Kitabı oku: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06», sayfa 18

ACT II

A chamber in CREON'S royal palace at Corinth. CREUSA is discovered seated, while MEDEA occupies a low stool before her, and holds a lyre in her arm. She is clad in the Greek fashion.

CREUSA. Now pluck this string—the second—this one here.

MEDEA. So, this way?

CREUSA. Nay, thy fingers more relaxed.

MEDEA. I cannot.

CREUSA. 'Tis not hard, if thou'lt but try.

MEDEA. I have tried, patiently; but 'tis no use!

[She lays the lyre aside and rises.]

 
             Were it a spear-haft, or the weapons fierce
             Of the bloody hunt, these hands were quick enough.
 

[She raises her right hand and gazes at it reproachfully.]

 
Rebellious fingers! I would punish them!
 
 
CREUSA. Perverse one! When my heart was filled with joy
             At thinking how 'twould gladden Jason's heart
             To hear this song from thee!
 
 
MEDEA. Ay, thou art right.
             I had forgot that. Let me try once more.
             The song will please him, think'st thou, truly
             please him?
 
 
CREUSA. Nay, never doubt it. 'Tis the song he sang
             When he dwelt here with us in boyhood days.
             Each time I heard it, joyfully I sprang
             To greet him, for it meant he was come home.
 

MEDEA (eagerly).

Teach me the song again!

 
CREUSA. Come, listen, then.
             'Tis but a short one, nor so passing sweet;
             But then—he knew to sing it with such grace,
             Such joy, such lordly pride—ay, almost scorn!
 

[She sings.]

 
  "Ye gods above, ye mighty gods,
      Anoint my head, I pray;
   Make strong my heart to bear my part
      Right kingly in the fray,
   To smite all foes, and steal the heart
      Of all fair maids away!"
 

MEDEA. Yea, yea, all these the gods bestowed on him!

CREUSA. All what?

MEDEA. These gifts, of which the song doth tell.

CREUSA. What gifts?

 
MEDEA. "To smite all foes, and steal the heart
             Of all fair maids away!"
 
 
CREUSA. Is't so? I never thought on that before;
             I did but sing the words I heard him sing.
 
 
MEDEA. 'Twas so he stood on Colchis' hostile strand;
             Before his burning glance our warriors cringed,
             And that same glance kindled a fatal fire
             In the soft breast of one unhappy maid;
             She struggled, fled—until at last those flames,
             So long hid deep within her heart, burst forth,
             And rest and joy and peace to ashes burned
             In one fierce holocaust of smoky flame.
             'Twas so he stood, all shining strength and grace,
             A hero, nay, a god—and drew his victim
             And drew and drew, until the victim came
             To its own doom; and then he flung it down
             Careless, and there was none would take it up.
 

CREUSA. Art thou his wife, and speak'st such things of him?

 
MEDEA. Thou know'st him not; I know his inmost soul.—
             In all the wide world there is none but he,
             And all things else are naught to him but tools
             To shape his deeds. He harbors no mean thoughts
             Of paltry gain, not he; yet all his thoughts
             Are of himself alone. He plays a game
             with Fortune—now his own, and now another's.
             If bright Fame beckon, he will slay a man
             And do it gaily. Will he have a wife?
             He goes and takes one. And though hearts should break
             And lives be wasted—so he have his will,
             What matters it to him? Oh, he does naught
             That is not right—but right is what he wants!
             Thou knowest him not; I've probed his inmost soul.
             And when I think on all that he has wrought,
             Oh, I could see him die, and laugh the while!
 

CREUSA. Farewell!

MEDEA. Thou goest?

 
CREUSA. Can I longer stay
             To list such words?—Ye gods! to hear a wife
             Revile her husband thus!
 
 
MEDEA. She should speak truth,
             And mine is such an one as I have said.
 
