Act IV
Act IV. Scene 1
Dido’s chamber as in Act II. Scene 1. Anna sits in the foreground, spinning. The old nurse, Barce, is bustling about, hanging up her mistress’ brilliant robes, which she has cast aside for her old mourning gown of simple white. Dido is seated at the latticed window watching the Trojans in the harbor below prepare for their departure. She is weeping.
Barce, coming cautiously to Anna so that Dido may not hear (416-418):
Behold, how eagerly the Trojans launch their ships.
In their mad zeal they hurry timbers from the woods,
Unhewn and rough, from which to shape their masts and oars,
While from the city shoreward rush the fleeing men.
The shouts of the sailors are heard. Dido groans. Anna, hastily putting aside her work, goes to her sister, whose face is buried in her hands. Barce takes up the spinning, stopping at times to wipe her eyes.
Dido, lifting her face to her sister (416-418):
Thou seest, Anna, how they haste from every side,
And how the bustle of departure fills the shore.
The vessels float, the swelling sails salute the breeze,
And now the sailors crown the sterns with festive wreaths!
She gives way to her tears.
Anna, caressing her sister:
Alas, my sister, for thy sighs and grieving tears,
Thy love abandoned and thy trusting faith betrayed!
Dido (419-434):
If this great grief in expectation I have borne,
Then truly shall I patience have to bear it still.
But, sister, grant me in my woe this one request—
For yonder faithless one was wont to cherish thee
Alone, and trust to thee his heart; and thou alone
Dost know the fav’ring time and method of approach
To try the man:—go, sister, and in suppliant strain
Address our haughty foe: I took no oath with Greece
At wind-swept Aulis to o’erthrow the Trojan State,
Nor did I send a hostile fleet to Pergama,
Nor desecrate the sacred ashes of his sire,
That now he should refuse to bend his ear to me.
Go, say his hapless lover makes this last request:
That he wait an easy voyage and a fav’ring gale.
No longer do I ask a husband’s love denied,
Nor yet that he abandon his fair land and realm;
Time, only time, I ask, a little space of rest
From this mad grief, till Fortune give me fortitude,
And teach me how to bear my woe.
Anna, preparing to go (412):
O love betrayed,
To what despair dost thou not drive the hearts of men?
Exit Anna.
Dido, at the window, watches her sister as she takes her way down to the harbor. When she can no longer see her in the gathering twilight, she turns with a sigh to her chamber.
The old nurse, Barce, totters to her. Dido places her head wearily on the old woman’s shoulder. Barce, drawing her to a couch, tries to soothe her. Dido starts up in terror, as if she saw some fearful shape. She flees before it to her husband’s shrine, and is only recalled from the fancy when she finds the curtains drawn before it.
Barce comes tremblingly to her. Dido in bitter remorse draws the curtains from the shrine and kneels before it. Barce hurries away and soon returns with a lighted candle, which she brings to her mistress. Dido lights the censer. Curtain.
Act IV. Scene 2
The same chamber in Dido’s palace. The shrine of Sychæus is adorned with flowers; fire glows on the altar. Barce sits spinning at one side.
Dido is pacing the room with fierce energy. She goes to the window from time to time, then renews her fierce walking to and fro. Suddenly she presses her hand to her head as if a new thought had come to her. Her face assumes an expression of cunning. She picks up a golden goblet, and with a gesture to the old woman sends her to fill it.
When Barce has gone, Dido stealthily but quickly takes Æneas’ sword from the wall, and, seating herself, with trembling fingers draws it from its scabbard. She feels the edge, shrinking in terror at the thought of her intended suicide. With a shudder, she presses the cold blade against her neck.
As she is thus meditating, her sister is heard coming. Dido quickly conceals the sword beneath the draperies of the couch. She assumes an air of gayety, kissing her sister and drawing her to a seat.
Dido (478-498):
I’ve found a way, my sister—give me joy—to bring
Him back to me, or free me from the love of him.
