Attendant
Thy children, lady, are from exile freed, and gladly did the royal bride accept thy gifts in her own hands, and so thy children made their peace with her.
Medea
Ah!
1005
1
Attendant
Why art so disquieted in thy prosperous hour? Why turnest thou thy cheek away, and hast no welcome for my glad news?
Medea
Ah me!
Attendant
These groans but ill accord with the news I bring.
Medea
Ah me! once more I say.
Attendant
Have I unwittingly announced some evil tidings?
Have I erred in thinking my news was good?
1010
Medea
Thy news is as it is; I blame thee not.
Attendant
Then why this downcast eye, these floods of tears?
Medea
Old friend, needs must I weep; for the gods and I with fell intent devised these schemes.
Attendant
Be of good cheer; thou too of a surety shalt by thy sons yet be brought home again.
1015
Medea
Ere that shall I bring others to their home, ah! woe is me!
Attendant
Thou art not the only mother from thy children reft. Bear patiently thy troubles as a mortal must.
Medea
I will obey; go thou within the house
and make the day’s provision for the children. O my babes, my babes, ye have still a city and a home, where far from me and my sad lot you will live your lives, reft of your mother for ever; while I must to another land in banishment,
1020
or ever I have had my joy of you, or lived to see you happy, or ever I have graced your marriage couch, your bride, your bridal bower, or lifted high the wedding torch. Ah me! a victim of my own self-will. So it was all in vain I reared you, O my sons;
1025
in vain did suffer, racked with anguish, enduring the cruel pangs of childbirth. ’Fore Heaven I once had hope, poor me! high hope of ye that you would nurse me in my age and deck my corpse with loving hands,
1030
a boon we mortals covet; but now is my sweet fancy dead and gone; for I must lose you both and in bitterness and sorrow drag through life. And ye shall never with fond eyes see your mother more, for o’er your life there comes a change.
1035
Ah me! ah me! why do ye look at me so, my children? why smile that last sweet smile? Ah me! what am I to do? My heart gives way when I behold my children’s laughing eyes. Ο, I cannot; farewell to all my former schemes;
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I will take the children from the land, the babes I bore. Why should I wound their sire by wounding them, and get me a twofold measure of sorrow? No, no, I will not do it. Farewell my scheming!
1045
1049
And yet what am I coming to? Can I consent
to let those foes of mine escape from punishment, and incur their mockery? I must face this deed. Out upon my craven heart! to think that I should even have let the soft
2
words escape my soul. Into the house, children! and whoso feels he must not be present at my sacrifice,
1050
must see to it himself; I will not spoil my handiwork. Ah! ah! do not, my heart, O do not do this deed! Let the children go, unhappy one, spare the babes! For if they live, they will cheer thee in our exile there.
3
Nay, by the fiends of hell’s abyss,
1055
never, never will I hand my children over to their foes to mock and flout. Die they must in any case, and since ’tis so, why I, the mother who bore them, will give the fatal blow. In any case their doom is fixed and there is no escape.
1060
Already the crown is on her head, the robe is round her, and she is dying, the royal bride; that do I know full well. But now since I have a piteous path to tread, and yet more piteous still the path I send my children on, fain would I say farewell to them. O my babes,
1065
my babes, let your mother kiss your hands. Ah! hands I love so well, O lips most dear to me! O noble form and features of my children, I wish ye joy, but in that other land, for here your father robs you of your home. O the sweet embrace,
1070
the soft young cheek, the fragrant breath! my children! Go, leave me; I cannot bear to longer look upon ye; my sorrow wins the day. At last I understand the awful deed I am to do; but passion, that cause of direst woes to mortal man,
1075
hath triumphed o’er my sober thoughts.
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1081
Chorus
Oft ere now have I pursued subtler themes and have faced graver issues than woman’s sex should seek to probe;
but then e’en we aspire to culture, which dwells with us to teach us wisdom; I say not all; for small is the class amongst women—(one maybe shalt thou find ’mid many)— that is not incapable of culture.
1085
And amongst mortals I do assert that they who are wholly without experience and have never had children far surpass in happiness those who are parents. The childless, because they have never proved
1090
whether children grow up to be a blessing or curse to men are removed from all share in many troubles; whilst those who have a sweet race of children growing up in their houses do wear away, as I perceive,
1095
their whole life through; first with the thought how they may train them up in virtue, next how they shall leave their sons the means to live; and after all this ’tis far from clear whether on good or bad children they bestow their toil.
1100
But one last crowning woe for every mortal man I now will name; suppose that they have found sufficient means to live, and seen their children grow to man’s estate and walk in virtue’s path, still if
1105
fortune so befall,
4
comes Death and bears the children’s bodies off to Hades. Can it be any profit to the gods to heap upon us mortal men beside our other woes this further grief for children lost,
1110
a grief surpassing all?
1115
1116
Medea
Kind friends, long have I waited expectantly to know how things would at the palace chance. And lo! I see one of Jason’s servants coming hither, whose hurried gasps for breath
proclaim him the bearer of some fresh tidings.
1120
Messenger
Fly, fly, Medea! who hast wrought an awful deed, transgressing every law; nor leave behind or sea-borne bark or car that scours the plain.
Medea
Why, what hath chanced that calls for such a flight of mine?
Messenger
The princess is dead, a moment gone, and Creon too, her sire, slain by those drugs of thine.
1125
Medea
Tidings most fair are thine! Henceforth shalt thou be ranked amongst my friends and benefactors.
