Introduction:

For Unit 10 you have one primary source reading (Ovid Heroides XII: Medea to Jason). 

Ovid’s Heroides XII: Medea to Jason (Trans. A.S. Kline)

Publius Ovidius Naso (Ovid) was a Roman poet who lived from 43 BCE to 17 CE.  He was one of the most famous poets to write under the first Roman Emperor, Augustus.  Among his many works are The Heroides, imagined letters from mythic heroines to their lovers.  These letters offer a different perspective on some of the most well-known stories of myth, but remember that they are still the products of a man’s imagination.  In this letter, Medea reminds Jason of everything that she has done and sacrificed for him as Jason prepares to leave her for another woman.

As you reading, consider the following questions:
In what way does this poem tell the other side of the story?
Do you find this other side of the story convincing? 

Scorned Medea, the helpless exile, speaks to her recent husband,

surely you can spare some time from your kingship?

Oh, as I remember, the Queen of Colchis found time

to bring you riches, when you sought my arts!

Then, the Sisters who spin mortality’s threads,

should have unwound mine from the spindle:

Then you might have died well, Medea! Whatever

life’s brought since that time’s been punishment.

Ah me! Why was that Pelian ship driven forward

by youthful arms, seeking the ram of Phrixus?

Why did we of Colchis ever see the Thessalian Argo,

and your Greek crew drink the waters of Phasis?

Why did I take more pleasure than I should in your golden hair,

and your comeliness, and the lying favours of your tongue?

If not, once your strange ship had beached on our sands,

and had brought your brave warriors here,

Aeson’s son might have gone unmindful, unprotected by charms,

into the fiery breath, and burning muzzles, of the bulls!

He might have scattered the seed, and sown as many enemies,

so that the one who sowed fell prey to his own sowing!

What great treachery would have died with you, wicked man!

What great evils would have been averted from my head!

There’s some kind of delight in reproaching your ingratitude

for my kindness: I’ll enjoy the only pleasure I’ll have from you.

Ordered to turn your untried ship towards Colchis,

you entered the lovely kingdom of my native land.

Medea was, there, what your new bride is here:

as rich as her father is, my father was as rich.

Her father holds Corinth, between two seas, mine all

that lies to the left of Pontus, as far as the Scythian snows.

Aeetes welcomes the young Greek heroes as guests,

and Pelasgian bodies grace the ornate beds.

Then I saw you: then I began to know what you might be:

that was the first ruin of my affections.

I saw and I perished! I burnt, not with familiar fires,

but as a pine torch might burn before the great gods.

And you were handsome, and my fate lured me on:

the light of your eyes stole mine away.

You sensed it, faithless one! For who can, easily, hide love?

its flame is obvious, displaying the evidence.

Meanwhile rules were laid down for you: to yoke the strong necks,

first, of fierce bulls to the unaccustomed plough.

They were the bulls of Mars, more cruel than just their horns,

also their exhalations were terrible with fire,

their hooves were solid bronze, and bronze coated their nostrils,

and these too were blackened by their breath.

Besides that, you were ordered to scatter seed to breed a nation,

through the wide fields, with dutiful hands,

who would attack your body with co-born spears:

a harvest hostile to the farmer.

Your last labour, by some art, to deceive the guardian

that knows no sleep, and make its eyes succumb.

So said King Aeetes: all rose sorrowfully,

and the shining benches were pushed from the high table.

How far, from you, then was the kingdom, Creusa’s dowry,

and your father-in-law, and that daughter of great Creon.

You leave, downcast. My wet gaze follows you as you go,

and my tenuous voice murmurs: ‘Fare well!’

Though I reached the bed, made up in my room, stricken grievously,

how much of that night for me was spent in tears.

Before my eyes were the brazen bulls, the impious harvest,

before my sleepless eyes was the serpent.

Here is love, here fear – fear itself increased my love.

It was morning and my dear sister entered my room

and found me, with scattered hair, lying face downwards,

and everything drenched in my tears.

She prays for help for the Minyans: one asks, the other obtains:

what she requests for Aeson’s son, I give.

There’s a wood, dark with pine and oak branches,

the sun’s rays can scarcely reach there:

in it, there is – or was for certain – a temple of Diana:

there a golden goddess stood made by barbarian hands.

Do you know it, or has the place been forgotten, along with me?

We came there: you began to speak first, with false words:

‘Fortune indeed has given you the means of my salvation

and my life and death are in your hands.

It’s enough to destroy me if you were to delight in that:

but it will be more honour to you to help me.

I beg you by our troubles, which you can lighten,

by your race, and the divinity of the all-seeing Sun,

your grandfather, by Diana’s triple face and sacred mysteries,

and if my people’s gods have worth, those too:

O Virgin, take pity on me, take pity on my men,

grant me your services for all time!

If, perhaps, you do not scorn to have a Pelasgian husband –

but can it be so easily granted me, and by which of my gods? –

let my spirit vanish into thin air, if any bride

enters my bed, unless that bride be you.

Let Juno share in this, who oversees holy matrimony,

and that goddess in whose marble shrine we stand!’

This passion – and how much of it was words? –

moved a naive girl, and our right hands touched.

I even saw tears – or were they partly lies?

So I quickly became a girl captivated by your words.

And you yoked the brazen-footed steeds, your body un-scorched,

and split the solid earth with the plough, as you were ordered.

You filled the furrows with venomous teeth, instead of seed,

and warriors were born, armed with swords and shields.

