AEGEUS, king of Athens
CHILDREN, Jason and Medea’s two sons
MESSENGER, a slave in the royal house of Creon
Setting: The play takes place in front of Medea and Jason’s house in Corinth. Of the two entrances to the stage, one is understood to come from the royal palace where Creon and his daughter live, the other from the town and surrounding countryside.
NURSE: I wish the ship, the Argo, had never flown
to Colchis through the dark Symplegades;*1
that the timbered pines had never fallen
in the vales of Pelion*2; that hands of noble men
hadn’t rowed in search of the Golden Fleece
for Pelias.*3 For then my mistress Medea
would not have sailed to the towers of Iolcus,
struck to the heart with passion for Jason.*4
She wouldn’t have persuaded Pelias’ daughters
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to kill their father;*5 she’d not be living now
in Corinth with Jason and her children.*6 She came an exile
to this land, but all the citizens welcome her,
and for Jason she’s turned all to the good.
This provides the greatest security,
when a wife doesn’t oppose her husband.
But now all is hate, the bonds of love are sick:
A traitor to his children and my mistress,
Jason spends his nights in a royal bed;
he’s married the daughter of Creon, ruler here.
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And Medea, wretched and dishonored, calls
on his promises, invokes the strong bond
of his right hand*7 and appeals to gods to witness
the kind of recompense she gets from him.
She lies without food, flattened by her pain,
melting into tears at every instant
since she discovered how her husband wrongs her.
She won’t look up, won’t raise her eyes
from the ground. She hears her friends’ advice
no more than would a rock or ocean wave.
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Only now and then she turns her white neck
and groans to herself, groans for her own dear father,
her land and house, which she betrayed to leave
with a man who dishonors and demeans her now.
In misfortune she has come to know, poor thing,
why she should not have left her native land.
She hates the children, gets no joy from them.
I fear her, fear she’s planning something strange.*8
Her mind is oppressed and dangerous. She won’t put up
with abuse. I know her. And I fear her,
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fear she might thrust a knife through her own liver,
or kill the king and the new bride and groom
and then take on even greater misfortune.
For she inspires dread. If you make her
your enemy, no victory song for you!
But here come the children. They’re finished with
their game of ball. They have no thought for their
mother’s trouble; young minds don’t know pain.
TUTOR: Old woman, slave in my lady’s household,
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why do you stand alone outside the gates,
moaning to yourself about your troubles?
How is Medea willing to do without you?
NURSE: Old man, attendant to Jason’s children,
loyal slaves make their master’s trouble
their own; it touches their hearts.
So for me: I’m so unsettled by my grief
that longing came over me to escape out here
and tell the earth and sky my mistress’s sorrow.
TUTOR: She hasn’t stopped her crying, then—wretched woman?
NURSE: I envy you your ignorance: Her pain
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has just begun; it’s not yet in mid-course.
TUTOR: Poor fool, if I may address my mistress so.
She knows nothing of more recent trouble.
NURSE: What is it, old man? Don’t keep it to yourself.
TUTOR: Nothing. I regret what I’ve said already.
NURSE: I beg you not to hide it. I’m your fellow slave.
If I must, I’ll fold in silence what you say.
TUTOR: I heard a man talking as I drew near
the gaming tables, the place where old men sit,
near Pirene’s spring.*9 I pretended not to hear,
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but he said that Creon intends to drive
these children and their mother out,
away from Corinth. I don’t know if
his story’s right, but I hope it’s not.*10
NURSE: Will Jason allow his children to suffer so,
even if he’s quarreling with their mother?
TUTOR: Old ties make way for new. It seems
he no longer feels a duty to this house.
NURSE: Then we’re ruined if we must add new pain
to the old, before we’ve drained it dry.
TUTOR: You must keep quiet, silence your tongue.
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It’s not time yet for your mistress to know this.
NURSE: Children, do you hear what your father is?
I don’t wish his destruction: he’s my master.
But it turns out he’s a torment to his dear ones.
TUTOR: What mortal isn’t? Do you realize only now
we care for ourselves more than for our neighbors?*11
Their father, newly wed, now spurns these boys.
NURSE: (to the boys) Go into the house. All will be well, children.
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(to the tutor) You: keep them on their own as best you can.
Do not allow them near their mother’s rage.
I’ve seen her look at them with an eye as savage
as a bull’s, as if she had something in mind.
She won’t cease from her rage before she strikes.
May she harm foes at least, and not her dear ones!
