BkIV:1-53 Dido and Anna
Discuss Aeneas
But the queen, wounded long since by intense love, feeds the hurt with her life-blood,
weakened by hidden fire. The hero’s courage often returns to mind, and
the nobility of his race: his features and his words cling fixedly to her heart,
and love will not grant restful calm to her body. The new day’s Dawn was
lighting the earth with Phoebus’s brightness, and dispelling the dew-wet
shadows from the sky, when she spoke ecstatically to her sister, her kindred
spirit: “Anna, sister, how my dreams terrify me with anxieties! Who is
this strange guest who has entered our house, with what boldness he speaks,
how resolute in mind and warfare! Truly I think – and it’s no idle
saying – that he’s born of a goddess. Fear reveals the ignoble spirit.
Alas! What misfortunes test him! What battles he spoke of, that he has undergone!
If my mind was not set, fixedly and immovably, never to join myself with any
man in the bonds of marriage, because first-love betrayed me, cheated me through
dying: if I were not wearied by marriage and bridal-beds, perhaps I might succumb
to this one temptation. Anna, yes I confess, since my poor husband Sychaeus’s
death when the altars were blood-stained by my murderous brother, he’s
the only man who’s stirred my senses, troubled my wavering mind. I know
the traces of the ancient flame. But I pray rather that earth might gape wide
for me, to its depths, or the all-powerful father hurl me with his lightning-bolt
down to the shadows, to the pale ghosts, and deepest night of Erebus, before
I violate you, Honour, or break your laws. He who first took me to himself has
stolen my love: let him keep it with him, and guard it in his grave.”
So saying her breast swelled with her rising tears. Anna replied: “O you,
who are more beloved to your sister than the light, will you wear your whole
youth away in loneliness and grief, and not know Venus’s sweet gifts or
her children? Do you think that ashes or sepulchral spirits care? Granted that
in Libya or Tyre before it, no suitor ever dissuaded you from sorrowing: and
Iarbas and the other lords whom the African soil, rich in fame, bears, were
scorned: will you still struggle against a love that pleases? Do you not recall
to mind in whose fields you settled? Here Gaetulian cities, a people unsurpassed
in battle, unbridled Numidians, and inhospitable Syrtis, surround you: there,
a region of dry desert, with Barcaeans raging around. And what of your brother’s
threats, and war with Tyre imminent? The Trojan ships made their way here with
the wind, with gods indeed helping them I think, and with Juno’s favour.
What a city you’ll see here, sister, what a kingdom rise, with such a
husband! With a Trojan army marching with us, with what great actions Punic
glory will soar! Only ask the gods for their help, and, propitiating them with
sacrifice, indulge your guest, spin reasons for delay, while winter, and stormy
Orion, rage at sea, while the ships are damaged, and the skies are hostile.”
BkIV:54-89 Dido in Love
By saying this she inflames the queen’s burning heart with love and raises
hopes in her anxious mind, and weakens her sense of shame. First they visit
the shrines and ask for grace at the altars: they sacrifice chosen animals according
to the rites, to Ceres, the law-maker, and Phoebus, and father Lycaeus, and
to Juno above all, in whose care are the marriage ties: Dido herself, supremely
lovely, holding the cup in her hand, pours the libation between the horns of
a white heifer or walks to the rich altars, before the face of the gods, celebrates
the day with gifts, and gazes into the opened chests of victims, and reads the
living entrails. Ah, the unknowing minds of seers! What use are prayers or shrines
to the impassioned? Meanwhile her tender marrow is aflame, and a silent wound
is alive in her breast. Wretched Dido burns, and wanders frenzied through the
city, like an unwary deer struck by an arrow, that a shepherd hunting with his
bow has fired at from a distance, in the Cretan woods, leaving the winged steel
in her, without knowing. She runs through the woods and glades of Dicte: the
lethal shaft hangs in her side. Now she leads Aeneas with her round the walls
showing her Sidonian wealth and the city she’s built: she begins to speak,
and stops in mid-flow: now she longs for the banquet again as day wanes, yearning
madly to hear about the Trojan adventures once more and hangs once more on the
speaker’s lips. Then when they have departed, and the moon in turn has
quenched her light and the setting constellations urge sleep, she grieves, alone
in the empty hall, and lies on the couch he left. Absent she hears him absent,
sees him, or hugs Ascanius on her lap, taken with this image of his father,
so as to deceive her silent passion. The towers she started no longer rise,
the young men no longer carry out their drill, or work on the harbour and the
battlements for defence in war: the interrupted work is left hanging, the huge
threatening walls, the sky-reaching cranes.
