The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

JASON. Thou saw'st the king himself?

RUSTIC. I did, my lord.

JASON. How went thy tale?

RUSTIC. I Said, "One waits without,             A guest-friend of thy house, well-known to thee,             Yet so hedged round is he with traitorous foes,             He dares not enter, ere thou promise him             Peace and protection."

JASON. And his answer?—Speak!

RUSTIC. He comes, my lord, to meet thee. All this folk             Make pious offering to Poseidon here             Upon the seashore. Soon in festal train             They come with garlands and fair gifts, the king             Leading his daughter by the hand. 'Tis then,             As they pass by, that he will speak with thee.

JASON. Thou hast done well. I thank thee.

MEDEA (coming up to him).

Jason, hail!

JASON. Hail to thee, too!

(To the slave.)

             Go, thou, and all the others,             And pluck green branches from the budding trees             To mark you suppliants. 'Tis the custom here.             And keep a quiet, peaceful mien. Dost hear?             Now go.

[They depart.]

MEDEA. Thou'rt full of thought?

JASON. Ay, full.

MEDEA. Thou givest             Thyself no rest.JASON. A fugitive—and rest?             There is no rest for such, but only flight.MEDEA. Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep,             But wand'redst forth in the murky night, alone.

JASON. I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes.

MEDEA. And thou hast sent a message to the king.             Will he receive us kindly?

JASON. That I wait

             To hear.

MEDEA. He is thy friend?

JASON. He was.

MEDEA. Then sure             His heart will soften.JASON. Even the kindest men             Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know             How all the world doth flee us, since the death             Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god             In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus             The people whisper that I slew him, I,             Thy husband, from that land of magic come.             Dost thou not know this?

MEDEA. Yea.

JASON. Here's cause enough             To wake and wander all the dark night through.—             But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun             Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour?             Calling old friends from Colchis?

MEDEA. Nay.

JASON. Speak truth!

MEDEA. I say, I am not.

JASON. And I say to thee,             Better for thee if thou forget all such.             Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks,             Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones             Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts             This folk here love not,—and I hate them, too!             This is not Colchis dark,—but sunny Greece;             Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men             Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know,             Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells;             I have thy promise, and I know thee true.—             That crimson wimple bound about thy hair             Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory.             Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress?             I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;             Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home.             The past is dead. Why call it back to life?             Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!

[MEDEA silently removes the veil and gives it to GORA.]

GORA (whispering).

Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus—and all for him?

JASON (_catching sight of _GORA).             What! Art thou here, thou ancient beldame? Ha!             I hate thee most of all this Colchian crew.             One glance at thy dim eyes and wrinkled brow,             And lo! before my troubled sight there swims             The dusky shore of Colchis! Why must thou             Be ever hovering close beside my wife?             Begone!

GORA (grumblingly).

Why should I?

JASON. Go!

MEDEA. Begone, I pray.

GORA (_sullenly to _JASON).             Am I thy purchased slave, that thou shouldst speak             So lordly?JASON. Go! My hand, of its own will,             Is on my sword! Go, while there yet is time!             Often ere this I have thought to make essay             If that stern brow be softer than it seems!

[MEDEA leads the reluctant GORA away, whispering words of comfort as they go. JASON throws himself on a grass-bank, and strikes his breast.]

JASON. O, heart of mine, burst from thy prison-house,             And drink the air!—             Ay, there they lie, fair Corinth's lofty towers,             Marshalled so richly on the ocean-strand,             The cradle of my happy, golden youth!             Unchanging, gilded by the selfsame sun             As then. 'Tis I am altered, and not they.             Ye gods! The morning of my life was bright             And sunny; wherefore is my eventide             So dark and gloomy? Would that it were night!

[MEDEA has brought the two children out of the tent, and now leads them by the hand to JASON.]

MEDEA. See, Jason, thy two babes, who come to greet thee.             Come, children, give your sire your little hands.

[The children draw back, and stand shyly at one side.]

JASON (stretching out his hands yearningly toward the little group.)             Is this the end, then? Do I find myself             Husband and father of a savage brood?

MEDEA. Go, children.

ONE CHILD. Father, is it true thou art             A Greek?

JASON. And why?

