Came with their father, and passed on to find
The new-made bridal rooms, Oh, we were glad,
We thralls, who ever loved thee well, and had
Grief in thy grief. And straight there passed a word
From ear to ear, that thou and thy false lord
Had poured peace offering upon wrath foregone.
A right glad welcome gave we them, and one
Kissed the small hand, and one the shining hair:
Myself, for very joy, I followed where
The women's rooms are. There our mistress . . . she
Whom now we name so . . . thinking not to see
Thy little pair, with glad and eager brow
Sate waiting Jason. Then she saw, and slow
Shrouded her eyes, and backward turned again,
Sick that thy children should come near her. Then
Thy husband quick went forward, to entreat
The young maid's fitful wrath. "Thou will not meet
Love's coming with unkindness? Nay, refrain
Thy suddenness, and turn thy face again,
Holding as friends all that to me are dear,
Thine husband. And accept these robes they bear
As gifts: and beg thy father to unmake
His doom of exile on them--for my sake."
When once she saw the raiment, she could still
Her joy no more, but gave him all his will.
And almost ere the father and the two
Children were gone from out the room, she drew
The flowered garments forth, and sate her down
To her arraying: bound the golden crown
Through her long curls, and in a mirror fair
Arranged their separate clusters, smiling there
At the dead self that faced her. Then aside
She pushed her seat, and paced those chambers wide
Alone, her white foot poising delicately--
So passing joyful in those gifts was she!--
And many a time would pause, straight-limbed, and wheel
Her head to watch the long fold to her heel
Sweeping. And then came something strange. Her cheek
Seemed pale, and back with crooked steps and weak
Groping of arms she walked, and scarcely found
Her old seat, that she fell not to the ground.
Among the handmaids was a woman old
And grey, who deemed, I think, that Pan had hold
Upon her, or some spirit, and raised a keen
Awakening shout; till through her lips was seen
A white foam crawling, and her eyeballs back
Twisted, and all her face dead pale for lack
Of life: and while that old dame called, the cry
Turned strangely to its opposite, to die
Sobbing. Oh, swiftly then one woman flew
To seek her father's rooms, one for the new
Bridegroom, to tell the tale. And all the place
Was loud with hurrying feet.
So long a space
As a swift walker on a measured way
Would pace a furlong's course in, there she lay
Speechless, with veiled lids. Then wide her eyes
She oped, and wildly, as she strove to rise,
Shrieked: for two diverse waves upon her rolled
Of stabbing death. The carcanet of gold
That gripped her brow was molten in a dire
And wondrous river of devouring fire.
And those fine robes, the gift thy children gave--
God's mercy!--everywhere did lap and lave
The delicate flesh; till up she sprang, and fled,
A fiery pillar, shaking locks and head
This way and that, seeking to cast the crown
Somewhere away. But like a thing nailed down
The burning gold held fast the anadem,
And through her locks, the more she scattered them,
Came fire the fiercer, till to earth she fell
A thing--save to her sire--scarce nameable,
And strove no more. That cheek of royal mien,
Where was it--or the place where eyes had been?
Only from crown and temples came faint blood
Shot through with fire. The very flesh, it stood
Out from the bones, as from a wounded pine
The gum starts, where those gnawing poisons fine
Bit in the dark--a ghastly sight! And touch
The dead we durst not. We had seen too much.
But that poor father, knowing not, had sped,
Swift to his daughter's room, and there the dead
Lay at his feet. He knelt, and groaning low,
Folded her in his arms, and kissed her: "Oh,
Unhappy child, what thing unnatural hath
So hideously undone thee? Or what wrath
Of gods, to make this old grey sepulchre
Childless of thee? Would God but lay me there
To die with thee, my daughter!" So he cried.
But after, when he stayed from tears, and tried
To uplift his old bent frame, lo, in the folds
Of those fine robes it held, as ivy holds
Strangling among your laurel boughs. Oh, then
A ghastly struggle came! Again, again,
Up on his knee he writhed; but that dead breast
Clung still to his: till, wild, like one possessed,
He dragged himself half free; and, lo, the live
Flesh parted; and he laid him down to strive
No more with death, but perish; for the deep
Had risen above his soul. And there they sleep,
At last, the old proud father and the bride,
Even as his tears had craved it, side by side.