 
CREUSA. By Heaven, if I were wedded to a man,
             E'en one so base and vile as thou hast named—
             'Though Jason is not so—and had I babes,
             His gift, each bearing in his little face
             His father's likeness, oh, I would love them dear,
             Though they should slay me!
 
 
MEDEA. Ay, an easy task
             To set, but hard to do.
 
 
CREUSA. And yet, methinks,
             If easier, 'twere less sweet.—Have thou thy way
             And say whate'er thou wilt; but I must go.
             First thou dost charm my heart with noble words
             And seek'st my aid to win his love again;
             But now thou breakest forth in hate and scorn.
             I have seen many evils among men,
             But worst of all these do I count a heart
             That knows not to forgive. So, fare thee well!
             Learn to be better, truer!
 

MEDEA. Art thou angry

CREUSA. Almost.

 
MEDEA. Alas, thou wilt not give me up,
             Thou, too? Thou wilt not leave me? Be my help,
             My friend, my kind protector!
 
 
CREUSA. Now thou'rt gentle,
             Yet, but a moment since, so full of hate!
 

MEDEA. Hate for myself, but only love for him!

CREUSA. Dost thou love Jason?

MEDEA. Should I else be here?

 
CREUSA. I've pondered that, but cannot understand.—
             Yet, if thou truly lov'st him, I will take thee
             Back to my heart again, and show thee means
             Whereby thou mayst regain his love.—I know
             Those bitter moods of his, and have a charm
             To scatter the dark clouds. Come, to our task!
             I marked this morning how his face was sad
             And gloomy. Sing that song to him; thou'lt see
             How swift his brow will clear. Here is the lyre;
             I will not lay it down till thou canst sing
             The song all through. [She seats herself.]
                              Nay, come! Why tarriest there
 
 
MEDEA. I gaze on thee, and gaze on thee again,
             And cannot have my fill of thy sweet face.
             Thou gentle, virtuous maid, as fair in soul
             As body, with a heart as white and pure
             As are thy snowy draperies! Like a dove,
             A pure, white dove with shining, outspread wings,
             Thou hoverest o'er this life, nor yet so much
             As dipp'st thy wing in this vile, noisome slough
             Wherein we wallow, struggling to get free,
             Each from himself. Send down one kindly beam
             From out thy shining heaven, to fall in pity
             Upon my bleeding breast, distraught with pain;
             And all those ugly scars that grief and hate
             And evil fortune e'er have written there,
             Oh, cleanse thou these away with thy soft hands,
             And leave thine own dear picture in their place!
             That strength, that ever was my proudest boast
             From youth, once tested, proved but craven weakness.
             Oh, teach me how to make my weakness strong!
 

[She seats herself on the low stool at CREUSA's feet.]

 
             Here to thy feet for refuge will I fly,
             And pour my tale of suffering in thine ear;
             And thou shalt teach me all that I must do.
             Like some meek handmaid will I follow thee,
             Will pace before the loom from early morn,
             Nay, set my hand to all those lowly tasks
             Which maids of noble blood would scorn to touch
             In Colchis, as but fit for toiling serfs,
             Yet here they grace a queen. Oh, I'll forget
             My sire was Colchis' king, and I'll forget
             My ancestors were gods, and I'll forget
             The past, and all that threatens still!
 

[_She springs up and leaves _CREUSA's side.]

 
             But no!
             That can I not forget!
 
 
CREUSA (following her).
             Why so distressed?
             Men have forgotten many an evil deed
             That chanced long since, ay, even the gods themselves
             Remember not past sorrows.
 
 
MEDEA (embracing her).
             Say'st thou so?
             Oh, that I could believe it, could believe it!
 

JASON enters.

CREUSA (turning to him).

Here is thy wife. See, Jason, we are friends!

JASON. 'Tis well.

 
MEDEA. Greetings, my lord.—She is so good,
             Medea's friend and teacher she would be.
 

JASON. Heaven speed her task!

 
CREUSA. But why these sober looks?
             We shall enjoy here many happy days!
             I, sharing 'twixt my sire and you my love
             And tender care, while thou and she, Medea,—
 

JASON. Medea!

