by Daisy Dunn
LEADER. Open, and thou shalt see thy children’s doom.
JASON. Ho, thralls! Unloose me yonder bars! Make more
Of speed! Wrench out the jointing of the door.
And show my two-edged curse, the children dead,
The woman… Oh, this sword upon her head…
[While the Attendants are still battering at the door
MEDEA appears on the roof, standing on a chariot of
winged Dragons, in which are the children’s bodies.]
MEDEA. What make ye at my gates? Why batter ye
With brazen bars, seeking the dead and me
Who slew them? Peace!… And thou, if aught of mine
Thou needest, speak, though never touch of thine
Shall scathe me more. Out of his firmament
My fathers’ father, the high Sun, hath sent
This, that shall save me from mine enemies’ rage.
JASON. Thou living hate! Thou wife in every age
Abhorrèd, blood-red mother, who didst kill
My sons, and make me as the dead: and still
Canst take the sunshine to thine eyes, and smell
The green earth, reeking from thy deed of hell;
I curse thee! Now, Oh, now mine eyes can see,
That then were blinded, when from savagery
Of eastern chambers, from a cruel land,
To Greece and home I gathered in mine hand
Thee, thou incarnate curse: one that betrayed
Her home, her father, her… Oh, God hath laid
Thy sins on me!—I knew, I knew, there lay
A brother murdered on thy hearth that day
When thy first footstep fell on Argo’s hull…
Argo, my own, my swift and beautiful!
That was her first beginning. Then a wife
I made her in my house. She bore to life
Children: and now for love, for chambering
And men’s arms, she hath murdered them! A thing
Not one of all the maids of Greece, not one,
Had dreamed of; whom I spurned, and for mine own
Chose thee, a bride of hate to me and death,
Tigress, not woman, beast of wilder breath
Than Skylla shrieking o’er the Tuscan sea.
Enough! No scorn of mine can reach to thee,
Such iron is o’er thine eyes. Out from my road,
Thou crime-begetter, blind with children’s blood!
And let me weep alone the bitter tide
That sweepeth Jason’s days, no gentle bride
To speak with more, no child to look upon
Whom once I reared… all, all for ever gone!
MEDEA. An easy answer had I to this swell
Of speech, but Zeus our father knoweth well,
All I for thee have wrought, and thou for me.
So let it rest. This thing was not to be,
That thou shouldst live a merry life, my bed
Forgotten and my heart uncomforted,
Thou nor thy princess: nor the king that planned
Thy marriage drive Medea from his land,
And suffer not. Call me what thing thou please,
Tigress or Skylla from the Tuscan seas:
My claws have gripped thine heart, and all things shine.
JASON. Thou too hast grief. Thy pain is fierce as mine.
MEDEA. I love the pain, so thou shalt laugh no more.
JASON. Oh, what a womb of sin my children bore!
MEDEA. Sons, did ye perish for your father’s shame?
JASON. How? It was not my hand that murdered them.
MEDEA. ’Twas thy false wooings, ’twas thy trampling pride.
JASON. Thou hast said it! For thy lust of love they died.
MEDEA. And love to women a slight thing should be?
JASON. To women pure!—All thy vile life to thee!
MEDEA. Think of thy torment. They are dead, they are dead!
JASON. No: quick, great God; quick curses round thy head!
MEDEA. The Gods know who began this work of woe.
JASON. Thy heart and all its loathliness they know.
MEDEA. Loathe on… But, Oh, thy voice. It hurts me sore.
JASON. Aye, and thine me. Wouldst hear me then no more?
MEDEA. How? Show me but the way. ’Tis this I crave.
JASON. Give me the dead to weep, and make their grave.
MEDEA. Never! Myself will lay them in a still
Green sepulchre, where Hera by the Hill
Hath precinct holy, that no angry men
May break their graves and cast them forth again
To evil. So I lay on all this shore
Of Corinth a high feast for evermore
And rite, to purge them yearly of the stain
Of this poor blood. And I, to Pallas’ plain
I go, to dwell beside Pandion’s son,
Aegeus.—For thee, behold, death draweth on,
Evil and lonely, like thine heart: the hands
Of thine old Argo, rotting where she stands,
Shall smite thine head in twain, and bitter be
To the last end thy memories of me.
[She rises on the chariot and is slowly borne away.]
ARIADNE AND THESEUS
‘Poem 64’
Catullus
Translated by Daisy Dunn, 2016
Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos of Crete, has woken alone on the shore of Naxos. She helped an Athenian stranger, Theseus, to navigate a labyrinth to kill her monstrous half-brother, the Minotaur, only to find herself abandoned by him after becoming his lover. The Latin love poet Catullus (c. 82 BC–c. 53 BC), who was born into a wealthy family from Verona and worked in Rome in the mid-first century BC, presented this story as the decoration on a bedspread. We are to imagine each scene as though it were embroidered. Hence the wine god Bacchus is said to fly in ‘from another part of the cloth’. Catullus was left broken-hearted when his own lover, Lesbia, abandoned him. He clearly empathised with miserable Ariadne. In the sixteenth century the artist Titian used this story as the inspiration for his exquisite painting Bacchus and Ariadne.