BkIV:90-128 Juno and Venus
As soon as Juno, Jupiter’s beloved wife, saw clearly that Dido was gripped
by such heart-sickness, and her reputation no obstacle to love, she spoke to
Venus in these words: “You and that son of yours, certainly take the prize,
and plenty of spoils: a great and memorable show of divine power, whereby one
woman’s trapped by the tricks of two gods. But the truth’s not escaped
me, you’ve always held the halls of high Carthage under suspicion, afraid
of my city’s defences. But where can that end? Why such rivalry, now?
Why don’t we work on eternal peace instead, and a wedding pact? You’ve
achieved all that your mind was set on: Dido’s burning with passion, and
she’s drawn the madness into her very bones. Let’s rule these people
together with equal sway: let her be slave to a Trojan husband, and entrust
her Tyrians to your hand, as the dowry.” Venus began the reply to her
like this (since she knew she’d spoken with deceit in her mind to divert
the empire from Italy’s shores to Libya’s): “Who’d be
mad enough to refuse such an offer or choose to make war on you, so long as
fate follows up what you say with action? But fortune makes me uncertain, as
to whether Jupiter wants a single city for Tyrians and Trojan exiles, and approves
the mixing of races and their joining in league together. You’re his wife:
you can test his intent by asking. Do it: I’ll follow.” Then royal
Juno replied like this: “That task’s mine. Now listen and I’ll
tell you briefly how the purpose at hand can be achieved. Aeneas and poor Dido
plan to go hunting together in the woods, when the sun first shows tomorrow’s
dawn, and reveals the world in his rays. While the lines are beating, and closing
the thickets with nets, I’ll pour down dark rain mixed with hail from
the sky, and rouse the whole heavens with my thunder. They’ll scatter,
and be lost in the dark of night: Dido and the Trojan leader will reach the
same cave. I’ll be there, and if I’m assured of your good will,
I’ll join them firmly in marriage, and speak for her as his own: this
will be their wedding-night.” Not opposed to what she wanted, Venus agreed,
and smiled to herself at the deceit she’d found.
BkIV:129-172 The Hunt and
the Cave
Meanwhile Dawn surges up and leaves the ocean. Once she has risen, the chosen
men pour from the gates: Massylian horsemen ride out, with wide-meshed nets,
snares, broad-headed hunting spears, and a pack of keen-scented hounds. The
queen lingers in her rooms, while Punic princes wait at the threshold: her horse
stands there, bright in purple and gold, and champs fiercely at the foaming
bit. At last she appears, with a great crowd around her, dressed in a Sidonian
robe with an embroidered hem. Her quiver’s of gold, her hair knotted with
gold, a golden brooch fastens her purple tunic. Her Trojan friends and joyful
Iulus are with her: Aeneas himself, the most handsome of them all, moves forward
and joins his friendly troop with hers. Like Apollo, leaving behind the Lycian
winter, and the streams of Xanthus, and visiting his mother’s Delos, to
renew the dancing, Cretans and Dryopes and painted Agathyrsians, mingling around
his altars, shouting: he himself striding over the ridges of Cynthus, his hair
dressed with tender leaves, and clasped with gold, the weapons rattling on his
shoulder: so Aeneas walks, as lightly, beauty like the god’s shining from
his noble face. When they reach the mountain heights and pathless haunts, see
the wild goats, disturbed on their stony summits, course down the slopes: in
another place deer speed over the open field, massing together in a fleeing
herd among clouds of dust, leaving the hillsides behind. But the young Ascanius
among the valleys, delights in his fiery horse, passing this rider and that
at a gallop, hoping that amongst these harmless creatures a boar, with foaming
mouth, might answer his prayers, or a tawny lion, down from the mountain. Meanwhile
the sky becomes filled with a great rumbling: rain mixed with hail follows,
and the Tyrian company and the Trojan men, with Venus’s Dardan grandson,
scatter here and there through the fields, in their fear, seeking shelter: torrents
stream down from the hills. Dido and the Trojan leader reach the very same cave.
Primeval Earth and Juno of the Nuptials give their signal: lightning flashes,
the heavens are party to their union, and the Nymphs howl on the mountain heights.
That first day is the source of misfortune and death. Dido’s no longer
troubled by appearances or reputation, she no longer thinks of a secret affair:
she calls it marriage: and with that name disguises her sin.
