Jason, Greek-fashion, looked upon a woman’s jealousy as mere unbridled lust, which must not be allowed to stand in the way of the men’s selfish desire to secure filial worship of their precious shades after death.  As Benecke remarks (56):  “For a woman to wish to keep her husband to herself was a sign that she was at once unreasonable and lascivious.”  The women themselves were trained and persuaded to take this view.  The chorus of Corinthian women admonishes Medea:  “And if thy lord prefers a fresh love, be not angered with him for that; Zeus will judge ’twixt thee and him herein.”  Medea herself says to Jason:  “Hadst thou been childless still, I could have pardoned thy desire for this new union.”  And again:  “Hadst thou not had a villain’s heart, thou shouldst have gained my consent, then made this match, instead of hiding it from those who loved thee”—­a sentiment which would seem to us astounding and inexplicable had we not became familiar with it in the preceding pages relating to savages and barbarians, by whom what we call infidelity was considered unobjectionable, provided it was not done secretly.

By her subsequent actions Medea shows in other ways that her jealousy is entirely of the primitive sort—­fiendish revenge proceeding from hate.  Of the chorus she asks but one favor:  “Silence, if haply I can some way or means devise to avenge me on my husband for this cruel treatment;” and the chorus agrees:  “Thou wilt be taking a just vengeance on thy husband, Medea.”  Creon, having heard that she had threatened with mischief not only Jason but his bride and her father, wants her to leave the city.  She replies, hypocritically: 

“Fear me not, Creon, my position scarce is such that I should seek to quarrel with princes.  Why should I, for how hast thou injured me?  Thou hast betrothed thy daughter where thy fancy prompted thee.  No, ’tis my husband I hate.”

But as soon as the king has left her, she sends to the innocent bride a present of a beautifully embroidered robe, poisoned by witchcraft.  As soon as the bride has put it on she turns pale, foam issues from her mouth, her eyeballs roll in their sockets, a flame encircles her, preying on her flesh.  With an awful shriek she sinks to the earth, past all recognition save to the eye of her father, who folds her in his arms, crying, “Who is robbing me of thee, old as I am and ripe for death?  Oh, my child! would I could die with thee!” And his wish is granted, for he

“found himself held fast by the fine-spun robe...and then ensued a fearful struggle.  He strove to rise but she still held him back; and if ever he pulled with all his might, from off his bones his aged flesh he tore.  At last he gave it up, and breathed forth his soul in awful suffering; for he could no longer master the pain.”

Not content with this, Medea cruelly slays Jason’s children—­her own flesh and blood—­not in a frenzied impulse, for she has meditated that from the beginning, but to further glut her revengeful spirit.  “I did it,” she says to Jason, “to vex thy heart.”  And when she hears of the effect of the garment she had sent to his bride, she implores the messenger, “Be not so hasty, friend, but tell the manner of her death, for thou wouldst give me double joy, if so they perished miserably.”