at last says to her attendants:
Take now Creüsa'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 Phaëthon, 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 dénouement.
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 outshine
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 passion. 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 assured 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 passions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the passionate 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 God and man;
Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.
Give passion 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!
