Studies in the Poetry of Italy, I. Roman Part 4

We omit the remainder of the nurse's speech out of regard for Seneca's reputation as an artist, for in a long pa.s.sage of sixty lines he proceeds to scour heaven, earth, and the waters under the earth, for every form of venomous serpent, noxious herb, and dread, uncanny thing that the mind of man can conceive; and by the time he has his full array of horrors marshaled before us, we have grown so familiar with the gruesome things that we cease to s.h.i.+ver at them. But at last the ingredients for the h.e.l.l-broth are ready.

These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'er With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth She mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart, A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.

Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use: The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these, While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.

Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.

But lo!

Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comes She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive rock.

Medea now enters, chanting her incantations. Madness has done fearful work with her in the last few hours. We see at a glance that she has indeed, as the nurse has told us, gone back to

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

and has been changed from a true wife and loving mother to a wild and murderous witch once more. She calls upon the G.o.ds of the underworld, the silent throng from the dark world of spirits, the tormented shades, all to come to her present aid. She recounts her miraculous powers over nature which she has used aforetime, and which are still in her grasp.

Thou radiant moon, Night's glorious...o...b.. my supplications hear and come To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou G.o.ddess dread Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks, And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves, And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued, And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths.

At my command the sun and stars together s.h.i.+ne, The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will: I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring, And h.o.a.ry winter autumn's golden harvests bear.

The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source; And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths, His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along.

The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds All silent lie. At my command primeval groves Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom, Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades Attest my charms.

Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this preparation!

After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says to her attendants:

Take now Creusa's bridal robe, and steep in these My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds, Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.

We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Phaethon, who had himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires.

The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious.

Truly, he doth explain too much.

But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the denouement.

Now, O Hecate, Give added force to these my deadly gifts, And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame; Let them escape detection of the eye, But spring to instant life at human touch.

Let burning streams run through her veins; In fervent heat consume her bones, And let her blazing locks outs.h.i.+ne Her marriage torches!--Lo, my prayer Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds, The baying hounds of Hecate.

Now all is ready: hither call My sons, and let them bear the gifts As costly presents to the bride. [_Enter sons._]

Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born, And win with gifts and many prayers The favor of the queen!

Begone, but quick your way retrace, That I may fold you in a last embrace.

[_Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in the opposite direction._]

The chorus, which but dimly comprehends Medea's plans, briefly voices its dread of her unbridled pa.s.sion. It knows that she has one day only before her banishment from Corinth, and prays that this day may soon be over.

And now, as the chorus and the old nurse wait in trembling suspense for what is to follow, a messenger comes running breathless from the direction of the royal palace. All ears are strained to hear his words, for his face and manner betoken evil tidings. He gasps out his message:

Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!

The daughter and the father lie in common dust!

_Chorus._ By what snare taken?

_Messenger._ By gifts, the common snare of kings.

_Chorus._ What harm could lurk in them?

_Messenger._ In equal doubt I stand; And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done, I scarce can trust their witness.

_Chorus._ What the mode of death?

_Messenger._ Devouring flames consume the palace at the will Of her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns, While men do tremble for the very city's doom.

_Chorus._ Let water quench the fire.

_Messenger._ Nay, here is added wonder: The copious streams of water _feed_ the deadly flames; And opposition only fans their fiery rage To whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

Medea has entered meanwhile, and has heard enough to be a.s.sured that her magic has been successful. The nurse, seeing her, and fearing for her mistress, exclaims:

O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlong flight!

_Medea._ Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled, I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of conflicting pa.s.sions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the pa.s.sionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play portrays--an incarnate fury.

_Medea._ Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun; But still how small a portion of thy just revenge Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest To acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.

Away with every thought and fear of G.o.d and man; Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.

Give pa.s.sion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers; And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocent Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now, I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe My powers have ripened.

This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her former successful deeds of blood.

O the bliss of memory!

My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent, My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm, And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!

But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring To execute my deeds.

But now, by what approach, Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?

Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.-- I would that children had been born to him of this My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart, His children too are hers.-- That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.

Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou, My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons, Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.-- My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.

Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins, The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.

And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so, O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!

What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood Would wash away?

Their sin--that Jason is their sire, And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die; They are not mine.--Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons, And with no spot of guilt.--Full innocent they are, 'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul, Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?

As when conflicting winds contend in stubborn strife, And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade, And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil: With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love, And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief, To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart, Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.

But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now My children must be torn away with tears and cries.-- Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.

Once more has hate resumed her sway, and pa.s.sion's fire Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore, Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!

I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.

Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy My brother and my sire.

She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

But whither hastes that throng Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished fires?

Whom threats this h.e.l.lish host with horrid, b.l.o.o.d.y brands?