BkIV:173-197 Rumour Reaches
Iarbas
Rumour raced at once through Libya’s great cities, Rumour, compared with
whom no other is as swift. She flourishes by speed, and gains strength as she
goes: first limited by fear, she soon reaches into the sky, walks on the ground,
and hides her head in the clouds. Earth, incited to anger against the gods,
so they say, bore her last, a monster, vast and terrible, fleet-winged and swift-footed,
sister to Coeus and Enceladus, who for every feather on her body has as many
watchful eyes below (marvellous to tell), as many tongues speaking, as many
listening ears. She flies, screeching, by night through the shadows between
earth and sky, never closing her eyelids in sweet sleep: by day she sits on
guard on tall roof-tops or high towers, and scares great cities, as tenacious
of lies and evil, as she is messenger of truth. Now in delight she filled the
ears of the nations with endless gossip, singing fact and fiction alike: Aeneas
has come, born of Trojan blood, a man whom lovely Dido deigns to unite with:
now they’re spending the whole winter together in indulgence, forgetting
their royalty, trapped by shameless passion. The vile goddess spread this here
and there on men’s lips. Immediately she slanted her course towards King
Iarbas and inflamed his mind with words and fuelled his anger.
BkIV:198-218 Iarbas Prays
to Jupiter
He, a son of Jupiter Ammon, by a raped Garamantian Nymph, had set up a hundred
great temples, a hundred altars, to the god, in his broad kingdom, and sanctified
ever-living fires, the gods’ eternal guardians: the floors were soaked
with sacrificial blood, and the thresholds flowery with mingled garlands. They
say he often begged Jove humbly with upraised hands, in front of the altars,
among the divine powers, maddened in spirit and set on fire by bitter rumour:
“All-powerful Jupiter, to whom the Moors, on their embroidered divans,
banqueting, now pour a Bacchic offering, do you see this? Do we shudder in vain
when you hurl your lightning bolts, father, and are those idle fires in the
clouds that terrify our minds, and flash among the empty rumblings? A woman,
wandering within my borders, who paid to found a little town, and to whom we
granted coastal lands to plough, to hold in tenure, scorns marriage with me,
and takes Aeneas into her country as its lord. And now like some Paris, with
his pack of eunuchs, a Phrygian cap, tied under his chin, on his greasy hair,
he’s master of what he’s snatched: while I bring gifts indeed to
temples, said to be yours, and cherish your empty reputation.
BkIV:219-278 Jupiter Sends
Mercury to Aeneas
As he gripped the altar, and prayed in this way, the All-powerful one listened,
and turned his gaze towards the royal city, and the lovers forgetful of their
true reputation. Then he spoke to Mercury and commanded him so: “Off you
go, my son, call the winds and glide on your wings, and talk to the Trojan leader
who malingers in Tyrian Carthage now, and gives no thought to the cities the
fates will grant him, and carry my words there on the quick breeze. This is
not what his loveliest of mothers suggested to me, nor why she rescued him twice
from Greek armies: he was to be one who’d rule Italy, pregnant with empire,
and crying out for war, he’d produce a people of Teucer’s high blood,
and bring the whole world under the rule of law. If the glory of such things
doesn’t inflame him, and he doesn’t exert himself for his own honour,
does he begrudge the citadels of Rome to Ascanius? What does he plan? With what
hopes does he stay among alien people, forgetting Ausonia and the Lavinian fields?
Let him sail: that’s it in total, let that be my message.” He finished
speaking. The god prepared to obey his great father’s order, and first
fastened the golden sandals to his feet that carry him high on the wing over
land and sea, like the storm. Then he took up his wand: he calls pale ghosts
from Orcus with it, sending others down to grim Tartarus, gives and takes away
sleep, and opens the eyes of the dead. Relying on it, he drove the winds, and
flew through the stormy clouds. Now in his flight he saw the steep flanks and
the summit of strong Atlas, who holds the heavens on his head, Atlas, whose
pine-covered crown is always wreathed in dark clouds and lashed by the wind
and rain: fallen snow clothes his shoulders: while rivers fall from his ancient
chin, and his rough beard bristles with ice. There Cyllenian Mercury first halted,
balanced on level wings: from there, he threw his whole body headlong towards
the waves, like a bird that flies low close to the sea, round the coasts and
the rocks rich in fish. So the Cyllenian-born flew between heaven and earth
to Libya’s sandy shore, cutting the winds, coming from Atlas, his mother
Maia’s father. As soon as he reached the builders’ huts, on his
winged feet, he saw Aeneas establishing towers and altering roofs. His sword
was starred with tawny jasper, and the cloak that hung from his shoulder blazed
with Tyrian purple, a gift that rich Dido had made, weaving the cloth with golden
thread. Mercury challenged him at once: “For love of a wife are you now
building the foundations of high Carthage and a pleasing city? Alas, forgetful
of your kingdom and fate! The king of the gods himself, who bends heaven and
earth to his will, has sent me down to you from bright Olympus: he commanded
me himself to carry these words through the swift breezes. What do you plan?