(In the following scene, Medea’s lines are sung; the nurse responds in the same anapestic rhythm*12 but chanting, not singing.)
MEDEA: (heard crying aloud from inside the house) iō!
I’m so unfortunate, miserable, in pain—*13
iō moi moi! How can I end this?
NURSE: It’s like this, children dear: your mother
roils her heart, whips up her rage.
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Hurry inside, quick, into the house.
Don’t go near her, don’t enter her sight.
Beware of her savage mood
and the willful ways of her hateful mind.
Go now, get inside, quick as you can.
(The tutor leads the children into the house.)
The cloud of her grief loomed large
from the start and will soon catch fire
with thunderous rage.*14 What will she do
once her spirit, passionate and restless,
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is bitten by her troubles?
MEDEA: (from inside) aiai!
My suffering, my misery! The world
should weep for what I’ve suffered! Curse you,
sons of a despised mother! May you die!
Your father, too. May the whole household fall to ruin.
NURSE: (speaking as though to Medea inside) iō moi moi, iō my woe!
Why must your children share the blame
for their father’s offence? Why hate them?
Children, my fear for you pains me so:
a terrible thing, the temper of the mighty.
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They have great power and few command them,
and so their moods may make violent shifts.
It’s better to learn to live
among equals. For myself, at least,
I’d wish to grow old securely,
without greatness. Moderation sounds best<
br />
on the tongue; its practice wins
the greatest gain. Excess can bring
no advantage to men; it delivers
even greater destruction to a house
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already plagued by god’s anger.
(A Chorus of Corinthian women enter from the direction of the town, singing.)*15
CHORUS: I keep hearing her voice, her cry,
the unhappy woman from Colchis.
Is she not calm yet?
Tell us, old woman. An attendant*16 said
she’s been crying out loud,
inside the house. I feel no pleasure
at the pain there,
since friendship binds us.
NURSE: There is no house: that’s gone now.
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He has his marriage to the royal line;
she’s in her room, her life wasting away;
my mistress takes no comfort
from the words of her friends.
MEDEA: (heard from inside) aiai,
Let lightning split my head
apart! What use to me to live?
pheu, pheu, let me die and be free.
Let me leave behind my hated life.
strophe
CHORUS: Do you hear, Zeus, Earth, and Light,
the song of pain she sings,
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the wretched wife?
Why do you yearn for
that monstrous rest, fool?
Death will come soon enough;
don’t pray for the end.
If your husband
devotes himself to a new wife,
don’t upset yourself for him.
Zeus will be your avenger.
Don’t go too far,
don’t waste away lamenting your husband.
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MEDEA: (from inside) O great Themis and lady Artemis,*17
do you see what I suffer? I bound
my husband with great oaths, cursed man.
May I see him and his bride
ground to dust someday, with all the house,
since they dared, unprovoked, to wrong me.
Oh, Father, oh, city, to my shame
I killed my brother*18 and left you.
NURSE: (to Chorus) Do you hear how she invokes Themis,
receiver of prayers, daughter of Zeus,
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whom we deem keeper of oaths?
It cannot be my mistress will bring
her rage to an end with some small act.
antistrophe
CHORUS: How I wish she’d come out here,
see us and hear
what we have to say!
Perhaps she might let go
her sullen anger and willful mind.
Let my efforts for my friends
never fall short.
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But go to her now,
bring her here, outside
the house. Tell her we’re her friends.
Hurry, before she does harm
to those within.
For her grief surges urgently on.
NURSE: I’ll do that; but I doubt
I’ll persuade my mistress. Still
I’ll do you this favor and try,
though, like a lioness with young,
she casts a savage eye on her slaves,
if one comes near her and speaks.
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You might call those men of old dim-witted,
not wise at all, and you’d not be wrong:
they thought up singing at a feast
or banquet or fair, a joy for the ear,
but they found no way to stop
the pain, the awful pain that brings
death and destruction and leads to
the fall of a house. And yet to cure
such pain with song, that would be
a gift to men. But why bother
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at a feast to raise your voice in song?
There’s pleasure enough in the lavish food;
no need for men to add more.
(The nurse exits into the house.)
CHORUS: (singing) I have heard resounding, wailing
cries as she shouts her shrill distress,
and names her bed’s betrayer, her husband.
She declares the wrongs she suffers
to Themis, daughter of Zeus,
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guardian of oaths that brought her to Greece*19
from far away, across the dark water,
beyond the salty straits few dare
to cross, gateway to the Black Sea.*20
(Medea enters from the house and addresses the Chorus.)