Messenger
Ha! What? Art sane? Art not distraught, lady,
who hearest with joy the outrage to our royal house done, and art not at the horrid tale afraid?
1130
Medea
Somewhat have I, too, to say in answer to thy words. Be not so hasty, friend, but tell the manner of their death, for thou wouldst give me double joy,
if so they perished miserably.
1135
1136
Messenger
When the children twain whom thou didst bear came with their father and entered the palace of the bride, right glad were we thralls who had shared thy griefs, for instantly from ear to ear a rumour spread
that thou and thy lord had made up your former quarrel. One kissed thy children’s hands, another their golden hair, while I for very joy went with them in person to the women’s chambers. Our mistress, whom now we do revere in thy room,
1140
cast a longing glance at Jason, ere she saw thy children twain; but then she veiled her eyes and turned her blanching cheek away, disgusted at their coming; but thy husband
1145
tried to check his young bride’s angry humour with these words:
O, be not angered ’gainst thy friends; cease from wrath and turn once more thy face this way, counting as friends whomso thy husband counts, and accept these gifts, and for my sake crave thy sire
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to remit these children’s exile. Soon as she saw the ornaments, no longer she held out, but yielded to her lord in all; and ere the father and his sons were far from the palace gone, she took the broidered robe and put it on,
1155
and set the golden crown about her tresses, arranging her hair at her bright mirror, with many a happy smile at her breathless counterfeit. Then rising from her seat she passed across the chamber, tripping lightly on her fair white foot,
1160
exulting in the gift, with many a glance at her uplifted ankle.
5
When lo! a scene of awful horror did ensue. In a moment she turned pale, reeled backwards, trembling in every limb,
1165
and sinks upon a seat scarce soon enough to save herself from falling to the ground. An aged dame, one of her company, thinking belike it was a fit from Pan
6
or some god sent, raised a cry of prayer, till from her mouth she saw the foam-flakes issue, her eyeballs
1170
rolling in their sockets, and all the blood her face desert; then did she raise a loud scream far different fiom her former cry. Forthwith one handmaid rushed to her father’s house, another to her new bridegroom to tell his bride’s sad fate,
1175
and the whole house echoed with their running to and fro.
1180
1181
By this time would a quick walker have made the turn in a course of six plethra
7
and reached the goal, when she with one awful shriek awoke, poor sufferer, from her speechless trance and oped her closed eyes,
for against her a twofold anguish was warring. The chaplet of gold about her head was sending forth a wondrous stream of ravening flame, while the fine raiment, thy children’s gift, was preying on the hapless maiden’s fair white flesh;
1185
and she starts from her seat in a blaze and seeks to fly, shaking her hair and head this way and that, to cast the crown therefrom; but the gold held firm to its fastenings, and the flame, as she shook her locks, blazed forth the more with double fury.
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Then to the earth she sinks, by the cruel blow o’ercome, past all recognition now save to a father’s eye; for her eyes had lost their tranquil gaze, her face no more its natural look preserved, and from the crown of her head blood and fire in mingled stream ran down;
1195
and from her bones the flesh kept peeling off beneath the gnawing of those secret drugs, e’en as when the pine-tree weeps its tears of pitch, a fearsome sight to see. And all were afraid to touch the corpse, for we were warned by what had chanced. Anon came her hapless father
1200
unto the house, all unwitting of her doom, and stumbles o’er the dead, and loud he cried, and folding his arms about her kissed her, with words like these the while,
O my poor, poor child, which of the gods hath destroyed thee thus foully? Who is robbing me of thee, old as I am and
1205
ripe for death? O my child, alas! would I could die with thee! He ceased his sad lament, and would have raised his aged frame, but found himself held fast by the finespun robe as ivy that clings to the branches of the bay, and then ensued a fearful struggle.
1210
He strove to rise, but she still held him back; and if ever he pulled with all his might, from off his bones his aged flesh he tore. At last he gave it up, and breathed forth his soul in awful suffering; for he could no longer master the pain.
1215
So there they lie, daughter and aged sire, dead side by side, a grievous sight that calls for tears. And as for thee, I leave thee out of my consideration, for thyself must discover a means to escape punishment. Not now for the first time I think this human life a shadow;
1220
yea, and without shrinking I will say that they amongst men who pretend to wisdom and expend deep thought on words do incur a serious charge of folly; for amongst mortals no man is happy; wealth may pour in and make
1225
one luckier than another, but none can happy be.
1230
1231
Chorus
This day the deity, it seems, will mass on Jason, as he well deserves, a heavy load of evils. Woe is thee, daughter of Creon! We pity thy sad fate, gone as thou art to Hades’ halls
as the price of thy marriage with Jason.
1235
Medea
My friends, I am resolved upon the deed; at once will I slay my children and then leave this land, without delaying long enough to hand them over to some more savage hand to butcher.
Needs must they die in any case; and since they must, I will slay them—I, the mother that bare them. O heart of mine, steel thyself! Why do I hesitate to do the awful deed that must be done? Come, take the sword, thou wretched hand of mine!
1240
Take it, and advance to the post whence starts thy life of sorrow! Away with cowardice! Give not one thought to thy babes, how dear they are or how thou art their mother This one brief day forget thy children dear, and after that lament; for though thou wilt slay them yet
1245
they were thy darlings still, and
8
am a lady of sorrows.
1250
Medea. Euripides. Edward P. Coleridge (Translator). London. 1906.
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