ACT III
Act III. Scene 1
The atrium in the palace of Æneas. The aged Anchises lies prone upon the couch. Creüsa, Ascanius, and other members of the household are huddled together in the same room, listening in awestruck silence to the confused sounds of battle without. The room is lit by the red glare of burning buildings. Enter Æneas, breathless with his haste.
Æneas, going up to his father and attempting to lift him in his arms (635, 636):
O father, all is lost; come, flee with me,
While still the fates and angry gods allow;
Come, let me bear thee on my shoulders broad
Unto the shelter of Mount Ida’s slopes.
Anchises, resisting (637-649):
If all is o’er, and Troy is in the dust,
Why should I wish to prolong this worthless life
In exiled wanderings? Turn ye to flight,
Who feel the blood of youth within your veins,
Whose sturdy powers still flourish in their prime.
If heavenly gods had wished me still to live,
They would have saved this home wherein to dwell.
Enough and more, that I have seen one fall
Of Troy, and once outlived my captured town.
Then, even as I lie in seeming death,
Address my lifeless body and be gone.
I’ll quickly gain the boon of death I seek:
The enemy will pity me and slay,
Or else will slay me for my noble spoils.
As for the loss of burial due the dead,
‘Twill not be hard to bear. Too long on earth
I spend my useless years, abhorred of heaven,
Since when the sire of gods and king of men
Blasted my body with his lightning’s breath,
And marked me with his scorching bolt of flame.
Æneas and all the household join in entreating Anchises to go with them (651-653):
The heavy hand of fate is on us all,
But do not thou, O father, seek to add
To this our weight of sorrow, and o’erthrow
Our fortunes utterly.
But the old man stubbornly persists in his refusal.
Æneas, seeing his father immovable (656-670):
And didst thou think that I could leave thee here,
O father, and betake myself to flight?
And has such monstrous utterance as this
Fall’n from a father’s lips? If heaven has willed
That nothing from this city vast survive,
And if thy mind is firmly set to die,
And ‘tis thy pleasure to our ruined Troy
To add thyself and all thy family—
The door to that destruction opens wide
Soon Pyrrhus will be here, his murderous hands
Reeking with Priam’s blood, who slays the son
Before his father’s eyes, and eke the sire
Upon the sacred altar’s very steps
Was it for this that thou, through sword and flame,
O fostering mother, didst deliver me,
That midst the very sanctities of home
I should behold the foe, that I should see
Ascanius, my father, and my wife
All weltering in one another’s blood?
Nay rather, arms! My men, in haste bring arms!
Attendants bring him his sword and shield which he hurriedly fits in place.
The last day calls the vanquished to their death.
Let me go forth to meet the Greeks again,
Once more sustain the desperate battle shock.
We shall not all in helpless slaughter die.
Æneas is rushing toward the door, when Creüsa intercepts him, pushing toward him their little son, Ascanius.
Creüsa, kneeling (675-678):
If thou art going forth to seek thy death,
Oh, take us, too, with thee to share thy fate;
But if thy wisdom bids thee still to hope
In sword and shield, here make thy final stand,
And guard thy home. To whose protection, pray,
Is young Iulus left, to whose thy sire?
To whom can I, once called thy wife, appeal?
Suddenly a tongue of flame is seen to leap and play among the locks of the boy. His parents, in consternation, attempt to extinguish this, but to no effect.
Anchises, seeing the portent, starts up with wondering joy, stretching his hands upward in prayer (689-691):
O Jove, if thou art moved by any prayer,
Look on us now; this only do I ask;
And, if our piety deserves the boon,
Help us, O father, and confirm these signs.
A sudden crash of thunder resounds without, and through the open impluvium a bright star is seen shooting across the sky.
Anchises, rising from his couch in trembling haste (701-704):
Now, now is no delay; I’ll follow thee,
O son, wherever thou wouldst have me go.
O gods, on whom our fatherland depends,
Preserve my house, preserve my grandson too.
From you has come this heavenly augury,
And on your will divine does Ilium rest.
