We feel a brief surge of hope that reason, that love has prevailed. Medea does love her children: it is demonstrably clear she loves them in a way Jason does not. He would cheerfully have seen them go into exile so he could marry well and start a new family. His affection for his sons is conditional: there are limits to the inconvenience he is prepared to tolerate for them. Medea is paralysed with love, and even if she were not, she can do the maths. She loves the children much more than Jason does. If she kills them to injure him, she is injuring herself doubly. A clever woman could not conclude that this is the rational choice.
But just as her maternal affection has surged within her, suddenly the darker side of her nature rises up again. What is wrong with me? Am I willing to have my enemies laugh at me, unpunished? I have to do this. What a coward, to let these soft words into my mind. Go inside, children. If it is not lawful for anyone to be present at my sacrifice, leave now. My hand will not relent.
And then, once more, love prevails: Oh my heart, don’t do this.36 Let them be, you wretched creature, spare your children. Let them live and make you happy.
And then anger: No, by the darkest demons in Hades, I will not allow my sons to be mistreated by my enemies. It’s too late now: the bride is dying, crown on her head, wearing her dress. I know this.
She says goodbye to her children, but wavers again: your skin is so soft, your breath is so sweet. Go, go! I can’t look at you any more. I understand the terrible thing I am about to do. But anger, the cause of all evils among mortals, is stronger than my resolution.
The children retreat inside the house, but Medea stays outside while the chorus deliver an ode on the virtues of childlessness. The childless live less troubled lives, they think, without the terrible burden of perpetual fear and anxiety. As they conclude, a messenger arrives from the palace. It turns out Medea has been waiting for him. He tells her to flee Corinth. Why? she asks. Because Creon and his daughter are both dead from your poison, the man replies.37 He describes the scene in detail: the princess taking the dress and crown from their box and putting them on, before the poison floods through her. The crown seems to spew fire onto her head, the dress corrodes her skin. Glauce almost dissolves in agony and her father rushes to his daughter and tries to comfort her. But the poison afflicts him too: after suffering horrific pain, father and daughter both lie dead.
The speech is long, and incredibly gory, but even when the messenger has finished, the chorus maintain their earlier position. They believe that Jason is suffering endikōs – ‘justly’ – on this day.38 Medea has not yet lost their sympathy. And she has stopped wavering: I must kill the children as quickly as I can and leave Corinth. Otherwise, someone else, an enemy, will kill them. They will die, so, since they must, let it be by my hand, I who gave birth to them. Arm yourself, my heart. Come, wretched hand, take the sword. Take it. Crawl towards this awful moment in your life. No more cowardice, no more remembering that they are your children, your beloveds. For one brief day, forget your children. And then you can cry. For you love them, even though you kill them.
I am a wretched woman.
And with these words, she disappears into her house. We can only watch in helpless horror. Medea’s logic is superficially reasonable, but it has led her to a terrible conclusion. Of course it is all too likely that, having killed the entire royal family of Corinth, Medea’s children are at risk of a vengeance killing. She and Jason have already had to flee Iolcus, after instigating the murder of Pelias. There is something in what she says: it would be better for her to kill her children – as quickly and painlessly as possible – than for a baying Corinthian mob to find them first. And yet, would there be such a mob? The women of Corinth have sympathized with her throughout this play, have kept her secrets and supported her. Is Medea right to fear that her children would die? Or is she just making an excuse to herself, justifying what she wants to do – kill their children to injure her husband – with a quasi-altruistic argument?
The chorus sing a desperate ode to Helios, the sun god, Medea’s grandfather. Can he really look down upon such an awful scene? But even as they describe Medea as a Fury,39 they qualify it with talainan – ‘pitiable’， ‘wretched’。 They still feel sorry for her. And then they – and we – hear Medea’s children crying out for help: What shall I do, where do I go to escape my mother’s hands? The second child responds: I don’t know, beloved brother. We are destroyed.
The shock of this scene – of children screaming for help as their mother slaughters them with a sword – is in no way diminished by the fact that we only hear it, rather than see it. The chorus are appalled, and ask each other if they should go inside and intervene to save the children. Choruses are usually bystanders, commenting on the action. Their suggestion in this play that they might leave the stage to help Medea’s children is striking. The children scream again: For gods’ sake, help us; we are in danger from her sword.