With what hopes do you waste idle hours in Libya’s lands? If you’re
not stirred by the glory of destiny, and won’t exert yourself for your
own fame, think of your growing Ascanius, and the expectations of him, as Iulus
your heir, to whom will be owed the kingdom of Italy, and the Roman lands.”
So Mercury spoke, and, while speaking, vanished from mortal eyes, and melted
into thin air far from their sight.
BkIV:279-330 Dido Accuses
Aeneas
Aeneas, stupefied at the vision, was struck dumb, and his hair rose in terror,
and his voice stuck in his throat. He was eager to be gone, in flight, and leave
that sweet land, shocked by the warning and the divine command. Alas! What to
do? With what speech dare he tackle the love-sick queen? What opening words
should he choose? And he cast his mind back and forth swiftly, considered the
issue from every aspect, and turned it every way. This seemed the best decision,
given the alternatives: he called Mnestheus, Sergestus and brave Serestus, telling
them to fit out the fleet in silence, gather the men on the shore, ready the
ships’ tackle, and hide the reason for these changes of plan. He in the
meantime, since the excellent Dido knew nothing, and would not expect the breaking
off of such a love, would seek an approach, the tenderest moment to speak, and
a favourable means. They all gladly obeyed his command at once, and did his
bidding. But the queen sensed his tricks (who can deceive a lover?) and was
first to anticipate future events, fearful even of safety. That same impious
Rumour brought her madness: they are fitting out the fleet, and planning a journey.
Her mind weakened, she raves, and, on fire, runs wild through the city: like
a Maenad, thrilled by the shaken emblems of the god, when the biennial festival
rouses her, and, hearing the Bacchic cry, Mount Cithaeron summons her by night
with its noise. Of her own accord she finally reproaches Aeneas in these words:
“Faithless one, did you really think you could hide such wickedness, and
vanish from my land in silence? Will my love not hold you, nor the pledge I
once gave you, nor the promise that Dido will die a cruel death? Even in winter
do you labour over your ships, cruel one, so as to sail the high seas at the
height of the northern gales? Why? If you were not seeking foreign lands and
unknown settlements, but ancient Troy still stood, would Troy be sought out
by your ships in wave-torn seas? Is it me you run from? I beg you, by these
tears, by your own right hand (since I’ve left myself no other recourse
in my misery), by our union, by the marriage we have begun, if ever I deserved
well of you, or anything of me was sweet to you, pity this ruined house, and
if there is any room left for prayer, change your mind. The Libyan peoples and
Numidian rulers hate me because of you: my Tyrians are hostile: because of you
all shame too is lost, the reputation I had, by which alone I might reach the
stars. My guest, since that’s all that is left me from the name of husband,
to whom do you relinquish me, a dying woman? Why do I stay? Until Pygmalion,
my brother, destroys the city, or Iarbas the Gaetulian takes me captive? If
I’d at least conceived a child of yours before you fled, if a little Aeneas
were playing about my halls, whose face might still recall yours, I’d
not feel myself so utterly deceived and forsaken.”
BkIV:331-361 Aeneas Justifies
Himself
She had spoken. He set his gaze firmly on Jupiter’s warnings, and hid
his pain steadfastly in his heart. He replied briefly at last: “O queen,
I will never deny that you deserve the most that can be spelt out in speech,
nor will I regret my thoughts of you, Elissa, while memory itself is mine, and
breath controls these limbs. I’ll speak about the reality a little. I
did not expect to conceal my departure by stealth (don’t think that),
nor have I ever held the marriage torch, or entered into that pact. If the fates
had allowed me to live my life under my own auspices, and attend to my own concerns
as I wished, I should first have cared for the city of Troy and the sweet relics
of my family, Priam’s high roofs would remain, and I’d have recreated
Pergama, with my own hands, for the defeated. But now it is Italy that Apollo
of Grynium, Italy, that the Lycian oracles, order me to take: that is my desire,
that is my country. If the turrets of Carthage and the sight of your Libyan
city occupy you, a Phoenician, why then begrudge the Trojans their settling
of Ausonia’s lands? It is right for us too to search out a foreign kingdom.