CHILD. Old Gora says thou art,             And calls the Greeks bad names.

JASON. What names, my boy?

CHILD. Traitors she says they are, and cowards, too.

JASON (to MEDEA).

Dost hear?

MEDEA. 'Tis Gora's foolish tales that they             Have heard, and treasured, child-like. Mark them not.

[She kneels beside the two children, whispering in the ear now of one, now of the other.]

JASON. I will not.

[He rises from the grass.]

             There she kneels—unhappy fate!—             Bearing two burdens, hers, and mine as well.

[He paces up and down, then addresses MEDEA.]

There, leave the babes awhile, and come to me.

MEDEA (to the children).

Now go, and be good children. Go, I say.

[The children go.]

JASON. Think not, Medea, I am cold and hard.             I feel thy grief as deeply as mine own.             Thou'rt a brave comrade, and dost toil as truly             As I to roll away this heavy stone             That, ever falling backwards, blocks all paths,             All roads to hope. And whether thou'rt to blame,             Or I, it matters not. What's done is done.

[He clasps her hands in one of his, and with the other lovingly strokes her brow.]

             Thou lov'st me still, I know it well, Medea.             In thine own way, 'tis true; but yet thou lov'st me.             And not this fond glance only—all thy deeds             Tell the same tale of thine unending love.

[MEDEA hides her face on his shoulder.]

             I know how many griefs bow this dear head,             How love and pity in thy bosom sit             Enthroned.—Come, let us counsel now together             How we may 'scape this onward-pressing fate             That threatens us so near. Here Corinth lies;             Hither, long years agone, a lonely youth,             I wandered, fleeing my uncle's wrath and hate;             And Creon, king of Corinth, took me in,—             A guest-friend was he of my father's house—             And cherished me ev'n as a well-loved son.             Full many a year I dwelt here, safe and happy.             And now—

MEDEA. Thou'rt silent!

JASON. Now, when all the world             Flouts me, avoids me, now, when each man's hand             In blind, unreasoning rage is raised to strike,             I hope to find a refuge with this king.—             One fear I have, though, and no idle one.

MEDEA. And what is that?

JASON. Me he will shelter safe—             That I hold certain—and my children, too,             For they are mine. But thee—MEDEA. Nay, have no fear.             If he take them, as being thine, then me,             Who am thine as well, he will not cast away.JASON. Hast thou forgotten all that lately chanced             There in my home-land, in my uncle's house,             When first I brought thee from dark Colchis' shores?             Hast thou forgot the scorn, the black distrust             In each Greek visage when it looked on thee,             A dark barbarian from a stranger-land?             They cannot know thee as I do,—true wife             And mother of my babes;—homekeepers they,             Nor e'er set foot on Colchis' magic strand             As I.

MEDEA. A bitter speech. What is the end?

JASON. The worst misfortune of mankind is this:             Calm and serene and unconcerned to court             Fate's heaviest blows, and then, when these have fallen,             To whine and cringe, bewailing one's sad lot.—             Such folly we will none of, thou and I.             For now I seek King Creon, to proclaim             My right as guest-friend, and to clear away             These clouds of dark distrust that threaten storm.—             Meanwhile, take thou the babes and get thee hence             Without the city walls. There wait, until—

MEDEA. Till when?

JASON. Until—Why hidest thou thy face?

MEDEA. Ah, say no more! This is that bitter fate             Whereof my father warned me! Said he not             We should torment each other, thou and I?             But no!—My spirit is not broken yet!             All that I was, all that I had, is gone,             Save this: I am thy wife! To that I'll cling             Even to death.

JASON. Why twist my kindly words

             To a false meaning that I never dreamed of?

MEDEA. Prove that I twist thy words! I'll thank thee for it.

             Quick, quick! The king draws nigh.—Let thy heart speak!

JASON. So, wait we here the breaking of the storm.

[GORA comes out of the tent with the two children; MEDEA places herself between the children, and at first waits in the distance, watching anxiously all that passes. The KING enters with his daughter and attended by youths and maidens who carry the vessels for the sacrifice.]