For thee--Oh, no word more! Thyself will know
How best to baffle vengeance. . . . Long ago
I looked upon man's days, and found a grey
Shadow. And this thing more I surely say,
That those of all men who are counted wise,
Strong wits, devisers of great policies,
Do pay the bitterest toll. Since life began,
Hath there in God's eye stood one happy man?
Fair days roll on, and bear more gifts or less
Of fortune, but to no man happiness.
[_Exit_ MESSENGER.
CHORUS.
_Some Women._
Wrath upon wrath, meseems, this day shall fall
From God on Jason! He hath earned it all.
_Other Women._
O miserable maiden, all my heart
Is torn for thee, so sudden to depart
From thy king's chambers and the light above
To darkness, all for sake of Jason's love!
MEDEA.
Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay
My children with all speed, and then, away
From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand
Beneath another and an angrier hand
To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die
They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I
Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none
Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on,
My heart! Why longer tarry we to win
Our crown of dire inevitable sin?
Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine,
Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line
Where life turns agony. Let there be naught
Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought,
'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own beloved.' Now,
For one brief day, forget thy children: thou
Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet
Sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate.
[_She goes into the house._
CHORUS.
_Some Women._
O Earth, our mother; and thou
All-seer, arrowy crown
Of Sunlight, manward now
Look down, Oh, look down!
Look upon one accurst,
Ere yet in blood she twine
Red hands--blood that is thine!
O Sun, save her first!
She is thy daughter still,
Of thine own golden line;
Save her! Or shall man spill
The life divine?
Give peace, O Fire that diest not! Send thy spell
To stay her yet, to lift her afar, afar--
A torture-changed spirit, a voice of Hell
Wrought of old wrongs and war!
_Others._
Alas for the mother's pain
Wasted! Alas the dear
Life that was born in vain!
Woman, what mak'st thou here,
Thou from beyond the Gate
Where dim Symplegades
Clash in the dark blue seas,
The shores where death doth wait?
Why hast thou taken on thee,
To make us desolate,
This anger of misery
And guilt of hate?
For fierce are the smitings back of blood once shed
Where love hath been: God's wrath upon them that kill,
And an anguished earth, and the wonder of the dead
Haunting as music still. . . .
[_A cry is heard within._
_A Woman._
Hark! Did ye hear? Heard ye the children's cry?
_Another._
O miserable woman! O abhorred!
_A Child within._
What shall I do? What is it? Keep me fast
From mother!
_The Other Child._
I know nothing. Brother! Oh,
I think she means to kill us.
_A Woman._
Let me go!
I will--Help! Help!--and save them at the last.
_A Child._
Yes, in God's name! Help quickly ere we die!
_The Other Child._
She has almost caught me now. She has a sword.
[_Many of the Women are now beating at the barred
door to get in. Others are standing apart._
_Women at the door._
Thou stone, thou thing of iron! Wilt verily
Spill with thine hand that life, the vintage stored
Of thine own agony?
_The Other Women._
A Mother slew her babes in days of yore,
One, only one, from dawn to eventide,
Ino, god-maddened, whom the Queen of Heaven
Set frenzied, flying to the dark: and she
Cast her for sorrow to the wide salt sea,
Forth from those rooms of murder unforgiven,
Wild-footed from a white crag of the shore,
And clasping still her children twain, she died.
O Love of Woman, charged with sorrow sore,
What hast thou wrought upon us? What beside
Resteth to tremble for?
[_Enter hurriedly_ JASON _and Attendants_.
JASON.
Ye women by this doorway clustering
Speak, is the doer of the ghastly thing
Yet here, or fled? What hopeth she of flight?
Shall the deep yawn to shield her? Shall the height
Send wings, and hide her in the vaulted sky
To work red murder on her lords, and fly
Unrecompensed? But let her go! My care
Is but to save my children, not for her.
Let them she wronged requite her as they may.
I care not. 'Tis my sons I must some way
Save, ere the kinsmen of the dead can win
From them the payment of their mother's sin.
LEADER.
Unhappy man, indeed thou knowest not
What dark place thou art come to! Else, God wot,
Jason, no word like these could fall from thee.
JASON.
What is it?--Ha! The woman would kill me?
LEADER.
Thy sons are dead, slain by their mother's hand.
JASON.
How? Not the children. . . . I scarce understand. . . .
O God, thou hast broken me!
LEADER.
Think of those twain
As things once fair, that ne'er shall bloom again.
JASON.
Where did she murder them? In that old room?
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
Abhorred, 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._
JASON.
May They that hear the weeping child
Blast thee, and They that walk in blood!