As often as night cloaks the earth with dew-wet shadows, as often as the burning
constellations rise, the troubled image of my father Anchises warns and terrifies
me in dream: about my son Ascanius and the wrong to so dear a person, whom I
cheat of a Hesperian kingdom, and pre-destined fields. Now even the messenger
of the gods, sent by Jupiter himself, (I swear it on both our heads), has brought
the command on the swift breeze: I saw the god himself in broad daylight enter
the city and these very ears drank of his words. Stop rousing yourself and me
with your complaints. I do not take course for Italy of my own free will.”
BkIV:362-392 Dido’s
Reply
As he was speaking she gazed at him with hostility, casting her eyes here and
there, considering the whole man with a silent stare, and then, incensed, she
spoke: “Deceiver, your mother was no goddess, nor was Dardanus the father
of your race: harsh Caucasus engendered you on the rough crags, and Hyrcanian
tigers nursed you. Why pretend now, or restrain myself waiting for something
worse? Did he groan at my weeping? Did he look at me? Did he shed tears in defeat,
or pity his lover? What is there to say after this? Now neither greatest Juno,
indeed, nor Jupiter, son of Saturn, are gazing at this with friendly eyes. Nowhere
is truth safe. I welcomed him as a castaway on the shore, a beggar, and foolishly
gave away a part of my kingdom: I saved his lost fleet, and his friends from
death. Ah! Driven by the Furies, I burn: now prophetic Apollo, now the Lycian
oracles, now even a divine messenger sent by Jove himself carries his orders
through the air. This is the work of the gods indeed, this is a concern to trouble
their calm. I do not hold you back, or refute your words: go, seek Italy on
the winds, find your kingdom over the waves. Yet if the virtuous gods have power,
I hope that you will drain the cup of suffering among the reefs, and call out
Dido’s name again and again. Absent, I’ll follow you with dark fires,
and when icy death has divided my soul and body, my ghost will be present everywhere.
Cruel one, you’ll be punished. I’ll hear of it: that news will reach
me in the depths of Hades.” Saying this, she broke off her speech mid-flight,
and fled the light in pain, turning from his eyes, and going, leaving him fearful
and hesitant, ready to say more. Her servants received her and carried her failing
body to her marble chamber, and laid her on her bed.
BkIV:393-449 Aeneas Departs
But dutiful Aeneas, though he desired to ease her sadness by comforting her
and to turn aside pain with words, still, with much sighing, and a heart shaken
by the strength of her love, followed the divine command, and returned to the
fleet. Then the Trojans truly set to work and launched the tall ships all along
the shore. They floated the resinous keels, and ready for flight, they brought
leafy branches and untrimmed trunks, from the woods, as oars. You could see
them hurrying and moving from every part of the city. Like ants that plunder
a vast heap of grain, and store it in their nest, mindful of winter: a dark
column goes through the fields, and they carry their spoils along a narrow track
through the grass: some heave with their shoulders against a large seed, and
push, others tighten the ranks and punish delay, the whole path’s alive
with work. What were your feelings Dido at such sights, what sighs did you give,
watching the shore from the heights of the citadel, everywhere alive, and seeing
the whole sea, before your eyes, confused with such cries! Cruel Love, to what
do you not drive the human heart: to burst into tears once more, to see once
more if he can be compelled by prayers, to humbly submit to love, lest she leave
anything untried, dying in vain. “Anna, you see them scurrying all round
the shore: they’ve come from everywhere: the canvas already invites the
breeze, and the sailors, delighted, have set garlands on the sterns. If I was
able to foresee this great grief, sister, then I’ll be able to endure
it too. Yet still do one thing for me in my misery, Anna: since the deceiver
cultivated only you, even trusting you with his private thoughts: and only you
know the time to approach the man easily. Go, sister, and speak humbly to my
proud enemy. I never took the oath, with the Greeks at Aulis, to destroy the
Trojan race, or sent a fleet to Pergama, or disturbed the ashes and ghost of
his father Anchises: why does he pitilessly deny my words access to his hearing?
Where does he run to? Let him give his poor lover this last gift: let him wait
for an easy voyage and favourable winds. I don’t beg now for our former
tie, that he has betrayed, nor that he give up his beautiful Latium, and abandon
his kingdom: I ask for insubstantial time: peace and space for my passion, while
fate teaches my beaten spirit to grieve. I beg for this last favour (pity your
sister): when he has granted it me, I’ll repay all by dying.” Such
are the prayers she made, and such are those her unhappy sister carried and
re-carried. But he was not moved by tears, and listened to no words receptively:
Fate barred the way, and a god sealed the hero’s gentle hearing. As when
northerly blasts from the Alps blowing here and there vie together to uproot
an oak tree, tough with the strength of years: there’s a creak, and the
trunk quivers and the topmost leaves strew the ground: but it clings to the
rocks, and its roots stretch as far down to Tartarus as its crown does towards
the heavens: so the hero was buffeted by endless pleas from this side and that,
and felt the pain in his noble heart. His purpose remained fixed: tears fell
uselessly.