On the quietly shifting shore of Naxos
Ariadne watches Theseus
Fading with fast fleet and bears at heart
Fears she cannot temper.
Not yet does she believe she is seeing
What she is seeing,
Barely woken from sleep that deceived
To discover she is abandoned
And pitiful and alone on lonely sands.
But the young man is forgetful and fleeing
And pushes the waves away with oars,
Leaving his promises unfulfilled to the tempest that is stirring.
From afar atop the seaweed, with sad little eyes,
The daughter of Minos watches, ah she watches
Him, like a stone sculpture of a bacchant.
She ebbs on currents swollen with pain,
Losing hold
On the fine band on her fair head
And the cloth that envelops her body in a gentle clinch
And the rounded bra that bounds her milky breasts.
All the coverings which have fallen from her body everywhere
The salt waves make sport of at her feet.
But neither headband nor fluttering veils vexed her
When in the fullness of her heart
She was missing you, Theseus,
With her every thought, in the fullness of her heart
Clinging to you, completely lost.
Poor girl, how Venus felled her with never-ending grief,
Sowing thorny worries in her heart
From the moment Theseus determined
A departure from the port of Piraeus on Athens’ arced shore
And reached the palace of the unjust king of Crete.
For they say that Athens, plagued by damnation
To pay the penalty for the murder of Androgeos,
Woul
d at one time provide its pick of youths
And glory of maidens as a feast for the Minotaur.
The fledgling city was suffering the consequences
When Theseus chose to yield his own body
For precious Athens so the living dead of Cecrops
Should not be carried to such deaths in Crete.
And so he put his trust in a light ship and gentle breeze
And came before haughty Minos
And his magnificent enclosure.
The moment the virgin princess clapped her
Widening eyes upon him –
Her pure little bed was still protecting her in a soft
And motherly embrace, breathing sweetly
Over her the flagrant breath
Of myrtle such as the River Eurotas puts forth
Or the breeze spring plucks from flowers of many colours –
And averted her hot eyes from him only when
Her whole body had caught the flame of love
And she burned deep inside to the depths of her marrow.
Wretchedly rousing passions in his cruel heart,
Divine Cupid, weaver of joys with worries among men,
And Venus, ruler of the Golgians and leafy Idalium.
On what waves you inflamed the girl, threw her
From her wits, as she sighed for her fair guest
With breath upon breath.
How huge the fears she carried in her wearied heart.
How many times she paled beyond gleaming gold,
When putting his mind to conquering the savage monster
Theseus sought either death or the fruits of glory.
Promising little gifts to the gods that were not unwelcome
But futile nonetheless, she mouthed vows silently.
Like an oak tree or cone-bearing pine with seeping bark
Shaking its branches on the heights of Mount Taurus
Whose twisting trunk a storm uproots in a flash –
And the tree, torn from the roots,
Falls prostrate and far
Breaking whatever lies in its broad path –
So Theseus laid the beast low, conquering its force
While it tossed its horns ineffectually to the empty breeze.
From there and high on glory the stranger retraced his path,
Steering his wandering course with the delicate thread
So the deception of the enclosure should not defeat him
As he departed from meandering turns of the labyrinth.
But come, I digress from my primary song,
Recollecting further how the girl departed
From the face of her father, the embrace of her sister,
And finally her mother, who tried wretchedly
To feel happy for her lost daughter, who put above
Them all her sweet love for Theseus;
Or how she came to the foaming shore of Naxos
By boat; or how her partner abandoned her as she
Was buried in sleep, sailing away,
Forgetful through and through.
They say that, raging in the passion in her heart,
She would release deeply felt and audible words,
Then climbed the steep mountains in sadness
To extend from there her view over the vast swell
Of sea, then sallied forth into the salt waves
Dancing before her and raising her soft clothes
To bear her calves, uttered in sorrow these final complaints,
Preparing cold little sobs on wet lips:
‘Was it for this I was taken from my father’s hearth, traitor,
For you to leave me on an empty shore, traitor, Theseus?
So you leave me, heedless of the gods’ authority,
Forgetful, ah. Do you carry home your perjured vows?
Could nothing alter the intention in your cruel mind?
Could there be no mercy to tempt you to take
Pity on me for all your hardness of heart?
These were not the promises you once made
Me in a warming tone, these are not what you bade
My wretchedness to hope for, but a happy marriage,
Longed-for wedding songs, everything
The wandering breezes have scattered vain.
