The chorus say he speaks convincingly, but they don’t agree with him. Neither does Medea: if any of this was true, she says, you would have told me before you did it. The long speeches shrink to a few lines each, and then single lines each, as Jason and Medea settle into the rhythm of their argument.
I would have told you, but you’d have gone nuts.
Sure, call me names, I’m the one going into exile.
That’s your fault, shouting your mouth off.
What did you think I would do?
Fine, well, if you need help, let me know.
I will never need your help.
Jason and Medea are a hero and a semi-divine sorceress from a mythic world of fire-breathing bulls, enchanted fleeces and giant snakes. And yet they sound like every divorcing couple we have ever known. To underline the point, the chorus sing an ode to Aphrodite. Because, truly, which of us isn’t thinking of the wonder of love at this precise moment?
Then Aegeus – the king of Athens and father of Theseus – appears. He has been to Delphi to consult the Oracle about his continuing childlessness. Medea tells him of her marital difficulties. Aegeus is appalled by Jason’s behaviour, particularly the part where he is allowing his family to be banished from Corinth. And Medea sees her exit strategy. I’ll help you to interpret the Oracle and have children, she says, if you swear to give me sanctuary in Athens. Of course, he says, but I don’t need to swear an oath: we’re old friends. I have enemies, she replies. It’ll make us both safer if you swear to it. Your forethought is considerable, he says. He doesn’t know the half of it.
Once Aegeus has left, Medea revels in her plan. She will beg Jason to let the boys stay, while she goes into exile alone. But this is not the sacrifice it first appears. She will send the children with gifts for the princess – a dress, a crown – which Medea will have coated in poison. Once those have been delivered, she says, I lament what must be done next. For I will kill my children. No one will take them away from me.31
It’s hard to overstate how horrifying this moment is in performance. We have heard concerns about the children – from the nurse, the tutor, Medea herself – but the hints have been obscure, half-expressed. We have watched Medea’s brilliant mind in action: charming the chorus, disarming Creon, demolishing Jason, bargaining with Aegeus. We like her. And then, here it is, like a punch in the gut. This compelling, clever, angry woman is planning something which far exceeds the revenge she has previously mentioned. Killing Jason, Creon, Glauce: these are terrible crimes, but we – like the chorus – have taken her side. Jason is so oily, Creon so pompous, Glauce is just an idea: we haven’t met her. These people have wronged her, why wouldn’t she want vengeance? It is Greek tragedy, after all: a high death toll is pretty much guaranteed with your ticket. But children? Her own children? She surely doesn’t mean it. The chorus try to reason with her, but she is obdurate. Her enemies must not be allowed to laugh at her. You won’t be able to do it, they say. It’s the way to hurt my husband the most, she replies. The verb is daknō – to bite. Medea sends the nurse to bring Jason to her. The chorus sing of Athens and its beauty.
Jason reappears, as plausible, as reasonable as ever: I know you despise me, but I’m here to listen to what you have to say. And Medea switches persona once again, so we see what is surely an echo of their earlier marital reconciliations. It is impossible to watch this play and not imagine them as a couple who have always had rollercoaster rows. Medea’s cleverness is highly responsive: she always knows how to perform for her specific audience. This time, she chooses magnanimous self-recrimination. You know what my temper is like, Jason, and we have loved one another for so long. I’m an idiot, picking fights with Creon, with you. Of course you were trying to help us, by starting a new family, creating royal brothers for our sons. I don’t know why I was so angry: I should have helped your new bride get ready for her wedding.
I have probably seen this play thirty times: in English, in Greek, set in the Bronze Age, set now. And it is always at this moment that I think the whole thing must collapse. That even Jason – who isn’t stupid, and knows his wife – will surely, surely guess that she is playing him for a fool. In Agamemnon, we watch a similar scene where Agamemnon simply doesn’t realize that Clytemnestra is plotting his imminent murder. But the difference there is that Agamemnon has been away from his wife for ten years, and we never get the impression that they were a close couple. There is always a sense that she outclasses him in terms of intellect, and that he is just about clever enough to realize this and resent her for it. Watching Clytemnestra toy with Agamemnon is like watching a malevolent cat preparing to launch a full-clawed attack on a bad-tempered, rather stupid dog. But Jason and Medea’s relationship is a different beast: we can always feel the attraction between them. Jason isn’t stupid at all, he’s just not in the same league as Medea. Agamemnon fails to read Clytemnestra’s intentions because he isn’t interested in her, doesn’t think about who she is and what she is likely to do. You could accuse Jason of the same problem, but I think Euripides has done something else here. Jason believes Medea because he wants to. Even as she lays it on so thickly – suggesting she might have stood in attendance on Glauce is clearly overdoing it – he wants her to be telling him the truth. He wants Medea to accept his behaviour in the light he has presented it: as a favour to her and their sons. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy in their marriage, even though he was willing to see his wife and sons go into exile. And Medea knows that. The easiest person to fool is the one who wants to be fooled.