Volume 6 / Act 5 — ACT V

The outer court of CREON'S _palace, as in the preceding act; the royal apartments in the background lie in blackened ruins whence smoke is still curling up; the court-yard is filled with various palace attendants busied in various ways. The dawn is just breaking.

The_ KING appears, dragging GORA out of the palace; a train of CREUSA'S slave-women follows him.

KING. Away with thee! It was thy wicked hand That to my daughter brought those bloody gifts Which were her doom! My daughter! Oh, Creusa! My child, my child!

[He turns to the slave-women.]

'Twas she?

GORA. Yea, it was I! I knew not that my hands bore doom of death Within thy dwelling.

KING. Knew'st not. Never think To 'scape my wrath on this wise!

GORA. Dost thou think I shudder at thy wrath? Mine eyes have seen— Woe's me!—the children weltering in their blood, Slain by the hand of her that bore them, ay, Medea's very hand! And after that, All other horrors are to me but jest!

KING. Creusa! Oh, my child, my pure, true child! Say, did thy hand not shake, thou grisly dame, When to her side thou broughtest death?

GORA. I shed no tears for her! She had her due! Why would she seek to snatch away the last Possession of my most unhappy mistress? I weep for these my babes, whom I did love So tenderly, and whom I saw but now Butchered—and by their mother! Ah, I would Ye all were in your graves, and by your side That traitor that doth call himself Lord Jason! I would I were in Colchis with Medea And these poor babes in safety! Would I ne'er Had seen your faces, or your city here, Whereon this grievous fate so justly falls!

KING. These insults thou wilt soon enough put by, When thou shalt feel my heavy hand of doom! But is it certain that my child is dead? So many cry her dead, though I can find None that did see her fall! Is there no way To 'scape the fire? And can the flames wax strong So quickly? See how slow they lick and curl Along the fallen rafters of my house! Do ye not see? And yet ye say she's dead? An hour ago she stood before mine eyes A blooming flower, instinct with happy life— And now she's dead! Nay, I cannot believe, And will not! 'Gainst my will I turn mine eyes Now here, now there, and cannot but believe That now, or now, or now at least, she must Appear in all her stainless purity And beauty, glide in safety to me here Through those black, smoldering ruins!—Who was by? Who saw her perish?—Thou?—Quick, speak!—Nay, then, Roll not thine eyes in horror! Tell thy tale, E'en though it kill me! Is she dead, indeed?

A SLAVE-WOMAN.

Dead!

KING. And thou saw'st it?

SLAVE-WOMAN.

With my very eyes! Saw how the flames leaped forth from out that box Of gold, and caught her flesh—

KING. Hold! Hold! Enough! This woman saw it! Creusa is no more! Creusa! Oh, my daughter, my dear child! Once, many years agone, she burnt her hand Against the altar; she was but a child, And cried aloud with pain. I rushed to her And caught her in my arms, and to my lips. I put her poor scorched fingers, blowing hard To ease the burning pain. The little maid E'en through her bitter tears smiled up at me And, softly sobbing, whispered in my ear, "It is not much! I do not mind the pain!" Gods! That she should be burned to death? Oh, gods!

[He turns fiercely upon GORA.]

And as for thee,—if I should plunge my sword Ten, twenty times, up to the hilt, clean through Thy body, would that bring my daughter back? Or, could I find that hideous witch-wife—Stay! Where went she, that hath robbed me of my child? I'll shake an answer straight from out thy mouth, Ay, though thy soul come with it, if thou'lt not Declare to me this instant where she's gone!

GORA. I know not—and I care no whit to know! Let her go forth alone to her sure doom. Why dost thou tarry? Slay me! For I have No wish to live!

KING. We'll speak of that anon; But first I'll have thy answer!

JASON (behind the scenes).

Where's Medea? Bring her before my face! Medea!

[He enters suddenly with drawn sword.]

Nay, They told me she was caught! Where is she, then?

(To GORA.)

Ha! Thou here? Where's thy mistress?

GORA. Fled away!

JASON. Hath she the children?

GORA. Nay!

JASON. Then they are—

GORA. Dead! Yea, dead! thou smooth-tongued traitor, dead, I say! She sought to put them where thine eyes could never Take joy in them again; but, knowing well No spot on earth so sacred was but thou To find them wouldst break in, she hid them, safe Forever, in the grave! Ay, stand aghast, And stare upon the pavement! Thou canst never Recall thy babes to life! They're gone for aye! And, for their sake, I'm glad! No, I am not, For their sake—but because thou dost despair, That, smooth-tongued traitor, glads my heart indeed! Was it not thou that drove her to this crime, And thou, false King, with thine hypocrisy? She was a noble creature-but ye drew Your nets of shameful treachery too close About her, till, in wild despair, cut off From all escape else, she o'erleaped your snares, And made thy crown, the kingly ornament Of royal heads, to be the awful tool Of her unnatural crime! Ay, wring your hands, But wring them for your own most grievous fate!

(Turning to the KING.)

Why sought thy child another woman's bed?

(Turning to JASON.)

