are spared.

  The royal bride has received your gifts with gracious

  hands.

  Henceforth I hope for peace between our family’s

  branches.”

  He studied her, baffled despite all his years of

  knowledge of her,

  his mind clouded by the thought that the fleece was

  still with him, his curse.

  “Why so distraught?”

  “A pain, my lord.”

  “Such moans seem strange when I bring you joyful news.”

  She covered her eyes, groaning. He said, now deeply troubled, “Can there be in what

  you’ve done

 

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