I, who gave you the charms, sat there pale of face,

when I saw these men, suddenly born, take up arms,

until the earth-born brothers – marvellous happening! –

with drawn swords, joined battle amongst themselves.

Behold the sleepless guardian, coated with rattling scales,

hissed, and swept the ground with his writhing body.

Where was the rich dowry then? Where was the royal bride

for you then, and that Isthmus splitting the waters of twin seas?

I, the woman who has come to seem, at last, a barbarian to you,

who am now poor, who am now seen to be harmful,

subdued those burning eyes, with sleep-inducing drugs,

and safely gave you the fleece you carried away.

My father is betrayed, kingdom and country forsaken,

for which, it is right, my reward’s to suffer exile,

my virginity becomes the prize of a foreign thief,

my most dearly beloved sister, with my mother, lost.

But Absyrtus, my brother, I did not abandon you, fleeing without me.

This letter of mine is lacking in one thing:

what I dared to do my right hand cannot write.

So should I have been torn apart, but with you!

Yet I had no fear – what was to be feared after that? –

believing myself a woman at sea, already guilty.

Where is divine power? Where are the gods? Justice is near us

on the deep, you punished for fraud, I for credulity.

I wish that the clashing rocks, the Symplegades, had crushed us,

so that my bones might cling to your bones!

Or ravening Scylla might have caught us, to be eaten by her dogs!

Scylla is destined to harm ungrateful men.

And Charybdis, who so often swallows and spews out the tide,

should also have sucked us beneath Sicilian waters!

You return safe to the cities of Thessaly:

the golden fleece is placed before your gods.

Why speak of the daughters of Pelias, piously harming him,

and carving their father’s body with virgin hands?

Though others blame me, you must praise me,

you for whom I was forced to be so guilty.

You dared – oh words fail themselves, in righteous indignation! –

you dared to say: ‘Depart from Aeson’s house!’

As you ordered, I left the house, accompanied by our two children,

and, what will pursue me always, my love of you.

When suddenly the songs of Hymen came to my ears,

and the torches shone with illuminating fire,

and the flutes poured out the marriage tunes for you,

but a mournful funeral piping for me,

I was afraid, I hadn’t thought till now so much wickedness could be,

but still I was chilled through my whole body.

The crowd rushed on, continually shouting: ‘Hymen, Hymenaee!’

the nearer they came the worse it was for me.

The servants wept apart, and hid their tears –

who wants to be the bearer of such evil news?

It would have been better for me not to know what happened,

but it was as if I knew, my mind was sad,

when the younger of our sons, ordered to be on the lookout,

stationed at the outer threshold of the double doors, called to me:

‘Mother, come here! Jason, my father, is leading the procession,

and he’s driving a team of gilded horses!’

Straightaway, tearing my clothes, I beat my breasts,

nor was my face safe from my nails.

My heart urged me to go, in procession, among the crowd,

and to throw away the garlands arranged in my hair.

I could scarcely keep myself from shouting, my hair dishevelled,

‘He’s mine!’ and taking possession of you.

My wounded father, rejoice! Colchians, forsaken, rejoice!

My brother’s shade, in me find offerings to the dead!

I abandon my lost kingdom, my country, my home,

my husband, who alone was everything to me.

Thus, I could subdue serpents and raging bulls,

but I could not subdue this one man.

And I’ve driven off wild fires with skilful potions,

but I’ve no power to turn the flames from myself.

My charms and herbs and arts forsake me,

nor does the goddess, sacred Hecate, act with power.

The day does not please me: I’m awake through nights of bitterness,

and gentle sleep is absent from my miserable breast.

What cannot make me sleep made a dragon sleep.

My cures are more use to others than myself.

My rival clasps that body that I saved

and she has the fruits of my labours.

Indeed, perhaps when you wish to mention married foolishness,

and speak in a way that suits unjust ears,

you invent new faults in my face, and my manner.

Let her laugh, and lie there, lifted up on Tyrian purple –

she’ll weep, and, scorched, she’ll surpass my fires.

While there are blades, and flames, and poisonous juices,

no enemy will go unpunished by Medea.

If by chance my prayers move your breast of steel

now hear these humble words from my heart.

I’m as much a suppliant, to you, as you often were to me,

nor do I hesitate to throw myself at your feet.

If I’m worthless to you, consider the children we have:

a dread stepmother, in my place, will be cruel to them.

And they’re so like you, and touched by your semblance,

and as often as I see them, my eyes are wet with tears.

I beg you, by the gods, by the light of the Sun, my grandfather’s fire,

by my kindness to you, and by our two children, our pledges,

return to the bed for which I, insanely, abandoned so many things!

Add truth to your words, and return the help I gave you!

I don’t beg your help against bulls, or warriors,

or that a dragon sleeps conquered by your aid:

I ask for you, whom I deserve, who gave yourself to me,

a father by whom I was equally made a mother.

You ask, where’s my dowry? I numbered it on that field

that was ploughed by you, in taking the fleece.

My dowry’s that golden ram known by its thick fleece,

that you’d deny me if I said to you: ‘Return it.’

My dowry is your safety: my dowry’s the youth of Greece.

Cruel man, go: compare this to the wealth of Corinth.

That you live, that you have a wife and powerful father-in-law,

that you can even be ungrateful, all that’s due to me.

Indeed, what’s on hand – but why should I be concerned to warn you

of your punishment? Great anger teems with threats.

I’ll follow where anger takes me. Perhaps I’ll regret my deeds:

I regret having been concerned for an unfaithful husband.

Let the god see to that, who now disturbs my heart.

Assuredly I do not know what moves my spirit most.