BkIV:450-503 Dido Resolves
to Die
Then the unhappy Dido, truly appalled by her fate, prayed for death: she was
weary of gazing at the vault of heaven. And that she might complete her purpose,
and relinquish the light more readily, when she placed her offerings on the
altar alight with incense, she saw (terrible to speak of!) the holy water blacken,
and the wine she had poured change to vile blood. She spoke of this vision to
no one, not even her sister. There was a marble shrine to her former husband
in the palace, that she’d decked out, also, with marvellous beauty, with
snow-white fleeces, and festive greenery: from it she seemed to hear voices
and her husband’s words calling her, when dark night gripped the earth:
and the lonely owl on the roofs often grieved with ill-omened cries, drawing
out its long call in a lament: and many a prophecy of the ancient seers terrified
her with its dreadful warning. Harsh Aeneas himself persecuted her, in her crazed
sleep: always she was forsaken, alone with herself, always she seemed to be
travelling companionless on some long journey, seeking her Tyrian people in
a deserted landscape: like Pentheus, deranged, seeing the Furies file past,
and twin suns and a twin Thebes revealed to view, or like Agamemnon’s
son Orestes driven across the stage when he flees his mother’s ghost armed
with firebrands and black snakes, while the avenging Furies crouch on the threshold.
So that when, overcome by anguish, she harboured the madness, and determined
on death, she debated with herself over the time and the method, and going to
her sorrowful sister with a face that concealed her intent, calm, with hope
on her brow, said: “Sister, I’ve found a way (rejoice with your
sister) that will return him to me, or free me from loving him. Near the ends
of the Ocean and where the sun sets Ethiopia lies, the furthest of lands, where
Atlas, mightiest of all, turns the sky set with shining stars: I’ve been
told of a priestess, of Massylian race, there, a keeper of the temple of the
Hesperides, who gave the dragon its food, and guarded the holy branches of the
tree, scattering the honeydew and sleep-inducing poppies. With her incantations
she promises to set free what hearts she wishes, but bring cruel pain to others:
to stop the rivers flowing, and turn back the stars: she wakes nocturnal Spirits:
you’ll see earth yawn under your feet, and the ash trees march from the
hills. You, and the gods, and your sweet life, are witness, dear sister, that
I arm myself with magic arts unwillingly. Build a pyre, secretly, in an inner
courtyard, open to the sky, and place the weapons on it which that impious man
left hanging in my room, and the clothes, and the bridal bed that undid me:
I want to destroy all memories of that wicked man, and the priestess commends
it.” Saying this she fell silent: at the same time a pallor spread over
her face. Anna did not yet realise that her sister was disguising her own funeral
with these strange rites, her mind could not conceive of such intensity, and
she feared nothing more serious than when Sychaeus died. So she prepared what
was demanded.
BkIV:504-553 Dido Laments
But when the pyre of cut pine and oak was raised high, in an innermost court
open to the sky, the queen hung the place with garlands, and wreathed it with
funereal foliage: she laid his sword and clothes and picture on the bed, not
unmindful of the ending. Altars stand round about, and the priestess, with loosened
hair, intoned the names of three hundred gods, of Erebus, Chaos, and the triple
Hecate, the three faces of virgin Diana. And she sprinkled water signifying
the founts of Avernus: there were herbs too acquired by moonlight, cut with
a bronze sickle, moist with the milk of dark venom: and a caul acquired by tearing
it from a newborn colt’s brow, forestalling the mother’s love. She
herself, near the altars, with sacred grain in purified hands, one foot free
of constraint, her clothing loosened, called on the gods to witness her coming
death, and on the stars conscious of fate: then she prayed to whatever just
and attentive power there might be, that cares for unrequited lovers. It was
night, and everywhere weary creatures were enjoying peaceful sleep, the woods
and the savage waves were resting, while stars wheeled midway in their gliding
orbit, while all the fields were still, and beasts and colourful birds, those
that live on wide scattered lakes, and those that live in rough country among
the thorn-bushes, were sunk in sleep in the silent night. But not the Phoenician,
unhappy in spirit, she did not relax in sleep, or receive the darkness into
her eyes and breast: her cares redoubled, and passion, alive once more, raged,
and she swelled with a great tide of anger. So she began in this way turning
it over alone in her heart: “See, what can I do? Be mocked trying my former
suitors, seeking marriage humbly with Numidians whom I have already disdained
so many times as husbands? Shall I follow the Trojan fleet then and that Teucrian’s
every whim? Because they might delight in having been helped by my previous
aid, or because gratitude for past deeds might remain truly fixed in their memories?