MEDEA. What are thy commands, my lord?

JASON. Hast seen the children late?

 
MEDEA. A moment since;
             They are well and happy.
 

JASON. Look to them again!

MEDEA. I am just come from them.

JASON. Go, go, I say!

MEDEA. If 'tis thy wish—

JASON. It is.

MEDEA. Then I obey.

[She departs.]

CREUSA. Why dost thou bid her go? The babes are safe.

 
JASON. Ah..! ho, a mighty weight is rolled away
             From off my soul, and I can breathe again!
             Her glance doth shrivel up my very heart,
             And all that bitter hate, hid deep within
             My bosom, well nigh strangles me to death!
 
 
CREUSA. What words are these? Oh, ye all-righteous gods!
             He speaks now even as she a moment since.
             Who was it told me, wife and husband ever
             Do love each other?
 
 
JASON. Ay, and so they do,
             When some fair, stalwart youth hath cast his glance
             Upon a maid, whom straightway he doth make
             The goddess of his worship. Timidly
             He seeks her eyes, to learn if haply she
             Seek his as well; and when their glances meet,
             His soul is glad. Then to her father straight
             And to her mother goes he, as is meet,
             And begs their treasure, and they give consent.
             Comes then the bridal day; from far and near
             Their kinsmen gather; all the town has part
             In their rejoicing. Richly decked with wreaths
             And dainty blossoms, to the altar then
             He leads his bride; and there a rosy flush,
             Of maiden shyness born, plays on her cheek
             The while she trembles with a holy fear
             At what is none the less her dearest wish.
             Upon her head her father lays his hands
             And blesses her and all her seed to come.
             Such happy wooing breeds undying love
             'Twixt wife and husband.—'Twas of such I dreamed.
             Alas, it came not! What have I done, ye gods!
             To be denied what ye are wont to give
             Even to the poorest? Why have I alone
             No refuge from the buffets of the world
             At mine own hearth, no dear companion there,
             My own, in truth, my own in plighted troth?
 
 
CREUSA. Thou didst not woo thy wife as others, then?
             Her father did not raise his hand to bless?
 
 
JASON. He raised it, ay, but armèd with a sword;
             And 'twas no blessing, but a curse he spake.
             But I—I had a swift and sweet revenge!
             His only son is dead, and he himself
             Lies dumb in the grave. His curse alone lives still—
             Or so it seems.
 
 
CREUSA. Alas, how strange to think
             Of all the change a few brief years have wrought!
             Thou wert so soft and gentle, and art now
             So stern. But I am still the selfsame maid
             As then, have still the selfsame hopes and fears,
             And what I then thought right, I think right still,
             What then I blamed, cannot think blameless now.—
             But thou art changed.
 
 
JASON. Ay, thou hast hit the truth!
             The real misfortune in a hapless lot
             Is this: that man is to himself untrue.
             Here one must show him master, there must cringe
             And bow the knee; here Justice moves a hair,
             And there a grain; and, at his journey's end,
             He stands another man than he who late
             Set out upon that journey. And his loss
             Is twofold—for the world has passed him by
             In scorn, and his own self-respect is dead.
             Naught have I done that in itself was bad,
             Yet have had evil hopes, bad wishes, ay,
             Unholy aspirations; and have stood
             And looked in silence, while another sinned;
             Or here have willed no evil, yet joined hands
             With sin, forgetful how one wicked deed
             Begets another.—Now at last I stand,
             A sea of evils breaking all about,
             And cannot say, "My hand hath done no wrong!"—
             O happy Youth, couldst thou forever stay!
             O joyous Fancy, blest Forgetfulness,
             Time when each moment cradles some great deed
             And buries it! How, in a swelling tide
             Of high adventure, I disported me,
             Cleaving the mighty waves with stalwart breast!
             But manhood comes, with slow and sober steps;
             And Fancy flees away, while naked Truth
             Creeps soft to fill its place and brood upon
             Full many a care. No more the present seems
             A fair tree, laden down with luscious fruits,
             'Neath whose cool shadows rest and joy are found,
             But is become a tiny seedling which,
             When buried in the earth, will sprout and bud
             And bloom, and bear a future of its own.
             What shall thy task in life be? Where thy home?
             What of thy wife and babes? What thine own fate,
             And theirs?—Such constant musings tantalize
             the soul. [He seats himself.]
 