May no woman now believe a man when he makes a promise,
May no woman hope the words of her man are true.
While their minds are desirous, desperate to obtain something,
They are afraid of swearing nothing,
There is nothing they won’t promise.
But as soon as the lust in their desirous minds is sated,
They remember none of their words,
Have no fear of perjury.
There’s no doubt I seized you as you tossed
Mid death throes, and more than that I elected to lose
My half-brother rather than fail you,
Deceitful man, in your final hour.
For that I am to be torn apart by beasts and given to birds
As prey – and no mound of earth will be piled upon my corpse.
What kind of lioness bore you beneath a lonely rock,
What sea conceived you and spat you out from its foaming waves,
What Syrtis, what fierce Scylla, what monstrous Charybdis,
You, who offer such returns for your sweet life?
If a marriage to me was not in your heart
Because you feared the savage reprimands of your aged father
You might still have led me to your home
To be a slave to you in a joyous labour,
Washing your white feet with pure water,
Spreading your bed with a purple bedspread.
But I have been felled by trouble so why pile
Fruitless complaints on the dumb winds which lack
The feelings to hear
My words and respond in kind?
He is almost mid ocean now,
No human shape is visible on dull seaweed.
So far does cruel fate mock me in my desperate
Times and begrudge even ears to my complaints.
All-powerful Jupiter, I wish the ships of Cecrops
Had not touched the shores of Cnossos in the first place,
That the traitor, bringing a gruesome tribute to
The ungovernable bull, had not tethered his ship in Crete,
That the evil man did not hide his cruel plans
Behind a handsome exterior
And stay here as a guest in our home.
For where can I take myself now?
What kind of hope can I cling to? I am lost.
Shall I make for the mountains of Ida?
But the savage sea divides, separates me
From them, swirling far and wide.
Or should I expect my father to help me?
Did I not leave him as I pursued a young man
Spattered with my brother’s blood?
Or should I console myself
With the loyalty and love of a husband,
A man who flees, bending heavy oars in the swirling sea?
Worse, I am on a lonely island, a shore with no shelter,
And no way out reveals itself on the circling waves of water.
There is no means of escape, no hope. Everything is silent.
Everything deserted; everything points to death.
But my eyes will not fall shut on me in death,
My senses will not leave my wearied body
Until I demand from the gods rich justice for my betrayal
And in my final hour pray for the loyalty of the gods.
So Eumenides, punishers and avengers of the crimes
Of men, your forehead, fringed with snaky hair,
Exposing the anger exhaled from your chest,
Here, come here, hear my complaints,
Which I am forced in my wretched helplessness
To pour from the depths of my marrow, blazing,
Bli
nded by mindless madness.
As these truths are born from the bottom of my heart
Please do not allow my grief to turn to dust,
But with the kind of heart Theseus had when he left me,
Goddesses, may he destroy himself and his family.’
After she poured these words from her sad breast,
Troubled, demanding punishment for wicked deeds,
The ruler of the gods
Whose authority goes unchallenged
Nodded his agreement,
At the movement of which the
Earth and choppy seas trembled
And the firmament shook its gleaming stars.
But as for Theseus, his mind gripped by murky darkness,
He released from his forgetful heart all the instructions
Which hitherto he was guarding permanently in his mind,
Nor raising the sweet signs to his sad father
Did he show that he had seen the port of Athens safely.
For they say that once, when Aegeus entrusted his son
To the winds as he left the goddess’ walls in his ship,
He embraced the young man and gave him these instructions:
‘My only son, dearer to me than life’s length,
Son, whom I am forced to send into an uncertain situation,
Returned to me only recently at the height of my old age,
Since my fate and your determined virtue snatch you
Away from me against my will, though my tired eyes are
Not yet drunk with the dear shape of my son,
I shall not send you rejoicing with a happy heart
Or allow you to carry the signs of good fortune,
But first I shall free my heart of countless laments,
And pour soil over my white hair and defile it with ash,
Then hang dyed sails from my bending mast
So that sails dipped in Iberian rust may proclaim
This grief of mine, this blaze in my head.
But if Minerva of sacred Itonus, who agreed to defend our race
And the seat of Erechtheus, allows you to sprinkle your
Right hand with the blood of the bull,
Then see that these commands endure,
Kept safe in your remembering heart –
May no time erase them.
As soon as your eyes light upon our hills
Drop each black cloth from the yards
And let your twisted ropes hoist white sails
So as soon as possible I may see them and know
True happiness in my heart, as the blessed
Hour brings you back to me.’
These instructions, which until now Theseus was holding
Constantly in his thoughts, seeped away
Like clouds struck by a blast of wind
From the high summit of a snowy mountain.
