Graham Miao

12/9/10
Medea’s Femininity

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. – William Congreve, English playwright

Euripides’ play The Medea begins with Jason and Medea arriving in Corinth,

whereupon Jason leaves her to wed the daughter of the king. Subsequently, Medea’s

anguished rage drives her on a mad quest for vengeance as she attempts to protect her

pride and equalize for Jason the pain that she underwent. As the story progresses, we

witness a psychologically polarized Medea who seems powerfully resolute one moment

but then emotionally vulnerable the next. This conflict of character manifests clearly

through her various speeches and dialogues, where she fluctuates repeatedly between

spewing honest thoughts and then acting fake roles (in order to further her plot). Is she

masculine or feminine, villain or hero? The answers depend on which exclusive point of

the story we focus on, because Euripides has done something unexpected – he has

portrayed her as a tragic heroine in the tradition of the Greek male warrior. Medea

laments femininity as a great source of her suffering, yet utilizes that same femininity as a

guise in accomplishing her revenge.

Whether she is musing to herself, conversing with the chorus, or directly confronting

Jason, Medea continually highlights the flaws and limitations of being a woman. For

while the immediate object of her rage is obviously Jason’s betrayal, the ultimate root of

her plight is, by her own admission, the helpless pain of being a woman (wronged) in

romantic love. In her speech to all the women of Corinth, where she requests that they do

not interfere in the path of her revenge, Medea says, “Of all things which are living and
can form a judgment, we women are the most unfortunate creatures… the question is

serious whether we take a good or bad (husband); for there is no easy escape for a

woman.” (67) To the same effect, when later lashing out at Jason she spits, “Why is there

no mark engraved upon men’s bodies, by which we could know the true ones from the

false ones?” (75) The problem Medea is getting at is clearly that of women depending on

men rather than leading their own lives, which is a stereotypically sensitive gender-role

issue found not only in the Ancient Greek tradition, but in most if not all cultures all the

way through to modern times. In any case, Medea curses this weakness of women and

how they come alive to assert themselves only when they are mistreated in love - “For in

other ways a woman is full of fear, defenseless, and dreads the sight of cold steel; but,

once she is wronged in the matter of love, no other soul can hold so many thoughts of

blood.” (67) We see this statement hold true in Medea’s vows of vengeance towards not

only Jason, but also Glauce, whom she has never even met or interacted with – in other

words, Medea’s suffering is caused in large part by the expendability of the individual

woman in context of the story and of the Greek heroic tradition. As a hypothetical

counterpoint, if Jason had left her but not for another woman, Medea would have nothing

to be jealous or (immediately) spiteful over. Though Medea may curse her femininity,

she unquestionably feels the need to vindicate herself and her pride as a woman.

We would arrive at skewed conclusions if we tried to understand the character of

Medea without also acknowledging and examining her undeniably masculine side. In

both actions and personality, we see her exhibit qualities that are, by the values of the

Greek heroic tradition, far from feminine. To begin with, Medea is an exceptionally
powerful being. Before the play begins, we learn in the introduction that she is a

barbarian princess and a sorceress related to the gods (56); she is palpably more powerful

than her male companion Jason and, upon falling in love with him, provides great

assistance and really leads him through his challenges of obtaining the Golden Fleece.

Along with her unusual power, she dares to desire much that women in the Greek

tradition were not meant to be geared towards at all, namely, glory and remembrance for

the power to do: “Let no one think me a weak, feeble-spirited, a stay-at-home, but rather

just the opposite, one who can hurt my enemies and help my friends; for the lives of such

persons are most remembered.” (86) This was certainly the goal of all honorable men, but

not of women. Lastly, Medea is physically violent, frequently orchestrating if not

instigating murders and bloodbaths, such as those of Glauce and Creon’s. This trait was

typical and fitting of the classic male warrior, but certainly not of the ideal, unobtrusive

woman, gracefully tending to hearth and home. In the events preceding the play, Medea

murders and literally dices up her brother to delay her father’s pursuing fleet, and then in

