ACT III
Act III. Scene 1
The temple of Jupiter Ammon in Libya. In the center of the stage an altar (1), raised high from the level of the stage by four broad steps (2). Pillars of barbaric form and decoration at the first and second wings (3), between which are hung curtains (4) of rich, oriental pattern. At the second wing a wall (5) joins the two pillars. In the distance (6), across a wide tract of desert, Carthage can be seen, showing only as a cluster of glimmering lights except when the lightning flashes fitfully along the horizon. The scene is lighted only by the glare of the altar fire.
Iarbas wears a robe of scarlet worked in gold.
Iarbas, kneeling before the altar, his face lifted defiantly upward (206-218):
O Jove omnipotent, to whom the Moorish race
From ‘broidered couches pour their offering of wine,
Dost thou regard th’ affairs of men? or is ‘t in vain
We tremble, father, when thou hurl’st thy thunderbolts?
And is it only aimless flashings that we fear,
And meaningless vain mutterings that fill the sky?
That vagrant queen to whom we gave within our bounds
A site whereon to build her town, a bit of shore
To till, and granted full possession of the place,
Hath this our suit disdained and to her realm received
Æneas as her lord. And now that puny prince,
That Paris, with his train of weaklings, and his locks
Perfumed, bedecked and sheltered by a Phrygian cap,
Hath carried off the prize.—And we, poor fools, bring gifts
Unto thy temple and adore an empty shrine!
Sullen mutterings of distant thunder. Curtain.
Scenes 2 and 3
The temple colonnade, as in Act I. Scene 1. Æneas, surrounded by Achates, Ihoneus, and many other Trojans, is directing the work in the city below them. He has in his hands the plan of the citadel, which he is tracing for his countrymen. Mercury appears upon the temple steps, crosses the stage, and stands a moment behind Æneas and his companions, unnoticed.
Mercury, to Æneas, as the Trojans turn and discover him (265-276):
And can it be that thou art building here the walls
Of Tyrian Carthage, and uprearing her fair towers,
Thou dotard, of thy realm and thy great destiny
Forgetful! Jove himself, the ruler of the gods,
Who holds the heavens and earth and moves them at his will,
To thee from bright Olympus straight hath sent me here.
He bade me bear on speeding pinions these commands:
What dost thou here? or with what hopes dost thou delay
Upon the Libyan shores? If thou, indeed, art moved
By no regard for thine own glorious destiny,
Respect at least the budding hopes of him, thy son,
Who after thee shall hold the scepter; for to him
Are due the realms of Italy, the land of Rome.
While Mercury is giving his message, Dido, followed by her maidens, comes forth from the temple, and as she catches the import of his words, stands horror-stricken upon the temple steps, unnoticed by Æneas or his men, whose faces are turned intently toward Mercury.
Æneas, overwhelmed with astonishment, aside (281-294):
O Jove, and I had near forgot my destiny,
To oblivion lulled amid the sweets of this fair land!
But now my heart’s sole longing is for Italy,
Which waits me by the promise of the fates. But how
From this benumbing passion shall I free myself?
How face the queen and put away her clinging love?
To his attendants:
Go ye, and swiftly call the Trojans to the shore;
Bid them equip the vessels quickly for the sea,
And frame for this our sudden voyage some fitting cause.
Mnestheus and the others withdraw to perform his commands. Æneas remains buried in deep thought. He turns and sees Dido standing before him. They gaze at each other in silence.
Dido (305-330):
And didst thou hope that thou couldst hide thy fell design,
O faithless, and in silence steal away from this
My land? Does not our love, and pledge of faith once given,
Nor thought of Dido, doomed to die a cruel death,
Detain thee? Can it be that under wintry skies
Thou wouldest launch thy fleet and urge thy onward way
Mid stormy blasts across the sea, O cruel one?
But what if not a stranger’s land and unknown homes
Thou soughtest; what if Troy, thy city, still remained:
Still wouldst thou fare to Troy along the wave-tossed sea?
Is ‘t I thou fleest? By these tears and thy right hand—
Since in my depth of crushing woe I’ve nothing left—
And by our marriage bond and sacred union joined,
If ever aught of mercy I have earned of thee,
If I have ever giv’n thee one sweet drop of joy,
Have pity on my falling house, and change, I pray,
Thy cruel purpose if there still is room for prayer.