I yield me then, O son, into thy hands.
And would no more refuse to go with thee.
Meanwhile from without the glare of the conflagration increases, and the shouting of the victorious Greeks is heard approaching nearer and nearer.
Æneas (707-720):
Come then, dear father, mount upon my back,
For on my shoulders will I carry thee,
Nor will I find that burden overhard.
Whatever comes, ‘twill come to both of us,
We’ll share misfortune and deliverance too.
He takes the old man upon his shoulders, first spreading over his back a lion’s skin.
Let young Iulus fare along with me,
But at a distance let my wife note well
The way I take. And ye, attendants, hark
To what I say. Without the city walls
There is a mound, where stands an ancient fane
Of Ceres, all alone, a cypress tree
Of ancient stock, preserved with reverent care
For many generations, overhangs
The temple walls. Be this our meeting place
To which by devious ways in many bands
We all shall come.
Do thou, my father, carry in thy hands
The sacred emblems and our household gods;
For me, late come from strife, and stained with blood,
‘Twere sacrilege to touch the holy things,
Till I have cleansed me in some running stream.
With his father upon his shoulders and leading Iulus by the hand he takes his way out of the house. The household follows, leaving the room deserted.
Scene 2
A dark street near the Ida gate. Æneas, Anchises, and Ascanius as before. Suddenly through the darkness there comes the distant sound of feet and shouting as of pursuers.
Anchises, peering in the direction of the sound (733, 734):
Oh, speed thy steps, my son; the foe are near;
I see their gleaming shields and flashing spears.
At this Æneas hastens his steps and leaves the scene, his band hurrying after him.
Scene 3
At the ancient temple of Ceres without the walls. The fugitives come straggling in in various bands, a motley array, Æneas and his immediate followers among the rest. Æneas watches them as they come and gather about him, counting and identifying them. He now discovers that Creüsa is missing.
Æneas (738-748):
Alas, Creüsa, by what wretched fate
Hast thou been overwhelmed? Where art thou now?
Hast wandered from the way, or, spent with toil,
Hast thou given o’er the journey? Woe is me!
My eyes shall never more behold thy face!
What god or man is guilty of this crime?
Or what more cruel deed have I beheld
In all our stricken town?
To his friends:
Behold, my friends,
To you my son and sire and household gods
Do I commend, while I reseek the streets
And ruined dwellings of our fallen Troy,
If haply I may find her once again.
He puts on his full armor, and rushes back through the dark gate into the city.
Scene 4
A deserted street in Troy, lit up fitfully by smoldering fires. Æneas enters, peering through the gloom on all sides, and calling loudly upon the name of his wife. Suddenly a shadowy form appears before him.
The Ghost of Creüsa (776-789):
What boots it to indulge this storm of grief,
O dearest husband? For be sure of this,
That not without permission of the gods
Have these things come to pass. ‘Twas not allowed
That thy Creüsa should go hence with thee,
Nor does Olympus’ ruler suffer it.
To distant lands, long exiled must thou roam,
Must plow the water of the vasty deep,
Until thou come to that far western land,
Where Lydian Tiber’s gently murmuring stream
Rolls down through rich and cultivated fields.
There joyful state and kingdom wait for thee,
There one who is allotted for thy wife.
Then dry the tears which now affection sheds
For thy well-loved Creüsa, once thy wife;
For ‘tis not mine to see the haughty seats
Of Myrmidonian or Dolopian foes;
Nor shall I go to serve the Grecian dames,
Proud princess of Dardania that I am,
By marriage made the child of Venus’ self.
But Cybele, great mother of the gods,
Detains me still upon these Trojan shores.
Then look thy last upon me, and farewell,
And let our common son employ your love.
Æneas starts forward with a cry to embrace the ghost, but it eludes his grasp and vanishes from sight. He sorrowfully turns away and leaves the scene.
Scene 5
The gray dawn breaks; Mount Ida looms dimly in the distance; the exiles a weary, discouraged band of men, women, and children, take their way out into the unknown world.
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