KING. Where is this stranger?—Who he is, my heart,             By its wild beating, warns me; wanderer,             And banished from his homeland, nay, mayhap             E'en guilty of those crimes men charge him with.—             Where is the stranger?JASON. Here, my lord, bowed low             Before thee, not a stranger, though estranged.             A suppliant I, and come to pray thine aid.             Thrust forth from house and home, by all men shunned,             I fly to thee, my guest-friend, and beseech             In confidence the shelter of thy roof.

CREUSA. Ay, it is he! Look, father, 'tis Prince Jason!

[She takes a step toward him.]

JASON. Yea, it is I. And is this thou, Creusa,             Crowned with a yet more gentle, radiant grace,             But still the same? O, take me by the hand             And lead me to thy father, where he stands             With thoughtful brow, fixing his steady gaze             Upon my face, and dallies with his doubt             Whether to greet me kindly. Is he wroth             At me, or at my guilt, which all men cry?

CREUSA (taking JASON's hand and leading him to her father).

See, father, 'tis Prince Jason!

KING. He is welcome.

JASON. Thy distant greeting shows me clear what place             Now best beseems me. Here at thy feet I fall             And clasp thy knees, and stretch a timid hand             To touch thy chin. Grant me my prayer, O King!             Receive and shelter a poor suppliant wretch!

KING. Rise, Jason.

JASON. Never, till thou—

KING. Rise, I say.

[Jason rises to his feet.]

KING. So, from thine Argo-quest thou art returned?

JASON. 'Tis scarce one moon since I set foot on land.

KING. What of the golden prize ye sought? Is't won?

JASON. The king who set the task—he hath it now.

KING. Why art thou banished from thy fatherland?

JASON. They drove me forth—homeless I wander now.

KING. Ay, but why banished? I must see this clear.

JASON. They charged me with a foul, accursèd crime.

KING. Truly or falsely? Answer me this first.

JASON. A false charge! By the gods I swear, 'tis false!

KING (swiftly grasping JASON's hand and leading him forward).

Thine uncle perished?

JASON. Yea, he died.

KING. But how?

JASON. Not at my hands! As I do live and breathe,             I swear that bloody deed was none of mine!KING. Yet Rumor names thee Murderer, and the word             Through all the land is blown.JASON. Then Rumor lies,             And all that vile land with it!KING. Dream'st thou then             I can believe thy single tale, when all             The world cries, "Liar!"JASON. 'Tis the word of one             Thou knowest well, against the word of strangers.

KING. Say, then, how fell the king?

JASON. 'Twas his own blood,             The children of his flesh, that did the deed.KING. Horror of horrors! Surely 'tis not true?             It cannot be!JASON. The gods know it is truth.             Give ear, and I will tell thee how it chanced.KING. Nay, hold. Creusa comes. This is no tale             For gentle ears. I fain would shield the maid             From knowledge of such horror. (Aloud.) For the moment             I know enough. We'll hear the rest anon.             I will believe thee worthy while I can.

CREUSA (_coming up to _KING CREON).

Hast heard his tale? He's innocent, I know.

KING. Go, take his hand. Thou canst without disgrace.

CREUSA. Didst doubt him, father? Nay, I never did!             My heart told me these tales were never true,             These hideous stories that men tell of him.             Gentle he was, and kind; how could he, then,             Show him so base and cruel? Couldst thou know             How they have slandered thee, heaped curse on curse!             I've wept, to think our fellow-men could be             So bitter, false. For thou hadst scarce set sail,             When, sudden, all men's talk throughout the land             Was of wild deeds and hideous midnight crimes—             The fruit of witchcraft on far Colchis' shores—             Which thou hadst done.—And, last, a woman, dark             And dreadful, so they said, thou took'st to wife,             Brewer of poisons, slayer of her sire.             What was her name? It had a barbarous sound—

MEDEA (stepping forward with the children).

Medea! Here am I.

KING. Is 't she?

JASON (dully).

It is.

CREUSA (pressing close to her father).

O, horror!

MEDEA (to CREUSA).             Thou'rt wrong. I never slew my sire.             My brother died, 'tis true; but ask my lord             If 'twas my doing.

[_She points to _JASON.]

