Jason and Medeia (7 page)

But my heart spoke truer than my tongue. I gave you,

foolishly,

the reasons I thought expedient. But it was not the

survival

of the city—not that alone—that I meant to beg of you. I plead for a good and patient man, a long-suffering

man,

one who merits what I ask for him. Aphrodite's madness has chained him too long. Without the assistance of

any god,

he's seen through it. O kind, wise Lord, don't frustrate

the climb

of a virtuous man on the rising scale of Good! I claim no special virtues for cities, but this much, surely,

is true:

Virtue tested on rocky islands, country fields, however noble we call it, is virtue of a lesser kind— the virtue that governs the hermit, the honest shepherd.

The common

bee, droning from flower to flower in his garden, can

choose

what's best for him and for his lowborn, pastoral clan.

The common

horse can be diligent at work, if his hide depends on it. The lion can settle his mind to fight, if necessary, but his virtue, for all his slickness, the speed of his

paws, is no more

than the snarling mongrel dog's. It's by what his mind

can do

that a man must be tested: how subtly, wisely he

manipulates

the world: objects, potentials, traditions of his race.

In sunlit

fields a man may learn about gentleness, humility— the glories of a sheep—or, again, learn craft and

violence—

the glories of a wolf. But the mind of man needs more

to work on

than stones, hedges, pastoral cloudscapes. Poets are

made

not by beautiful shepherdesses and soft, white sheep: they're made by the shock of dead poets' words, and

the shock of complex

life: philosophers' ideas, strange faces, antic relics, powerful men and women, mysterious cultures. Cities are not mere mausoleums, sanctuaries for mind. They're the raw grit that the finest minds are made of,

the power

that pains man's soul into life, the creative word that

overthrows

brute objectness and redeems it, teaches it to sing.”

The goddess

bowed, an ikon of humility, and turned to the queen, stretching an arm in earnest supplication: “O Hera, Queen of Heaven, center of the world's insatiable will, support my plea! Speak gently, allure as only you can allure great Zeus to the good he would wish,

himself.” She bowed,

and the dew on a fern at dawn could not rival the

beauty of the dew

on Athena's delicate lashes. Aphrodite wept aloud, shamelessly, melted by Athena's words. Even Hera was

softened.

As the sea whispers in the quiet of the night when

gentle waves

lap sandy shores, so the great hall whispered with the

sniffling of immortal gods.

But Zeus sat still as a mountain, unimpressed, his hand

covering

his eyes. The gods stood waiting.

At last, with a terrible sigh,

he lowered the hand. From the sadness in his eyes,

the crushed-down shoulders,

you'd have thought he'd heard nothing the beautiful

Athena said. He frowned,

then, darkly, spoke:

“All of you shall have your will,” he said.

“Aphrodite, your cruel and selfish wish is that Jason

and Medeia

be remembered forever as the truest, most pitiful of

lovers, saints

of Aphrodite. It shall be so, in the end. As for you,

Athena,

dearest of my children for the quickness of your mind—

and most troublesome—

you ask that Jason be granted the throne of Corinth,

glittering

jewel in your vain array. So he will, for a time, at least. No king gets more. And as for you, my docile queen— seductress, source of all earthly growth, terrible

destroyer—

you ask that he have all his wish. That he shall, and

more. It's done.”

With that word, casting away the darkness which

he alone knew,

he called for Apollo and his harp. Apollo came, as

brilliant

as the sun on the mirroring sea. He stroked his harp

and sang.

The gods put their hands to their ears, listening. He

seemed to ignore them.

He looked at Zeus alone, when he looked at anyone, and Zeus gazed back at him, solemn as the night

where mountains tower,

dark and majestic, casting their cold, indifferent shade on trees and glens, old bridges, lonely peasant huts, travellers hurrying home. It seemed to me they shared some secret between them, as if they saw the whole

world's grief

as plain as a single star in a winter's sky.

He sang

of the age when great Zeus first overcame the dragons.

The halls

of the gods, he said, were cracked, divoted, blackened

by fire.

All the gods of the heavens sang Zeus's praise, their

voices

ringing like golden bells, extolling his victory. Elated in his triumph and the knowledge of his power,

Zeus summoned the craftsman

of the gods, Hephaiastos, and commanded that he

build a splendid palace

that would suit the unparalleled dignity of the gods'

great king.

The miraculous craftsman succeeded in building, in a

single year,

a dazzling residence, baffling with beautiful chambers,

gardens,

lakes, great shining towers.

Apollo smiled and looked

at Zeus. He sang:

“But as the work progressed, the demands of Zeus

grew more exacting, his unfolding visions more vast.

He required

additional terraces and pavilions, more ponds, more

poplar groves,

new pleasure grounds. Whenever Zeus came to examine

the work

he developed range on range of schemes, new marvels

remaining

for Hephaiastos to contrive. At last the divine craftsman was crushed to despair, and he resolved to seek help

from above. He would turn

to the demiurgic Mind, great spirit beyond Olympos, past all glory. So he went in secret and presented

his case.

The majestic spirit comforted him. ‘Go in peace,'

he said,

‘your burden will be relieved.'

“Then, while Hephaiastos

was scurrying down once more to the kingdom of Zeus,

the spirit

went, himself, to a realm still higher, and he came

before

the Unnamable, of whom he himself was but a

humble agent.

In awesome silence the Unnamable spirit gave ear,

and by

a mere nod of the head he let it be known that the wish of Hephaiastos was granted.

