Three women dreaming, part 2.

Let's look at the Apollonius passage again. It's a devil to translate because it's so hypotactic, so many fragmented phrases plastered together with breathless conjunctions, δέ δέ δέ. If there's clarity in Agamemnon's dream, all elements pared down to the apparition head of Nestor and its speech, Medea is dreaming in smeared images only—it's a confused sequence. Is the first passage, the perverse revision of Jason's motives, an imaginary scene in itself or just a kind of background conviction, an underpinning for what follows? I think it's more likely the latter: the dream proper is a mashup of scenes and visions, explicitly experiential, and lines 619-623 stand apart from what follows, only introducing it, coloring and explaining the strange pantomime beginning in 623 with ὀίετο δ’, and she thought she was struggling with the bulls herself, that she wrought the deed—so easily. Apollonius has given us a kind of epistemological mimesis of dreaming when he pictured the rootless convictions that sometimes invade our dreams and drone behind their action like a cantus firmus, but with μάλ’ εὐμαρέως he moves into the peculiar experience of dreaming itself: Medea wrestles with the bulls with timeless rapidity, with the liquid effortlessness of dreamt action conforming to the will; it's not just a literary forward-reference to how her arts will save Jason at the end of the book but something more mimetic, a realism new to the literary dream.

But the scene changes suddenly, her parents are there, a decision has been made: σφωιτέρους δὲ τοκῆας ὑποσχεσίης ἀθερίζειν (625), but her parents scorned their promise. It's not just the fluidity of scene and action at issue here but really the wordlessness of Medea's dream: everything that follows is in indirect discourse, reported from the same remove as was her fantasy on Jason's intentions. I think this has much to do with the relationship to tradition I had mentioned earlier, that Apollonius is reacting to the speech-centered clarity of the Homeric dream. Those divine dreams drove everything but the central word from the dreamer's mind, and it's the word that they wake up pondering; here, though, it's the scene, the strange action, its consequences. That οὕνεκεν of line 626 only emerges from the background of the dream, only intrudes onto the experiential now of the νεῖκος ἀμφήριστον (627) because it explains the scene that actually occupied Medea's dreaming mind—it's only the revision of a waking and recollecting mind that can order the text the way Apollonius gives it to us, with the explanation before the scene, rationalization before experience. That we read this dream as if Medea were narrating it to us is another point of departure from that old Homeric clarity: we should have a text that runs in linear fashion, that a quarrel came to a draw ... because her parents scorned their promise, since it wasn't up to the girl to yoke the bulls, etc., experience before explanation. It's an insoluble narrative problem, though: if 625-627 are only a concomitant understanding or mood that underpins the νεῖκος and judgment, there's nowhere the explanatory passage can go without straining the mimetic organization of the text—Apollonius' ambition is remarkable.

That ἄφνω in line 630 has much to do with the passage as a whole, though, doesn't it? The separate parts—bull-labor, judgment and scream—all blur into one another, changes in circumstance and action piled together with the same hypotactic rapidity as Apollonius' phrases: you see the same thing in receptions of this passage by Ennius (fr. 34ff, Warmington) and Vergil (Aen. 465-69). But what about the end, that syntactically ambiguous scream?

Three women dreaming, part 1.

Isn't it interesting how dreaming seems to be the special prerogative of women in epic? I don't mean the prophetic, numinous kind—shaggy Hector scowling over Aeneas' bed, Julia appearing to Pompey—but ivory-gate dreams in all the fluidity and fragmentation we expect of them. This passage in book 3 of the Argonautica, for example: the arrow is smoldering deep in Medea's cor carbunculus, but when sleep finally overtakes her she dreams a remarkable dream—