             True it is, fair maid,             That I am skilled to mix such magic potions             As shall bring death or healing, as I will.             And many a secret else I know. Yet, see!             I am no monster, no, nor murderess.

CREUSA. Oh, dreadful, horrible.

KING. And is she thy—wife?

JASON. My wife.

KING. Those children there?

JASON. They are mine own.

KING. Unhappy man!

JASON. Yea, sooth!—Come, children, bring             Those green boughs in your hands, and reach them out             To our lord the King, and pray him for his help,

[He leads them up by the hand.]

Behold, my lord, these babes. Thou canst not spurn them!

ONE CHILD (_holding out a bough timidly to the _KING).

See, here it is.

KING (laying his hands gently on the children's heads).

Poor tiny birdlings, snatched from out your nest!

CREUSA (kneeling compassionately beside the children).             Come here to me, poor, homeless, little orphans!             So young, and yet misfortune bows you down             So soon! So young, and oh! so innocent!—             And look, how this one has his father's mien!

[She kisses the smaller boy.]

Stay here with me. I'll be your mother, sister.MEDEA (with sudden fierceness).             They are not orphans, do not need thy tears             Of pity! For Prince Jason is their father;             And while Medea lives, they have no need             To seek a mother!

(To the children.)

Come to me-come here.

CREUSA (glancing at her father).

Shall I let them go?

KING. She is their mother.

CREUSA. Run             To mother, children.MEDEA (to children).             Come! Why stand ye there             And wait?CREUSA (to the children, who are clasping her about the neck).             Your mother calls, my little ones.             Run to her quick!

[The children go to MEDEA.]

JASON (to the KING).

My lord, what is thy will?

KING. Thou hast my promise.

JASON. Thou wilt keep me safe?

KING. I have said it.

JASON. Me and mine thou wilt receive?

KING. Nay, thee I said, not thine.—Now follow on,             First to the altar, to our palace then.

JASON (_as he follows the king, to _CREUSA).

Give me thy hand, Creusa, as of yore!

CREUSA. Thou canst not take it as of old thou didst.

MEDEA. They go,—and I am left, forgot! Oh, children,             Run here and clasp me close. Nay, closer, tighter!CREUSA (to herself, turning as they go).Where is Medea? Why does she not follow?

[She comes back, but stands at a distance from MEDEA.]

             Com'st thou not to the sacrifice, then home             With us?

MEDEA. Unbidden guests must wait without.

CREUSA. Nay, but my father promised shelter, help.

MEDEA. Thy words and his betokened no such aid!

CREUSA (approaching nearer).

I've grieved thee, wounded thee! Forgive, I pray.

MEDEA. Ah, gracious sound! Who spake that gentle word?             Ay, many a time they've stabbed me to the quick,             But none e'er paused, and, pitying, asked himself             If the wound smarted! Thanks to thee, sweet maid!             Oh, when thou art thyself in sore distress,             Then may'st thou find some tender, pitying soul             To whisper soft and gracious words to thee,             To give one gentle glance—as thou to me!

[MEDEA _tries to grasp _CREUSA's hand, but the princess draws back timidly.]

             Nay, shudder not! 'Tis no plague-spotted hand.—             Oh, I was born a princess, even as thou.             For me the path of life stretched smooth and straight             As now for thee; blindly thereon I fared,             Content, where all seemed right.—Ah, happy days!             For I was born a princess, even as thou.             And as thou stand'st before me, fair and bright             And happy, so I stood beside my father,             The idol of his heart, and of his folk.             O Colchis! O my homeland! Dark and dread             They name thee here, but to my loving eyes             Thine is a shining shore!

CREUSA (taking her hand).

Poor, lonely soul!

MEDEA. Gentle art thou, and mild, and gracious too;             I read it in thy face. But oh, beware!             The way seems smooth.—One step may mean thy fall!             Light is the skiff that bears thee down the stream,             Advance upon the silvery, shining waves,             Past gaily-flowered banks, where thou would'st pause.—             Ah, gentle pilot, is thy skill so sure?             Beyond thee roars the sea! Oh, venture not             To quit these flowery banks' secure embrace,             Else will the current seize thy slender craft             And sweep thee out upon the great gray sea.—             Why that fixed gaze? Dost shudder at me still?             There was a time when I had shuddered, too,             At thought of such a thing as I'm become!