 
CREUSA. What should'st thou care for such? 'Tis all decreed,
             All ordered for thee.
 
 
JASON. Ordered? Ay, as when
             Over the threshold one thrusts forth a bowl
             Of broken meats, to feed some begging wretch!
             I am Prince Jason. Spells not that enough
             Of sorrow? Must I ever henceforth sit
             Meek at some stranger's board, or beg my way,
             My little babes about me, praying pity
             From each I meet? My sire was once a king,
             And so am I; yet who would care to boast
             He is like Jason? Still—[He rises.]
             I passed but now
             Down through the busy market-place and through
             Yon wide-wayed city. Dost remember how
             I strode in my young pride through those same streets
             What time I came to take farewell of thee
             Long since, ere sailed the Argo? How the folk
             Came thronging, surging, how each street was choked
             With horses, chariots, men—a dazzling blaze
             Of color? How the eager gazers climbed
             Up on the house-tops, swarmed on every tower,
             And fought for places as they would for gold?
             The air rang with the cymbals' brazen crash
             And with the shouts of all that mighty throng
             Crying, "Hail, Jason!" Thick they crowded round
             That gallant band attired in rich array,
             Their shining armor gleaming in the sun,
             The least of them a hero and a king,
             And in their midst the leader they adored.
             I was the man that captained them, that brought
             Them safe to Greece again; and it was I
             That all this folk did greet with loud acclaim.—
             I trod these selfsame streets an hour ago,
             But no eye sought me, greeting heard I none;
             Only, the while I stood and gazed about,
             I heard one rudely grumbling that I had
             No right to block the way, and stand and stare.
 
 
CREUSA. Thou wilt regain thy proud place once again,
             If thou but choose.
 
 
JASON. Nay, all my hopes are dead;
             My fight is fought, and I am down, to rise
             No more.
 

CREUSA. I have a charm will save thee yet.

 
JASON. Ay, all that thou would'st say, I know before:
             Undo the past, as though it ne'er had been.
             I never left my fatherland, but stayed
             With thee and thine in Corinth, never saw
             The Golden Fleece, nor stepped on Colchis' strand,
             Ne'er saw that woman that I now call wife!
             Send thou her home to her accursed land,
             Cause her to take with her all memory
             That she was ever here.—Do thou but this,
             And I will be a man again, and dwell
             With men.
 
 
CREUSA. Is that thy charm? I know a better;
             A simple heart, I mean, a mind at peace.
 
 
JASON. Ah, thou art good! Would I could learn this peace
             Of thee!
 
 
CREUSA. To all that choose, the gods will give it.
             Thou hadst it once, and canst have yet again.
 

JASON. Dost thou think often on our happy youth?

CREUSA. Ay, many a time, and gladly.

 
JASON. How we were
             One heart, one soul?
 
 
CREUSA. I made thee gentler, thou
             Didst give me courage.—Dost remember how
             I set thy helm upon my head?
 
 
JASON. And how
             Because it was too large, thy tiny hands
             Did hold it up, the while it rested soft
             Upon thy golden curls? Creusa, those
             Were happy days!
 
 
CREUSA. Dost mind thee how my father
             Was filled with joy to see it, and, in jest,
             Did name us bride and bridegroom?
 
 
JASON. Ay—but that
             Was not to be.
 
 
CREUSA. Like many another hope
             That disappoints us.—Still, what matters it?
             We mean to be no less good friends, I trust!
 

[MEDEA reënters.]