MEDEA.
Thy broken vows, thy friends beguiled
Have shut for thee the ears of God.
JASON.
Go, thou art wet with children's tears!
MEDEA.
Go thou, and lay thy bride to sleep.
JASON.
Childless, I go, to weep and weep.
MEDEA.
Not yet! Age cometh and long years.
JASON.
My sons, mine own!
MEDEA.
Not thine, but mine . . .
JASON.
. . . Who slew them!
MEDEA.
Yes: to torture thee.
JASON.
Once let me kiss their lips, once twine
Mine arms and touch. . . . Ah, woe is me!
MEDEA.
Wouldst love them and entreat? But now
They were as nothing.
JASON.
At the last,
O God, to touch that tender brow!
MEDEA.
Thy words upon the wind are cast.
JASON.
Thou, Zeus, wilt hear me. All is said
For naught. I am but spurned away
And trampled by this tigress, red
With children's blood. Yet, come what may,
So far as thou hast granted, yea,
So far as yet my strength may stand,
I weep upon these dead, and say
Their last farewell, and raise my hand
To all the daemons of the air
In witness of these things; how she
Who slew them, will not suffer me
To gather up my babes, nor bear
To earth their bodies; whom, O stone
Of women, would I ne'er had known
Nor gotten, to be slain by thee!
[_He casts himself upon the earth._
CHORUS.
Great treasure halls hath Zeus in heaven,
From whence to man strange dooms be given,
Past hope or fear.
And the end men looked for cometh not,
And a path is there where no man thought:
So hath it fallen here.
NOTES TO MEDEA
P. 3, l. 2, To Colchis through the blue Symplegades.]--The Symplegades
("Clashing") or Kuaneai ("Dark blue") were two rocks in the sea which
used to clash together and crush anything that was between them. They
stood above the north end of the Bosphorus and formed the Gate (l. 1264,
p. 70) to the Axeinos Pontos, or "Stranger-less Sea," where all Greeks
were murdered. At the farthest eastern end of that sea was the land of
Colchis.
P. 3, l. 3, Pelion.]--The great mountain in Thessaly. Iolcos, a little
kingdom between Pelion and the sea, ruled originally by Aeson, Jason's
father, then by the usurping Pelias.
P. 3, l. 9, Daughters of Pelias.]--See Introduction, p. vii.
P. 4, l. 18, Wed.]--Medea was not legally married to Jason, and could
not be, though in common parlance he is sometimes called her husband.
Intermarriage between the subjects of two separate states was not
possible in antiquity without a special treaty. And naturally there was
no such treaty with Colchis.
This is, I think, the view of the play, and corresponds to the normal
Athenian conceptions of society. In the original legend it is likely
enough that Medea belongs to "matriarchal" times before the institution
of marriage.
P. 4, l. 18, Head of Corinth.]--A peculiar word ([Greek: aisumnan])
afterwards used to translate the Roman _dictator_. Creon is, however,
apparently descended from the ancient king Sisyphus.
P. 4, l. 40, She hath a blade made keen, &c.]--These lines (40, 41) are
repeated in a different context later on, p. 23, ll. 379, 380. The sword
which to the Nurse suggested suicide was really meant for murder. There
is a similar and equally dramatic repetition of the lines about the
crown and wreath (786, 949, pp. 46, 54), and of those about the various
characters popularly attributed to Medea (ll. 304, 808, pp. 18, 46).
P. 5, l. 48, ATTENDANT.]--Greek _Paidagogos_, or "pedagogue"; a
confidential servant who escorted the boys to and from school, and in
similar ways looked after them. Notice the rather light and cynical
character of this man, compared with the tenderness of the Nurse.
P. 5, l. 57, To this still earth and sky.]--Not a mere stage
explanation. It was the ancient practice, if you had bad dreams or
terrors of the night, to "show" them to the Sun in the morning, that he
might clear them away.
P. 8, l. 111, Have I not suffered?]--Medea is apparently answering some
would-be comforter. Cf. p. 4. ("If friends will speak," &c.)