Indeed who, given I wanted to, would let me, or would take one they hate on
board their proud ships? Ah, lost girl, do you not know or feel yet the treachery
of Laomedon’s race? What then? Shall I go alone, accompanying triumphant
sailors? Or with all my band of Tyrians clustered round me? Shall I again drive
my men to sea in pursuit, those whom I could barely tear away from their Sidonian
city, and order them to spread their sails to the wind? Rather die, as you deserve,
and turn away sorrow with steel. You, my sister, conquered by my tears, in my
madness, you first burdened me with these ills, and exposed me to my enemy.
I was not allowed to pass my life without blame, free of marriage, in the manner
of some wild creature, never knowing such pain: I have not kept the vow I made
to Sychaeus’s ashes.” Such was the lament that burst from her heart.
BkIV:554-583 Mercury Visits
Aeneas Again
Now that everything was ready, and he was resolved on going, Aeneas was snatching
some sleep, on the ship’s high stern. That vision appeared again in dream
admonishing him, similar to Mercury in every way, voice and colouring, golden
hair, and youth’s graceful limbs: “Son of the Goddess, can you consider
sleep in this disaster, can’t you see the danger of it that surrounds
you, madman or hear the favourable west winds blowing? Determined to die, she
broods on mortal deceit and sin, and is tossed about on anger’s volatile
flood. Won’t you flee from here, in haste, while you can hasten? Soon
you’ll see the water crowded with ships, cruel firebrands burning, soon
the shore will rage with flame, if the Dawn finds you lingering in these lands.
Come, now, end your delay! Woman is ever fickle and changeable.” So he
spoke, and blended with night’s darkness. Then Aeneas, terrified indeed
by the sudden apparition, roused his body from sleep, and called to his friends:
“ Quick, men, awake, and man the rowing-benches: run and loosen the sails.
Know that a god, sent from the heavens, urges us again to speed our flight,
and cut the twisted hawsers. We follow you, whoever you may be, sacred among
the gods, and gladly obey your commands once more. Oh, be with us, calm one,
help us, and show stars favourable to us in the sky.” He spoke, and snatched
his shining sword from its sheath, and struck the cable with the naked blade.
All were possessed at once with the same ardour: They snatched up their goods,
and ran: abandoning the shore: the water was clothed with ships: setting to,
they churned the foam and swept the blue waves.
BkIV:584-629 Dido’s
Curse
And now, at dawn, Aurora, leaving Tithonus’s saffron bed, was scattering
fresh daylight over the earth. As soon as the queen saw the day whiten, from
her tower, and the fleet sailing off under full canvas, and realised the shore
and harbour were empty of oarsmen, she struck her lovely breast three or four
times with her hand, and tearing at her golden hair, said: “Ah, Jupiter,
is he to leave, is a foreigner to pour scorn on our kingdom? Shall my Tyrians
ready their armour, and follow them out of the city, and others drag our ships
from their docks? Go, bring fire quickly, hand out the weapons, drive the oars!
What am I saying? Where am I? What madness twists my thoughts? Wretched Dido,
is it now that your impious actions hurt you? The right time was then, when
you gave him the crown. So this is the word and loyalty of the man whom they
say bears his father’s gods around, of the man who carried his age-worn
father on his shoulders? Couldn’t I have seized hold of him, torn his
body apart, and scattered him on the waves? And put his friends to the sword,
and Ascanius even, to feast on, as a course at his father’s table? True
the fortunes of war are uncertain. Let them be so: as one about to die, whom
had I to fear? I should have set fire to his camp, filled the decks with flames,
and extinguishing father and son, and their whole race, given up my own life
as well. O Sun, you who illuminate all the works of this world, and you Juno,
interpreter and knower of all my pain, and Hecate howled to, in cities, at midnight
crossroads, you, avenging Furies, and you, gods of dying Elissa, acknowledge
this, direct your righteous will to my troubles, and hear my prayer. If it must
be that the accursed one should reach the harbour, and sail to the shore: if
Jove’s destiny for him requires it, there his goal: still, troubled in
war by the armies of a proud race, exiled from his territories, torn from Iulus’s
embrace, let him beg help, and watch the shameful death of his people: then,
when he has surrendered, to a peace without justice, may he not enjoy his kingdom
or the days he longed for, but let him die before his time, and lie unburied
on the sand. This I pray, these last words I pour out with my blood. Then, O
Tyrians, pursue my hatred against his whole line and the race to come, and offer
it as a tribute to my ashes. Let there be no love or treaties between our peoples.