MEDEA. I've seen the children. They are safe.

 
JASON (absently).
'Tis well.
 

(Continuing his revery.)

 
             All those fair spots our happy youth once knew,
             Linked to my memory with slender threads,
             All these I sought once more, when first I came
             Again to Corinth, and I cooled my breast
             And dipped my burning lips in that bright spring
             Of my lost childhood. Once again, methought,
             I drove my chariot through the market-place,
             Guiding my fiery steeds where'er I would,
             Or, wrestling with some fellow of the crowd,
             Gave blow for blow, while thou didst stand to watch,
             Struck dumb with terror, filled with angry fears,
             Hating, for my sake, all who raised a hand
             Against me. Or again I seemed to be
             Within the solemn temple, where we knelt
             Together, there, and there alone, forgetful
             Each of the other, our soft-moving lips
             Up-sending to the gods from our two breasts
             A single heart, made one by bonds of love.
 

CREUSA. Dost thou remember all these things so well?

 
JASON. They are the cup from which, in greedy draughts,
             I drink the only comfort left me now.
 

MEDEA (who has gone silently up-stage and taken up again the discarded lyre).

Jason, I know a song!

 
JASON (not noticing her).
             And then the tower!
             Know'st thou that tower upon the sea-strand there,
             Where by thy father thou didst stand and weep,
             What time I climbed the Argo's side, to sail
             On that far journey? For thy falling tears
             I had no eyes, my heart but thirsted deep
             For deeds of prowess. Lo, there came a breeze
             That loosed the wimple bound about thy locks
             And dropped it on the waves. Straightway I sprang
             Into the sea, and caught it up, to keep
             In memory of thee when far away.
 

CREUSA. Hast thou it still?

 
JASON. Nay, think how many years
             Are gone since then, and with them this, thy token,
             Blown far by some stray breeze.
 

MEDEA. I know a song!

JASON (ignoring her).

Then didst thou cry to me, "Farewell, my brother!"

CREUSA. And now my cry is, "Brother, welcome home!"

MEDEA (plaintively).

Jason, I know a song.

 
CREUSA. She knows a song
             That thou wert wont to sing. I pray thee, listen,
             And she will sing it thee.
 
 
JASON. A song? Well, well!
             Where was I, then?—From childhood I was wont
             To dream and dream, and babble foolishly
             Of things that were not and could never be.
             That habit clung to me, and mocks me now.
             For, as the youth lives ever in the future,
             So the grown man looks alway to the past,
             And, young or old, we know not how to live
             Within the present. In my dreams I was
             A mighty hero, girded for great deeds,
             And had a loving wife, and gold, and much
             Goodly possessions, and a peaceful home
             Wherein slept babes of mine.
 

(To MEDEA.)

 
             What is it thou
             Wouldst have with me?
 
 
CREUSA. She asks to sing a song
             That thou in youth wert wont to sing to us.
 

JASON (to MEDEA).

And thou hast learned it?

MEDEA. I have done my best.

 
JASON. Go to! Dost think to give me back my youth,
             Or happiness to win again for me,
             By singing me some paltry, childish tune?
             Give o'er! We will not part, but live together;
             That is our fate, it seems, as things have chanced;
             But let me bear no word of foolish songs
             Or suchlike nonsense!
 
 
CREUSA. Let her sing, I pray.
             She hath conned it o'er and o'er, to know it well,
             Indeed she hath!
 

JASON. Well, sing it, sing it then!

CREUSA (_to _MEDEA).

So, pluck the second string. Thou know'st it still?

MEDEA (drawing her hand across her brow as if in pain).

I have forgotten!

 
JASON. Ay, said I not so?
             She cannot sing it.—Other songs are hers,
             Like that which, with her magic arts, she sang
             Unto the dragon, that he fell asleep.
             That was no pure, sweet strain, like this of thine!
 

CREUSA (_whispering in _MEDEA's ear).

"Ye gods above, ye mighty gods—."