P. 9, l. 131, CHORUS.]--As Dr. Verrall has remarked, the presence of the
Chorus is in this play unusually awkward from the dramatic point of
view. Medea's plot demands most absolute secrecy; and it is incredible
that fifteen Corinthian women, simply because they were women, should
allow a half-mad foreigner to murder several people, including their
own Corinthian king and princess--who was a woman also--rather than
reveal her plot. We must remember in palliation (1) that these women
belong to the faction in Corinth which was friendly to Medea and hostile
to Creon; (2) that the appeal to them as women had more force in
antiquity than it would now, and the princess had really turned traitor
to her sex. (See note on this subject at the end of the present writer's
translation of the _Electra_.) (3) The non-interference of the Chorus
seems monstrous: yet in ancient times, when law was weak and punishment
was chiefly the concern of the injured persons, and of no one else, the
reluctance of bystanders to interfere was much greater than it is now in
an ordered society. Some oriental countries, and perhaps even California
or Texas, could afford us some startling instances of impassiveness
among bystanders.
P. 12, l. 167, Oh, wild words!]--The Nurse breaks in, hoping to drown
her mistress's dangerous self-betrayal. Medea's murder of her brother
(see Introduction, p. vi) was by ordinary standards her worst act, and
seems not to have been known in Corinth. It forms the climax of Jason's
denunciation, l. 1334, p. 74.
P. 13, l. 190, Alas, the brave blithe bards, &c.]--Who is the speaker?
According to the MSS. the Nurse, and there is some difficulty in taking
the lines from her. Yet (1) she has no reason to sing a song outside
after saying that she is going in; and (2) it is quite necessary that
she should take a little time indoors persuading Medea to come out. The
words seem to suit the lips of an impersonal Chorus.
The general sense of the poem is interesting. It is an apology for
tragedy. It gives the tragic poet's conception of the place of his art
in the service of humanity, as against the usual feeling of the public,
whose serious work is devoted to something else, and who "go to a play
to be amused."
P. 14, l. 214, Women of Corinth, I am come, &c.]--These opening lines
are a well-known _crux interpretum_. It is interesting to note, (1) that
the Roman poet Ennius (ca. 200 B.C.) who translated the _Medea_, did not
understand them in the least; while, on the other hand, the earliest
Greek commentators seem not to have noticed that there was any
difficulty in them worth commenting upon. That implies that while the
acting tradition was alive and unbroken, the lines were easily
understood; but when once the tradition failed, the meaning was lost.
(The first commentator who deals with the passage is Irenaeus, a scholar
of the Augustan time.)
P. 15, l. 231, A herb most bruised is woman.]--This fine statement of
the wrongs of women in Athens doubtless contains a great deal of the
poet's own mind; but from the dramatic point of view it is justified in
several ways. (1) Medea is seeking for a common ground on which to
appeal to the Corinthian women. (2) She herself is now in the position
of all others in which a woman is most hardly treated as compared with a
man. (3) Besides this, one can see that, being a person of great powers
and vehement will, she feels keenly her lack of outlet. If she had men's
work to do, she could be a hero: debarred from proper action (from
[Greek: to prassein], _Hip._ 1019) she is bound to make mischief. Cf. p.
24, ll. 408, 409. "Things most vain, &c."
There is a slight anachronism in applying the Attic system of doweries
to primitive times. Medea's contemporaries either lived in a
"matriarchal" system without any marriage, or else were bought by their
husbands for so many cows.
P. 17, l. 271, CREON.]--Observe the somewhat archaic abruptness of this
scene, a sign of the early date of the play.
P. 18, l. 295, Wise beyond men's wont.]--Medea was a "wise woman" which
in her time meant much the same as a witch or enchantress. She did
really know more than other women; but most of this extra knowledge
consisted--or was supposed to consist--either in lore of poisons and
charms, or in useless learning and speculation.
P. 18, l. 304, A seed of strife, an Eastern dreamer, &c.]--The meaning
of these various "ill names" is not certain. Cf. l. 808, p. 46. Most
scholars take [Greek: thaterou tropou] ("of the other sort") to mean
"the opposite of a dreamer."
P. 20, ll. 333-4, What would I with thy pains?]--A conceit almost in the
Elizabethan style, as if by taking "pains" away from Creon, she would
have them herself.
P. 20, l. 335, Not that! Not that!]--Observe what a dislike Medea has of
being touched: cf. l. 370 ("my flesh been never stained," &c.) and l.
496 ("poor, poor right hand of mine!"), pp. 22, and 28.