MEDEA: Women of Corinth, I’ve come out of the house
to avoid your blame: I know many people
are arrogant, some in public view,
some out of sight. And there are those who earn
from quiet ways a bad name for indifference.
If people hate someone at first sight,
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before they know what he’s like deep down,
though he’s done no wrong, they’re not just.
For a stranger, there’s a special need to meld
into the city. I don’t praise even a citizen
whose self-will and bad manners distress others.
As for me: this bolt from the blue has struck me down.
It’s wrecked my life. I’m finished. I’ve abandoned
all life’s joy. My dear friends, I long for death.
The man who was everything to me (I know too well)
turns out to be the worst of men: my husband.
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Of all creatures that live and understand,
we women suffer most. In the first place
we must, for a vast sum, buy a husband;*21
what’s worse, with him our bodies get a master.*22
And here’s what’s most at stake: Did we get
a man who’s good or bad? For women have
no seemly escape; we can’t deny our husbands.
We’ve come to a household with new habits, new rules,*23
and must divine how best to manage our bedmates
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using skills we never learned at home.
If we do it right, our husband lives with us
and doesn’t fight the yoke. Then life
is enviable. If we don’t, it’s better to die.
A man, when he is vexed by those at home,
goes out to ease the disquiet in his heart.*24
But we have only one person to look to.
And they say of us that we’re never at risk,
sheltered at home, while they fight with spears.
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How wrong they are: I’d rather three times over
stand behind a shield than give birth once.
The story’s not the same, though, for you and me.
You have this city and your fathers’ houses,
the joy of life and company of friends.
I’m on my own. I have no city. My husband
abuses me. I was brought as booty from far away
and have no mother, brother, or kin
to give me shelter from this storm of trouble.
So this I ask you, only this: keep
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my secret, if a way is found, a scheme
to pay my husband back for what he’s done.*25
In other things a woman is full of fear,
without the courage to take up arms and fight.
But when she’s wronged in marriage, no mind’s
more deeply stained with blood than hers.
CHORUS: I’ll keep quiet since it’s just, Medea,
that you pay your husband back. Your grief
doesn’t shock me. But I see Creon approach,
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the land’s ruler, coming to announce new plans.
(Creon enters from the direction of the royal palace.)
&nb
sp; CREON: You, Medea, who scowl and rage at your husband!
I’ve told the world that you must leave this land,
an exile, and take with you your two children.
There can be no delay. With this decree
I’ve made my judgment. I won’t go back home
until I drive you beyond the limits of the land.
MEDEA: aiai, I’m destroyed! It’s all over. Oh, misery!
My enemies attack at full sail, and I have
no haven from disaster in easy reach.
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Yet I’ll ask, even amidst calamity: Why
do you drive me from this land, Creon?
CREON: I fear you. No need to disguise my reasons.
I fear you might do my child fatal harm.
And there are many indications I am right:
you were born clever, you have dangerous skills,
and the loss of your marriage bed gives you pain.
I hear you’re making threats. They tell me you say
you’ll act against me, and the groom and bride I gave away.
So, before we suffer, I’ll mount my defense.
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I’m better off, woman, if I incur your hatred
now, rather than be soft and later lament.
MEDEA: pheu, pheu!
Not for the first time, Creon, but often
my reputation’s hurt me, done me harm.
No man in his right mind should ever
overeducate his children, make them too smart.
Besides appearing idle, they will harvest
the envy and ill will of fellow citizens.
If you offer new and clever thoughts to fools
you’ll seem to them both worthless and unwise.
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Beyond this, if they think you better
than those they think know something, you’ll seem
harmful to the city. I myself have shared this fate.
Because I’m clever, some men bear me a grudge,*26
but you fear me, thinking you’ll suffer—what?
something harsh? Don’t fear, Creon. I’m not like that,
not one to cause offense to men in power.
What wrong have you done me? You gave your daughter
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to the man you liked. It’s my husband I hate.
But you, I think, acted with restraint.
Even now I don’t resent your prosperity.
Celebrate the marriage and be well. Only let me
live here, in this land. Believe me, even though
I’m wronged, I’ll keep silent: I give in to my betters.
CREON: To my ears what you say is mild, but I fear
in your heart you are plotting something bad.
I trust you far less now than ever before.
A woman of fiery temper is easier to guard against
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than one who’s clever and quiet. A man’s the same.
The Greek Plays Page 59