[She hides her face on CREUSA's neck.]

CREUSA. She is no wild thing! Father, see, she weeps!

MEDEA. I am a stranger, from a far land come,             Naught knowing of this country's ancient ways;             And so they flout me, look at me askance             As at some savage, untamed animal.             I am the lowest, meanest of mankind,             I, the proud child of Colchis' mighty king!—             Teach me what I must do. Oh, I will learn             Gladly from thee, for thou art gentle, mild.             'Tis patient teaching, and not angry scorn,             Will tame me.—                              Is't thy wont to be so calm             And so serene? To me that happy gift             The gods denied. But I will learn of thee!             Thou hast the skill to know what pleases him,             What makes him glad. Oh, teach me how I may             Once more find favor in my husband's sight,             And I will thank thee, thank thee!

CREUSA. Look, my father!

KING. Ay, bring her with thee.

CREUSA. Wilt thou come, Medea?

MEDEA. I'll follow gladly, whereso'er thou goest.             Have pity on me, lone, unfriended, sad,             And hide me from the king's stern, pitiless eyes!

(To the KING.)

             Now may'st thou gaze thy fill. My fears are fled,             E'en while I know thy musings bode me ill.             Thy child is tenderer than her father.CREUSA. Come!             He would not harm thee. Come, ye children, too.

[CREUSA leads MEDEA and the children away.]

KING. Hast heard?

JASON. I have.

KING. And so, that is thy wife!             That thou wert wedded, Rumor long since cried,             But I believed not. Now, when I have seen,             Belief is still less easy. She—thy wife?JASON. 'Tis but the mountain's peak thou seest, and not             The toilsome climb to reach it, nor those steps             By which alone the climber guides his feet.—             I sailed away, a hot, impetuous youth,             O'er distant seas, upon the boldest quest             That e'er within the memory of man             Was ventured. To this life I said farewell,             And, the world well forgot, I fixed my gaze             Solely upon that radiant Golden Fleece             That, through the night, a star in the storm, shone out.             And none thought on return, but one and all,             As though the hour that saw the trophy won             Should be their last, strained every nerve to win.             And so, a valorous band, we sailed away,             Boastful and thirsting deep for daring deeds,             O'er sea and land, through storm and night and rocks,             Death at our heels, Death beckoning us before.             And what at other times we had thought full             Of terror, now seemed gentle, mild, and good;             For Nature was more awful than the worst             That man could do. And, as we strove with her,             And with barbarian hordes that blocked our path,             The hearts of e'en the mildest turned to flint.             Lost were those standards whereby men at home             Judge all things calmly; each became a law             Unto himself amid these savage sights.—             But that which all men deemed could never be             Came finally to pass, and we set foot             On Colchis' distant and mysterious strand.             Oh, hadst thou seen it, wrapped in murky clouds!             There day is night, and night a horror black,             Its folk more dreadful even than the night.             And there I found—her, who so hateful seems             To thee. In sooth, O king, she shone on me             Like the stray sunbeam that some prisoner sees             Pierce through the crannies of his lonely cell!             Dark though she seem to thee, in that black land             Like some lone, radiant star she gleamed on me.

KING. Yet wrong is never right, nor evil good.

JASON. It was some god that turned her heart to me.             Fast friend was she in many a dangerous pass.             I saw how in her bosom love was born,             Which yet her royal pride bade firm restrain;             No word she spake betrayed her—'twas her looks,             Her deeds that told the secret. Then on me             A madness came, like to a rushing wind.             Her silence but inflamed me; for a new             And warlike venture then I girded me,             For love I struggled with her—and I won!             Mine she became.—Her father cursed his child;             But mine she was, whether I would or no.             'Twas she that won me that mysterious Fleece;             She was my guide to that dank horror-cave             Where dwelt the dragon, guardian of the prize,             The which I slew, and bore the Fleece away.             Since then I see, each time I search her eyes,             That hideous serpent blinking back at me,             And shudder when I call her wife!—                                               At last             We sailed away. Her brother fell.

KING (quickly).