Rise, some unknown avenger, from my dust, who will pursue the Trojan colonists
with fire and sword, now, or in time to come, whenever the strength is granted
him. I pray that shore be opposed to shore, water to wave, weapon to weapon:
let them fight, them and their descendants.”
BkIV:630-705 The Death
of Dido
She spoke, and turned her thoughts this way and that, considering how to destroy
her hateful life. Then she spoke briefly to Barce, Sychaeus’s nurse, since
dark ashes concealed her own, in her former country: “Dear nurse, bring
my sister Anna here: tell her to hurry, and sprinkle herself with water from
the river, and bring the sacrificial victims and noble offerings. Let her come,
and you yourself veil your brow with sacred ribbons. My purpose is to complete
the rites of Stygian Jupiter, that I commanded, and have duly begun, and put
an end to sorrow, and entrust the pyre of that Trojan leader to the flames.”
So she said. The old woman zealously hastened her steps. But Dido restless,
wild with desperate purpose, rolling her bloodshot eyes, her trembling cheeks
stained with red flushes, yet pallid at approaching death, rushed into the house
through its inner threshold, furiously climbed the tall funeral pyre, and unsheathed
a Trojan sword, a gift that was never acquired to this end. Then as she saw
the Ilian clothing and the familiar couch, she lingered a while, in tears and
thought, then cast herself on the bed, and spoke her last words: “Reminders,
sweet while fate and the god allowed it, accept this soul, and loose me from
my sorrows. I have lived, and I have completed the course that Fortune granted,
and now my noble spirit will pass beneath the earth. I have built a bright city:
I have seen its battlements, avenging a husband I have exacted punishment on
a hostile brother, happy, ah, happy indeed if Trojan keels had never touched
my shores!” She spoke, and buried her face in the couch. “I shall
die un-avenged, but let me die,” she cried. “So, so I joy in travelling
into the shadows. Let the cruel Trojan’s eyes drink in this fire, on the
deep, and bear with him the evil omen of my death.” She had spoken, and
in the midst of these words, her servants saw she had fallen on the blade, the
sword frothed with blood, and her hands were stained. A cry rose to the high
ceiling: Rumour, run riot, struck the city. The houses sounded with weeping
and sighs and women’s cries, the sky echoed with a mighty lamentation,
as if all Carthage or ancient Tyre were falling to the invading enemy, and raging
flames were rolling over the roofs of men and gods. Her sister, terrified, heard
it, and rushed through the crowd, tearing her cheeks with her nails, and beating
her breast, and called out to the dying woman in accusation: “So this
was the meaning of it, sister? Did you aim to cheat me? This pyre of yours,
this fire and altar were prepared for my sake? What shall I grieve for first
in my abandonment? Did you scorn your sister’s company in dying? You should
have summoned me to the same fate: the same hour the same sword’s hurt
should have taken us both. I even built your pyre with these hands, and was
I calling aloud on our father’s gods, so that I would be absent, cruel
one, as you lay here? You have extinguished yourself and me, sister: your people,
your Sidonian ancestors, and your city. I should bathe your wounds with water
and catch with my lips whatever dying breath still hovers.” So saying
she climbed the high levels, and clasped her dying sister to her breast, sighing,
and stemming the dark blood with her dress. Dido tried to lift her heavy eyelids
again, but failed: and the deep wound hissed in her breast. Lifting herself
three times, she struggled to rise on her elbow: three times she fell back onto
the bed, searching for light in the depths of heaven, with wandering eyes, and,
finding it, sighed. Then all-powerful Juno, pitying the long suffering of her
difficult death, sent Iris from Olympus, to release the struggling spirit, and
captive body. For since she had not died through fate, or by a well-earned death,
but wretchedly, before her time, inflamed with sudden madness, Proserpine had
not yet taken a lock of golden hair from her head, or condemned her soul to
Stygian Orcus. So dew-wet Iris flew down through the sky, on saffron wings,
trailing a thousand shifting colours across the sun, and hovered over her head.
“ I take this offering, sacred to Dis, as commanded, and release you from
the body that was yours.” So she spoke, and cut the lock of hair with
her right hand. All the warmth ebbed at once, and life vanished on the breeze.
End of Book IV