“Early next morning, a boy

with the staff of a pilgrim appeared at the gate of Zeus

and asked

admission to the king's great hall. Zeus came at once.

It was

a point of pride with Zeus that he wasn't as yet

too proud

to meet with the humblest of his visitors. The boy

was slender,

ten years old, radiant with the luster of wisdom. The

king

discovered him standing in a cluster of enraptured,

staring children.

The boy greeted his host with a gentle glance of his dark and brilliant eyes. Zeus bowed to the holy child—and, mysteriously, the boy gave him his blessing. When Zeus had led the boy inside and had offered him wine and

honey,

the king of the gods said: ‘Wonderful Boy, tell me

the purpose

of your coming.'

“The beautiful child replied with a voice as deep

and soft as the slow thundering of far-off rainclouds.

‘O Glorious

King, I have heard of the mighty palace you are

building, and I've come

to refer to you my mind's questions. How many years will it take to complete this rich and extensive

residence?

What further feats of engineering will Hephaiastos be asked to perform? O Highest of the Gods'—the

boy's luminous

features moved with a gentle, scarcely perceptible

smile—

‘no god before you has ever succeeded in completing

such a palace

as yours is to be.'

“Great Zeus, filled with the wine of triumph,

was entertained by this merest boy's pretensions to

knowledge

of gods before himself. With a fatherly smile, he asked: Tell me, child, are they then so many—the Zeuses

you've seen?'

The young guest calmly nodded. Oh yes, a great

many have I seen.'

The voice was as warm and sweet as milk, but the

words sent a chill

through Zeus's veins. ‘O holy child,' the boy continued, ‘I knew your father, and your father's father, Old

Tortoise Man,

and your great-grandfather, called Beam of Light, and

his father, called Thought,

and the father beyond—him too I know.

“ ‘O King of the Gods,

I have known the dissolution of the universe. I have

seen all perish

again and again! O, who will count the universes passed away, or the creations risen afresh, again and again, from the silent abyss? Who will number

the passing ages

of the world, as they follow endlessly? And who will

search

the wide infinities of space to number the universes side by side—each one ruled by its Zeus and its ladder of higher powers? Who will count the Zeuses in all

of them,

side by side, who reign at once in the innumerable

worlds,

or all those Zeuses who reigned before them, or even

those

who succeed each other in a single line, ascending

to kingship,

one by one, and, one by one, declining?

“ ‘O King,

the life and reign of a single Zeus is seventy-one aeons, and when twenty-eight Zeuses have all expired, one

day and night

have passed in the demiurgic Mind. And the span of the

Mind in such days

and nights is one hundred and eight years. Mind

follows Mind,

rising and sinking in endless procession. And the

universes,

side by side, each with its demiurgic Mind and its Zeus, who'll number those? Like delicate boats they float

on the fathomless

waters that form the Unnamable. Out of every pore of that body a universe bubbles and breaks.'

“A procession of ants

had made its appearance in the hall while the boy was

saying this.

In a military column four yards wide the tribe paraded slowly across the gleaming tiles. The mysterious boy paused and stared, then suddenly laughed with an

astonishing peal,

but immediately fell into thoughtful silence.

“ ‘Why do you laugh?'

stammered Zeus. “Who are you, mysterious being in

the deceiving guise

of a boy?' The proud god's throat and lips were dry,

and his voice

kept breaking. ‘Who are you, shrouded in deluding mists?'

“ ‘I laughed,'

said the boy, ‘at the ants. Do not ask more. I laughed

at an ancient

secret. It is one that destroys.' Zeus regarded him,

unable to move.

At last, with a new and clearly visible humility, the great god said, ‘I would willingly suffer annihilation for the secret, mysterious visitor.' The boy smiled and nodded. ‘If so, you have nothing to fear. It is

merely this:

The gods on high, the trees and stones, are apparitions in a fantasy. Without that dream in the Unnamable

Mind

there is neither life nor death, neither good nor evil.

The wise

are attached neither to good nor to evil. The wise

are attached

to nothing.'

“The boy ended his appalling lesson and, quietly,

he gazed at his host. The king of the gods, for all his

splendor,

had been reduced in his own regard to insignificance.

“Meanwhile another amazing apparition had entered

the hall.

He appeared to be some hermit. He wore no clothes.

His hair

was gray and matted except in one place at the back

of his head,

where he had no hair at all, having lain on that one

part

for a thousand years. His eyes glittered, cold as stone.

“Zeus, recovering from his first shock, offered the

old man

wine and honey, but the hermit refused to eat. Zeus

then asked,

falteringly, concerning the old man's health. The

hermit

smiled. ‘I'm well for a dying man,' he said, and nodded. Zeus, disconcerted by the man's stern eyes, could say

no more.

Immediately the boy took over the questioning, asking

precisely

what Zeus would have asked if he could. ‘Who are you,

Holy Man?

What brings you here, and why have you lain in one

place so long

that the hair has worn from your head? Be kind

enough, Holy Man,

to answer these questions. I am anxious to understand.'

“Presently

the old saint spoke. ‘Who am I? I am an old, old man. What brings me here? I have come to see Zeus, for

with each hair

I lose from my head, a new Zeus dies, and when the

last hair falls

I too shall die. Those I have lost, I have lost by lying motionless, waiting for peace. I am much too short

of days

to have use for a wife and son, or a house. Each

eyelid-flicker

of the Unnamable marks the decease of a demiurgic

Mind. Therefore

I've devoted myself to forgetfulness. For every joy, even the joy of gods, is as fragile as a dream—a

distraction

from the Absolute, where all individual will is