 
MEDEA (repeating it after her).
             "Ye gods above—"
             O gods in heaven, O righteous, mighty gods!
 

[She lets the lyre fall to the ground, and clasps both hands before her eyes.]

CREUSA. She weeps! Canst be so stern and hard?

 
JASON (holding CREUSA back from MEDEA).
                                  Thou art
             A child, and canst not know us, what we are!
             The hand she feels upon her is the gods',
             That reacheth her e'en here, with bloody gripe!
             Then strive not thou to balk the gods' just doom.
             O, hadst thou seen her in the dragon's cave,
             Seen how she leaped to meet that serpent grim,
             Shot forth the poisonous arrows of her tongue,
             And darted hate and death from blazing eyes,
             Then were thy bosom steeled against her tears!—
             Take thou the lyre, sing thou to me that song,
             And exorcise the hateful demon here
             That strangles, chokes me! Thou canst sing the song,
             Mayhap, though she cannot.
 

CREUSA. Ay, that I will.

[She stoops to take up the lyre.]

MEDEA (gripping CREUSA's arm with one hand and holding her back, while with the other she herself picks up the lyre).

Let be!

CREUSA. Right gladly, if thou'lt play.

MEDEA. Not I!

JASON. Thou wilt not give it her?

MEDEA. No!

JASON. Nor to me?

MEDEA. No!

JASON (striding up to her and grasping at the lyre).

I will take it, then!

MEDEA (without moving from her place, but drawing the lyre away from him).

No!

JASON. Give it me!

MEDEA (crushing the lyre, so that it breaks with a loud, cracking sound).

Here, take it! Broken! Thy fair lyre is broken!

[She flings the pieces down in front of CREUSA.]

CREUSA (starting back in horror).

Dead!

MEDEA (looking swiftly about her as in a daze).

Dead? Who speaks of death? I am alive!

[She stands there violently agitated and staring dazedly before her. A trumpet-blast sounds without.]

 
JASON. Ha, what is that?
 

(To MEDEA.)

 
             Why standest silent there?
             Thou'lt rue this moment, that I know full well!
 

[_Another trumpet-blast without. The KING appears suddenly at the door._]

JASON (hurrying to meet him).

What means that warlike trumpet-blast without?

KING. Unhappy man, canst ask?

JASON. I do, my lord!

 
KING. The stroke that I so feared is fall'n at last.—
             Before my palace gates a herald stands,
             Sent hither from the Amphictyons' holy seat,
             Seeking for news of thee and of thy wife,
             Crying to Heaven the doom of banishment
             On both!
 

JASON. This, too?

KING. So is it—. Peace, he comes.

[The palace doors swing open and a HERALD enters, followed by two trumpeters and, at a little distance, by a numerous suite.]

HERALD. The blessing of the gods upon this house!

KING (solemnly).

Who art thou? On what errand art thou come?

 
HERALD. A herald of the gods am I, sent forth
             From the ancient council of the Amphictyons
             That speaks its judgments in that holy town
             Of freedom, Delphi. And I follow close,
             With cries of vengeance, on the guilty tracks
             Of those false kinsmen of King Pelias,
             Who ruled Iolcos, ere he fell in death.
 
 
KING. Thou seek'st the guilty? Seek in his own house,
             'Mongst his own children seek them—but not here!
 
 
HERALD. Here have I found them. Here I'll speak my charge:
             Thou art accursed, Jason, thou, and she,
             Thy wife! With evil magic are ye charged,
             Wherewith thine uncle darkly ye did slay.
 

JASON. A lie! Naught know I of mine uncle's death!

HERALD. Then ask thy wife, there; she will know, perchance.

JASON. Was 't she that slew him?

 
HERALD. Not with her own hand,
             But by those magic arts ye know so well,
             Which ye have brought here from that foreign land.
             For, when the king fell sick—perchance e'en then
             A victim, for the signs of his disease
             Were strange and dreadful—to Medea then
             His daughters came, and begged for healing balms
             From her who knew so well to heal. And she
             Gave swift consent, and followed them.
 