κούρην δ’ ἐξ ἀχέων ἀδινὸς κατελώφεεν ὕπνος
λέκτρῳ ἀνακλινθεῖσαν. ἄφαρ δέ μιν ἠπεροπῆες,
οἷά τ’ ἀκηχεμένην, ὀλοοὶ ἐρέθεσκον ὄνειροι·
τὸν ξεῖνον δ’ ἐδόκησεν ὑφεστάμεναι τὸν ἄεθλον
οὔτι μάλ’ ὁρμαίνοντα δέρος κριοῖο κομίσσαι, (620)
οὐδέ τι τοῖο ἕκητι μετὰ πτόλιν Αἰήταο
ἐλθέμεν, ὄφρα δέ μιν σφέτερον δόμον εἰσαγάγοιτο
κουριδίην παράκοιτιν. ὀίετο δ’ ἀμφὶ βόεσσιν
αὐτὴ ἀεθλεύουσα μάλ’ εὐμαρέως πονέεσθαι·
σφωιτέρους δὲ τοκῆας ὑποσχεσίης ἀθερίζειν, (625)
οὕνεκεν οὐ κούρῃ ζεῦξαι βόας ἀλλά οἱ αὐτῷ
προύθεσαν· ἐκ δ’ ἄρα τοῦ νεῖκος πέλεν ἀμφήριστον
πατρί τε καὶ ξείνοις· αὐτῇ δ’ ἐπιέτρεπον ἄμφω
τὼς ἔμεν ὥς κεν ἑῇσι μετὰ φρεσὶν ἰθύσειεν·
ἡ δ’ ἄφνω τὸν ξεῖνον, ἀφειδήσασα τοκήων, (630)
εἵλετο· τοὺς δ’ ἀμέγαρτον ἄχος λάβεν, ἐκ δ’ ἐβόησαν
χωόμενοι. τὴν δ’ ὕπνος ἅμα κλαγγῇ μεθέηκεν.

But as she lay back on her couch, an overpowering sleep unburdened the girl of her love-pains—but straightaway dreams assailed her, lying, destructive, the same as do troubled women. She thought that the stranger had undertaken the labor, not in fact because he was so eager to carry away the ram's fleece—no, he hadn't come to Aeëtes' palace for that reason at all—but rather to take her home with him, his lawful wife. And she thought she was struggling with the bulls herself, that she wrought the deed—so easily—but that her own parents sneered at their promise because it wasn't up to the girl to yoke the bulls—they had tasked him with it. Oh yes, and there was a quarrel because of that, and it came to a draw between her father and the strangers; and both sides turned it over to her, how it should be, however she wished it in her heart of hearts—and she suddenly was heedless of her parents, chose the stranger: then an agony of grief siezed them, they were enraged, they let out a scream—and amid the shriek sleep released its hold on her.

I think Apollonius is chafing against the literary tradition here—the divine clarity of epic dreams gives us no real precedent for this; the really salient quality of Homer's dreams is their lapidary directness, a narrowing of focus down to the speech that drives all things out of mind—think of Agamemnon's dream in Iliad 2. It's a lying dream, and baneful too—βάσκ᾽ ἴθι, οὖλε ὄνειρε, says Zeus (Il. 2.8); make haste there, evil dream. Yet when it comes to the monarch's bed something amazing happens:

στῆ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ὑπὲρ κεφαλῆς Νηληΐῳ υἷι ἐοικώς
Νέστορι, τόν ῥα μάλιστα γερόντων τῖ᾽ Ἀγαμέμνων,
τῷ μιν ἐεισάμενος προσεφώνεε θεῖος ὄνειρος:
εὕδεις Ἀτρέος υἱὲ δαΐφρονος ἱπποδάμοιο... (20-23)

Oh yes, it paused there above his head—the very likeness of Nestor, the son of Neleus, indeed the man Agamemnon honored above all his counsellors; in this semblance did the otherworld dream address him: you're sleeping, son of wisehearted horsetaming Atreus...

The dream is chastising him—he's sleeping on the job, it says. But it's a remarkable declaration, isn't it? Εὕδεις—what you're seeing isn't true, I'm only a semblance of Nestor, but what I say is true in the way these dreams are always true because you're sleeping and this is the unreal real of revelation.