P. 22, l. 364, Defeat on every side.]--Observe (1) that in this speech
Medea's vengeance is to take the form of a clear fight to the death
against the three guilty persons. It is both courageous and, judged by
the appropriate standard, just. (2) She wants to save her own life, not
from cowardice, but simply to make her revenge more complete. To kill
her enemies and escape is victory. To kill them and die with them is
only a drawn battle. Other enemies will live and "laugh." (3) Already in
this first soliloquy there is a suggestion of that strain of madness
which becomes unmistakable later on in the play. ("Oh, I have tried so
many thoughts of murder," &c., and especially the lashing of her own
fury, "Awake thee now, Medea.")
P. 24, l. 405, Thief's daughter: lit. "a child of Sisyphus."]--Sisyphus,
an ancient king of Corinth, was one of the well-known sinners punished
in Tartarus. Medea's father, Aietes, was a brother of Circe, and born of
the Sun.
P. 24, l. 409, Things most vain for help.]--See on ll. 230 ff.
P. 24. ll. 410-430, CHORUS.]--The song celebrates the coming triumph of
Woman in her rebellion against Man; not by any means Woman as typifying
the domestic virtues, but rather as the downtrodden, uncivilised,
unreasoning, and fiercely emotional half of humanity. A woman who in
defence of her honour and her rights will die sword in hand, slaying the
man who wronged her, seems to the Chorus like a deliverer of the whole
sex.
P. 24. l. 421, Old bards.]--Early literature in most countries contains
a good deal of heavy satire on women: _e.g._ Hesiod's "Who trusts a
woman trusts a thief;" or Phocylides' "Two days of a woman are very
sweet: when you marry her and when you carry her to her grave."
It is curious how the four main Choruses of the _Medea_ are divided
each into two parts, distinct in subject and in metre.
P. 25, l. 439, Faith is no more sweet.]--Copied from a beautiful passage
in Hesiod, _Works and Days_, 198 ff.: "There shall be no more sweetness
found in the faithful man nor the righteous. . . . And at last up to
Olympus from the wide-wayed earth, shrouding with white raiment their
beautiful faces, go Ruth and Rebuking." (Aidos and Nemesis: _i.e._ the
Ruth or Shame that you feel with reference to your own actions, and the
Indignation or Disapproval that others feel.)
P. 27, ll. 478 ff., Bulls of fiery breath.]--Among the tasks set him by
Aietes, Jason had to yoke two fire-breathing bulls, and plough with them
a certain Field of Ares, sow the field with dragon's teeth, and reap a
harvest of earth-born or giant warriors which sprang from the seed. When
all this was done, there remained the ancient serpent coiled round the
tree where the Golden Fleece was hanging.
P. 29, l. 507, The first friends who sheltered me.]--_i.e._ the kindred
of Pelias.
P. 29, l. 509, Blest of many a maid in Hellas.]--Jason was, of course,
the great romantic hero of his time. Cf. his own words, l. 1340, p. 74.
Pp. 29 ff., ll. 523-575.--Jason's defence is made the weaker by his
reluctance to be definitely insulting to Medea. He dares not say: "You
think that, because you conceived a violent passion for me,--to which, I
admit, I partly responded--I must live with you always; but the truth
is, you are a savage with whom a civilised man cannot go on living."
This point comes out unveiled in his later speech, l. 1329, ff., p. 74.
P. 30, ll. 536 ff., Our ordered life and justice.]--Jason has brought
the benefits of civilisation to Medea! He is doubtless sincere, but the
peculiar ironic cruelty of the plea is obvious.
P. 30, ll. 541 ff., The story of Great Medea, &c. . . . Unless our deeds
have glory.]--This, I think, is absolutely sincere. To Jason ambition is
everything. And, as Medea has largely shared his great deeds with him,
he thinks that she cannot but feel the same. It seems to him
contemptible that her mere craving for personal love should outweigh all
the possible glories of life.
P. 31, l. 565, What more need hast thou of children?]--He only means,
"of more children than you now have." But the words suggest to Medea a
different meaning, and sow in her mind the first seed of the
child-murder. See on the Aegeus scene below.
P. 34, l. 608, A living curse.]--Though she spoke no word, the existence
of a being so deeply wronged would be a curse on her oppressors. So a
murdered man's blood, or an involuntary cry of pain (Aesch. _Ag._ 237)
on the part of an injured person is in itself fraught with a curse.
P. 35. ll. 627-641, CHORUS. Alas, the Love, &c.]--A highly
characteristic Euripidean poem, keenly observant of fact, yet with a
lyrical note penetrating all its realism. A love which really produces
"good to man and glory," is treated in the next chorus, l. 844 ff., p.
49.