 
JASON. Nay, hold!
             She went not! I forbade it, and she stayed.
 
 
HERALD. The first time, yes. But when, unknown to thee,
             They came again, she companied them back,
             Only demanding, if she healed the king,
             The Golden Fleece in payment for her aid;
             It was a hateful thing to her, she said;
             And boded evil. And those foolish maids,
             All joyful, promised. So she came with them
             To the king's chamber, where he lay asleep.
             Straightway she muttered strange and secret words
             Above him, and his sleep grew ever deep
             And deeper. Next, to let the bad blood out,
             She bade them ope his veins. And even this
             They did, whereat his panting breath grew still
             And tranquil; then the gaping wounds were bound,
             And those sad maids were glad to think him healed.
             Forth went Medea then, as she hath said;
             His daughters, too, departed, for he slept.
             But, on a sudden, came a fearful cry
             From out his chamber! Swift his daughters sped
             To aid him, and—oh, ghastly, horrible!—
             There on the pavement lay the aged king,
             His body twisted in a hideous knot,
             The cloths that bound his veins all torn away
             From off his gaping wounds, whence, in a black
             And sluggish stream, his blood came welling forth.
             He lay beside the altar, where the Fleece
             For long was wont to hang—and that was gone!
             But, in that selfsame hour, thy wife was seen,
             The golden gaud upon her shoulder flung,
             Swift hasting through the night.
 
 
MEDEA (dully, staring straight before her).
             'Twas my reward!—
             I shudder still, when'er I think upon
             The old man's furious rage!
 
 
HERALD. Now, that no longer
             Such horrors bide here, poisoning this land
             With their destructive breath, I here proclaim
             The solemn doom of utter banishment
             On Jason, the Thessalian, Aeson's son,
             Spouse of a wicked witch-wife, and himself
             An arrant villain; and I drive him forth
             From out this land of Greece, wherein the gods
             Are wont to walk with men; to exile hence,
             To flight and wandering I drive him forth,
             And with him, this, his wife, ay, and his babes,
             The offspring of his marriage-bed. Henceforth
             No rood of this, his fatherland, be his,
             No share in her protection or her rights!
 

[He raises his hand and three times makes solemn proclamation, turning to different quarters.]

 
               Banished are Jason and Medea!
               Medea and Jason are banished!
               Banished are Jason and Medea!
             And whoso harbors him, or gives him aid,
             After three days and nights are come and gone,
             Upon that man I here declare the doom
             Of death, if he be burgher; if a king,
             Or city-state, then war shall be proclaimed.
             So runs the Amphictyons' reverend decree,
             The which I here proclaim, as is most meet,
             That each may know its terms, and so beware.—
             The blessing of the gods upon this house!
 

[He turns to depart.]

 
JASON. Why stand ye there, ye walls, and crash not down
             To save this king the pains of slaying me?
 
 
KING. A moment yet, sir Herald. Hear this, too.
 

[He turns to JASON.]

 
             Think'st thou I rue the promise I have made?
             If I could think thee guilty, ay, wert thou
             My very son, I'd give thee up to these
             That seek thee. But thou art not! Wherefore, I
             Will give thee shelter. Stay thou here.—Who dares
             To question Creon's friend, whose innocence
             Stands pledged by mine own words? Who dares, I say,
             To lay a hand upon my son to be?
             Yea, Herald, on my son to be, the spouse
             Of this my daughter! 'Twas my dearest wish
             In happy days long past, when Fortune smiled;
             Now, when he's compassed round by stormy waves
             Of evil fortune, it shall come to pass.
             Ay, she shall be thy wife, and thou shalt stay
             Here, with thy father. And I will myself
             Make answer for it to the Amphictyons.
             Who now will cry him guilty, when the king
             Hath sworn him free from blame, and given him
             The hand of his own daughter?
 

(To the HERALD.)