Iolcus, tricks the daughters of Pelias into shredding up their father. Even in the opening

passage of the play is a warning premonition of Medea’s brutally violent nature, as her

nurse says, “I know and fear her lest she may sharpen a sword and thrust to the heart… or

even kill the king and the new-wedded groom.” (60) And at the shocking pinnacle of

Medea’s resume of violence, is the unforgettable murder of her own children. While

ambitious men would sometimes kill their own flesh and blood for political purposes, this

was a threshold never crossed by maternal women for any purpose (according to the

Chorus, the only woman who ever did, Ino, subsequently jumped off a cliff herself

(102)). Having witnessed her genuinely falter many times throughout the play at the
thought of actually killing her own children, it was a sad finale to see Medea’s desire for

vengeance truly outweigh her spirit as a woman, as a mother, as a human being. But the

tragic heroine insists in obtaining her own justice: “Do I want to let go my enemies

unhurt and be laughed at for it?” (95) These masculine and barbaric traits, which served

Jason great benefits in the events preceding the play, admittedly make her a liability to

Jason and a curse to everyone she involves in her plot of vengeance.

“Women, though most helpless in doing good deeds, are of every evil the cleverest of

contrivers.” (72) As if to practice her own spoken maxim, the clever Medea flaunts

femininity as a guise and wields it as a weapon in accomplishing her revenge. In a tidy

and logical sequence, she deceptively manipulates all three important men in the play –

Creon king of Corinth, Aegeus king of Athens, and Jason. In each case, she feigns

feminine frailty and plays upon the traditional feminine need for help and protection.

Creon is the first to approach Medea, set firmly on banishing her from his land to prevent

likely bloodshed. However, Medea ultimately sways him with maternal appeal (which the

Chorus and readers know by now is unfortunately false): “Have pity on them! You have

children of your own... It is the children being in trouble that I mind.” (71) Only moments

after his exit does she reveal her true motives: “Do you think that I would ever have

fawned on that man unless I had some end to gain or profit in it? By exiling me, he has

given me this one day to stay here, and in this I will make dead bodies of three of my

enemies” (71) With her window to act confirmed, Medea takes the following step of

devising an escape plan. She meets her old friend King Aegeus of Athens, details her

victimization at the hands of Jason (in love) and Creon (in governance), and manages to
secure a promise of Aegeus’ hospitality in Athens upon her exile. She croons of her

weakness and lack of wealth (84) even though she again obviously has considerable

resources and abilities as a sorceress related to gods, as evidenced in this instance by her

(accepted) offer to cure Aegeus’ childlessness with her mystical drugs. (83) Finally, in

the scene that marks the beginning of her murders in motion, Medea feigns to Jason a

lovesick woman’s repent and reconciliation: “We women are what we are – perhaps a

little worthless; and you men must not be foolish in return when we are.” (89) When

bidding farewell to her children, she inconspicuously dismisses her tears (which we know

hide greater trauma) by simply remarking to Jason, “A woman is a frail thing, prone to

crying.” (90) She sends the children to Glauce with a secretly poisoned dress and diadem,

fittingly feminine objects to off her unfamiliar but detested female adversary in love.

Renowned even today as the Greek dramatic tale of an extreme’s woman’s extreme

revenge, and more generally celebrated as a great play in the Western canon, The Medea,

when first performed in a drama contest in Athens in 431BC, only won third place.

Perhaps the Athenian audience was perplexed by this unlikely female protagonist, who

seemed to suffer more dearly than any woman yet command more awe than any man. But

what Euripides has surely illustrated for us is how, by our own hands, even a just cause

can be twisted to result in chaos and evil. As a lover and as a woman, Medea’s grievances

against the challenges of being a woman scorned are arguably justified. However, her

mindset and actions grow more and more indefensible, until the end where we wonder if

we should allow ourselves to empathize with her at all.