Why must thou steal her, bring her here to Greece, If thou didst never love her? If thou didst Right truly love her, why, then, thrust her forth? Though others cry her murderess, yea, though I Myself must name her so, yet none the less Ye have but met your just deserts!—For me, I have no wish to live another day! Two of my babes are dead, the third I needs Must hate forever! Take me, lead me hence And slay me, if ye will! Fair hopes I have At last, of justice in that other world, Now I have seen Heaven's vengeance on you hurled!

[_She is led away by some of the _KING's attendants.]

(Pause.)

KING. Nay, if I wronged her,—by the gods in Heaven I swear I meant it not!—Now haste we all To search these smoking ruins for what trace Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last In Earth's kind bosom!

[_He turns to _JASON.]

But, for thee—straightway Thou must go forth, where'er thy feet may choose To carry thee! Pollution such as thine Spells woe for all about thee, as I've proved. Oh, had I never seen, never rescued thee, Ne'er acted friendship's part and welcomed thee Within my palace! And, for thanks, thou took'st My daughter from me! Go, lest thou shouldst take As well the only comfort left me now— To weep her memory!

JASON. Wouldst thou thrust me forth?

KING. I banish thee my sight.

JASON. What shall I do?

KING. Some god will answer that!

JASON. Who, then, will guide My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand? For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore By falling firebrands! How? All silent, then? And none will guide me, none companion me, None follow me, whom once so many joyed To follow? Spirits of my babes, lead ye The way, and guide your father to the grave That waits him!

[He goes slowly away.]

KING (to his attendants).

Quick, to work! And after that, Mourning that hath no end!

[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut. A rustic enters.

RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly gods, After the storm and fury of the night, Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!

[He goes into the hut.]

(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)

JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within! My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth! Is none within there? Must I die of thirst, And all alone?—Ha! Yon's the very hut That gave me shelter when I came this way Before, a rich man still, a happy father, My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!

[He knocks at the door.]

'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place To lay me down and die!

[The peasant comes out of the house.]

RUSTIC. Who knocks?—Poor man, Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!

JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink! See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide, The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece! A prince—a king—and of the Argonauts The mighty leader, Jason!

RUSTIC. Art thou, then, In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set A foot upon my threshold, to pollute My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now Death to the daughter of my lord the King! Then seek not shelter at the meanest door Of any of his subjects!

[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]

JASON. He is gone, And leaves me here to lie upon the earth, Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass To trample on!—O Death, on thee I call! Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!

[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA. Jason!

JASON (half raising himself).

Who calls me?—Ha! What spectral form Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea? Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!

[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]

Woe's me! My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie, A broken wreck!

MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved To be the victim of another's hand, And not of thine!

JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?

MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!

JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?

MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou Or I shall ever be!

JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!

MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes? I know a far more wretched one—to be Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life Far, far above its worth, we were not now In such a pass. But we must bear our weight Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes Are spared that grief, at least!

JASON. And thou canst stand So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?

MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was, Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain Which, ever swelling like an angry sea, Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight In awful desolation, sweeps it forth O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not Because the babes are dead; my only grief Is that they ever lived, that thou and I Must still live on!

JASON. Alas!

MEDEA. Bear thou the lot That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth, Thou richly hast deserved it!—Even as thou Before me liest on the naked earth, So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet And craved protection—but thou wouldst not hear! Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift Upon the golden prize, although I cried, "'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"—Take it, then, That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek, Even Death! I leave thee now, forevermore. 'Tis the last time-for all eternity The very last—that I shall speak with thee, My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth, 'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in On every side, in face of all the grief That threatens for the future, still I say, "Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come What may, abide it firmly, show thyself Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me, And it shall comfort thee to know how mine Is bitterer far, because I set my hand To deeds, to which thou only gav'st assent. I go my way, and take my heavy weight Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world. A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed; But no! it may not be! It were not meet Medea perish at Medea's hands. My earlier life, before I stooped to sin, Doth make me worthy of a better judge Than I could be—I go to Delphi's shrine, And there, before the altar of the god, The very spot whence Phrixus long ago Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again, Restore to that dark god what is his own— The Golden Fleece—the only thing the flames Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped Safe from the bloody, fiery death that slew That fair Corinthian princess.—To the priests I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will, Ay, though they take my life to expiate My grievous sins, or though they send me forth To wander still through some far desert-waste, My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!

[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]

Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive So eagerly to win, which seemed to thee The shining crown of all thy famous deeds? What is the happiness the world can give?— A shadow! What the fame it can bestow?— An empty dream! Poor man! Thy dreams were all Of shadows! And the dreams are ended now, But not the long, black Night!—Farewell to thee, My husband, for I go! That was a day Of heavy sorrows when we first did meet; Today, 'mid heavier sorrows, we must part! Farewell!

JASON. Deserted! All alone! My babes!

MEDEA. Endure!

JASON. Lost! Lost!

MEDEA. Be patient!

JASON. Let me die!

MEDEA. I go, and nevermore thine eyes shall see My face again!

[As she departs, winding her way among the tumbled rocks, the curtain falls.]

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