For thee the Libyan races hate me, and my lords
Of Tyre; for thee my latest scruple was o’ercome;
My fame, by which I was ascending to the stars,
My kingdom, fates,—all these have I giv’n up for thee.
And thou, for whom dost thou abandon me, O guest?—
Since from the name of husband this sole name remains.
What wait I more? Is ‘t till Pygmalion shall come,
And lay my walls in ruins, or the desert prince,
Iarbas, lead me captive home? O cruel fate!
If only ere thou fled’st some pledge had been conceived
Of thee, if round my halls some son of thine might sport,
To bear thy name and bring thine image back to me,
Then truly should I seem not utterly bereft.
Æneas, seemingly unmoved by her appeal (333-361):
I never shall gainsay, O Queen, that thy desert
Can equal all and more than all that thou canst claim;
And ever in the days to come ‘t will be my joy
Fair Dido to recall while memory serves me, while
My spirit animates these limbs.—To thine appeal
A brief reply. I did not hope to leave thy shores
By stealth—believe it or not—nor yet a husbands’ name
Have I desired, nor have I claimed the marriage bonds.
If under omens of my own it were ordained
That I should live, and lay aside at will the weight
Of destiny, then first of all would I restore
My Trojan city and the dear remains of all
I called my own; old Priam’s royal halls would still
Endure, and long ago would I have built again
Our ruined citadel of Pergama. But now
To mighty Italy Apollo’s oracle,
To Italy his lots command that I repair.
This is my love and this must be my fatherland.
If thou, though born in distant Tyre, art linked to this
Thy Carthage in the land of Libya, why, I pray,
Shouldst thou begrudge to us, the Trojan wanderers,
Ausonia’s land? ‘T is fate that we as well as thou
Should seek a foreign home. My sire Anchises’ shade
Invades my dreams with threats and admonition stern,
Whene’er with dewy shadows night o’erspreads the earth.
And when I think upon Ascanius and the wrong
That I am bringing on his head, though innocent,
My heart reproaches me that I am thwarting fate,
Which promised him the destined fields of Italy.
And now the very messenger of heav’n sent down
By Jove himself—I swear by both our lives—has brought
The mandate through the wind-swept air; I saw the god
Myself in open day invade thy city’s walls,
And with these very ears I heard his warning voice.
Then cease to vex thyself and me with these complaints;
‘T is not of mine own will I fare to Italy.
Æneas, as he speaks, has become as one seeing in vision the glorious future of his race. Dido, who has stood with averted face and scornful look, now turns upon him, in a passion of grief and rage.
Dido (365-387):
Thou art no son of Venus, nor was Dardanus
The ancient founder of thy race, thou faithless one:
But Caucasus with rough and flinty crags begot,
And fierce Hyrcanian tigers suckled thee. For why
Should I restrain my speech, or greater evil wait?
Did he one sympathetic sigh of sorrow heave?
Did he one tear let fall, o’er-mastered by my grief?
Now neither Juno, mighty queen, nor father Jove
Impartial sees; for faith is everywhere betrayed.
That shipwrecked beggar in my folly did I take
And cause to sit upon my throne; I saved his fleet,
His friends I rescued—Oh, the furies drive me mad!
Now ‘t is Apollo’s dictate, now the Lycian lots,
And now “the very messenger of heaven sent down
By Jove himself” to bring this mandate through the air!
A fitting task is that for heaven’s immortal lords!
Such cares as these disturb their everlasting calm!
I seek not to detain nor answer thee; sail on
To Italy, seek fated realms beyond the seas.
For me, if pious prayers can aught avail, I pray
That thou amid the wrecking reefs mayst drain the cup
Of retribution to the dregs and vainly call
Upon the name of Dido. Distant though I be,
With fury’s torch will I pursue thee, and when death
Shall free my spirit, will I haunt thee everywhere.
O thou shalt meet thy punishment, perfidious one:
My soul shall know, for such glad news would penetrate
The lowest depths of hell.—
She works herself up to a frenzy, and as she finishes she turns to leave him with queenly scorn, staggers, and falls. Her servants carry her from the scene, leaving Æneas in agony of soul, struggling between love and duty. Curtain.