Pandora's Jar: Women in the Greek Myths(71)

The line about preferring to stand in battle three times than give birth to a single child is a masterstroke. What better way to bond with the chorus than remind them of the most intense physical experience they have ever known? And Medea is spot on: giving birth in the ancient world was incredibly dangerous. Maternal and infant mortality were part of why life expectancy was so low on average (perhaps thirty-five years).

And then she comes back to her initial point, about being a foreigner, far from home, to further elicit the sympathy of these women who have always lived among family and friends. It would take magic powers to know what to do, she says, carefully glossing over the fact that she does, in fact, have magic powers. We saw it in Pindar’s version of her, we have seen it in vase paintings that predate this play: Medea is a witch, or a sorceress. Her aunt is Circe, the most renowned witch in Greek myth, thanks to her starring role in the Odyssey. She presents herself as a war bride, kidnapped by Jason. But there is no version of Medea’s story where that is the case. She always falls in love with him (even if Aphrodite makes it happen).

And then we come to a truly magnificent moment. It’s not so bad for you, with your fathers, your friends, your homes: I don’t have a mother, a brother, anyone to turn to. Well, that is assuredly true, as far as it goes. Medea does not have a father she can turn to, because she helped Jason steal the golden fleece from him and then sailed away. She doesn’t have a mother because she abandoned her home for the man she had fallen in love with. And she doesn’t have a brother, because she killed her little brother, Apsyrtos: dismembered him, and threw his body parts into the sea, in order to delay her father as he pursued them while they were making their escape. So while it is technically the case that Medea is brotherless, she really does only have herself to blame.

The speech works brilliantly on multiple levels: if we take her at her word (as the chorus do), we have a thoughtful, elegiac plea for support from woman to women. It’s an interesting moment to remember that all these roles were being played by men in fifth-century BCE Athens. If we are more aware of Medea’s backstory, we are watching a masterclass in revisionism and rhetorical sleight of hand. Either way, she concludes with her goal achieved: she has begged the chorus for discretion and they make the promise she wants. Whatever she decides to do to pay Jason back, they will keep silent. There is no one watching this play who doesn’t believe Medea will do something catastrophic in her revenge.

And now Creon, the king of Corinth, arrives onstage and delivers the news which the nurse and tutor have kept quiet up to now. Medea is banished. Why? she asks. I’m afraid of you,25 he replies. You’re clever and you’ve been threatening revenge on Jason and his bride, and that’s my daughter. So I want you gone now, before you can do any harm. Otherwise I’ll regret it later. Medea now switches persona again. It’s effortless. She uses his name repeatedly, like a hostage negotiator trying to build a rapport with a kidnapper. She downplays her cleverness: it’s just a reputation. It’s dogged me all my life. I bear you and your daughter no grudge. Let me stay.

Creon has the measure of her: you speak gently,26 but you could be planning something terrible. A quick-tempered woman (and the same goes for a man) is easier to guard against than a quiet, clever one. It is agonizing to watch: Creon is completely right, and yet still he underestimates Medea, fails to realize just what she is capable of doing in her single-minded pursuit of vengeance. She is calm, polite, humble, and she makes him believe that he has the better of her. She could not be playing on the weakness of a less-clever, arrogant man any better. He leaves the stage convinced he has upheld his intentions: Medea is still banished. She has, however, persuaded him to give her one day, just to sort things out before she leaves. His final words are chilling: fine, stay for one more day. It’s not like you can do the kind of awful things I fear in that time.27 Should you be in any doubt: she definitely can.

The moment Creon is out of earshot, Medea drops the humility and the subservience. She spits her contempt for him and his idiocy. Do you think I would ever have fawned over him if it hadn’t been to my advantage? she asks. Having won over the chorus earlier, she can now treat them as her co-conspirators. Medea has a plan and it is to use the day’s grace she has wheedled out of Creon to cause the death of three of her enemies:28 the father, the daughter and her husband. Her mind is racing with potential plans: fire, stabbing, poison. She wants to be sure she can carry out her plan before she is caught. Poison is the best bet, she concludes.

There is no ethical concern as she makes this decision, it is all about practicalities. Which way can she most successfully carry out her revenge? The idea that this revenge might not be proportionate to Jason’s behaviour is nowhere to be found. Medea has already moved on, anyway: where can she go after she has killed the entire royal family of Corinth? If she can find an exit strategy, she will go ahead with the poisoning. If not, she’ll just attack Jason and Glauce with a sword and, if she is killed in the immediate aftermath, well, so be it. And then she swears by Hecate that no one will hurt her and be glad of it.

This is central to Euripides’ Medea. No matter how many personae she puts on and takes off as she addresses different characters in this play, it remains intact. If you hurt her, she will make you regret it. Her revenge will exceed your original wrong and no one will ever be able to say of her that she let her enemies get away with something. It is no exaggeration to say that this prospect pains her more than anything else. She reminds herself that she is the daughter of a king, the granddaughter of Helios, the sun god. No one gets away with laughing at her.