Hard by the confines of the Ocean in the west
The Æthiop country lies, where mighty Atlas holds
Upon his giant shoulders heaven’s vault, all set
With stars. There dwells a priestess skilled in magic art,
Of the Massylian race, and guardian of the shrine
Of the Hesperides; her care, the dragon huge
To which she offers honeydew and soothing herbs,
The while she guards the precious boughs.—She claims the power
At will to free the soul from sorrow with her charms,
Or burden it with care; to stop the rapid stream,
And backward roll the stars; the shades of darkness too
Can she awake, and at her bidding shalt thou hear
The rumbling earth beneath thy feet, and see the trees
Descend the mountain slopes.—I swear it by the gods
And thee, unwillingly I seek the magic art.
Do thou within the palace rear a lofty pyre,
And place upon its top the faithless hero’s arms
Which in his flight he left within our halls, yea all
That he has left, and then our wedding couch, my cause
Of woe, my heart is set to banish every trace
Of that perfidious one, and this the priestess bids.
Anna assents to her plan and hurries away to execute it. Dido quickly takes the sword from its hiding-place and in tremulous haste hangs it again upon the wall. Barce enters. Dido turns, fearing detection, but seeing that the old nurse has not suspected her, she takes the cup in her trembling fingers and drains it. Curtain.
Act IV. Scene 3
Dido’s chamber, night. Dido is seated in the moonlight that streams through the open casement. A band of maidens, clad in white, are singing softly to her.
Chorus of maidens (apropos of 522-528):
[For music, see p. [81]]
‘T is eve; ‘t is night; a holy quiet broods
O’er the mute world—winds, waters are at peace;
The beasts lie couch’d amid unstirring woods,
The fishes slumber in the sounds and seas;
No twitt’ring bird sings farewell from the trees.
Hushed is the dragon’s cry, the lion’s roar;
Beneath her glooms a glad oblivion frees
The heart from care, its weary labors o’er,
Carrying divine repose and sweetness to its core.
[Selected from Tasso]
They quietly withdraw. Dido is convulsed with weeping.
Dido (529-532; 534-552):
But not for me, unhappy one, this night’s sweet calm;
My cares redouble and o’erwhelm me with their flood.
She leaves the window and paces the room.
Ah me, what shall I do? My former suitors seek
And be again rejected? Shall I humbly court
Numidia’s lords whose suit I have so often scorned?
Or shall I rather follow haughty Ilium’s fleet,
Submissive to their every will?—Because in sooth,
‘T is sweet to be delivered, and my former aid
Still dwells within their faithful memory? But who,
Though I should wish it, would permit me, or receive
The hated Dido in their haughty ships? Ah, poor,
Deluded one, dost thou not know, dost thou not still
Perceive the frailty of a Trojan oath? What then?
Shall I forsake my kingdom and accompany
The joyful sailors, or with all my Tyrian bands
Around me, follow in pursuit and force again
My friends upon the deep and bid them spread their sails,
My comrades whom with pain I weaned from Sidon’s halls?
Nay, nay! as thou deservest, die, and with the sword
Thy sorrows end. O why was it not given me
To spend my life from wedlock and its sorrows free,
As beasts within their forest lairs? Or why, alas,
Was not my promise to Sychæus’ ashes kept?
She sprinkles incense on the flame at the shrine of Sychæus. Dawn begins to brighten. The sailors are heard singing in the distance. Dido starts. She rushes to the window, and looking out, sees the Trojan fleet sailing away over the sea. She cries out in frenzy.
Dido (590-629):
Ye gods! and shall he go, and mock our royal power?
Why not to arms and send our forces in pursuit,
And bid them hurry down the vessels from the shore?
Ho there, my men, quick, fetch the torches, seize your arms,
And man the oars!—What am I saying? where am I?
What madness turns my brain? O most unhappy queen,
Is it thus thy evil deeds are coming back to thee?
Such fate was just when thou didst yield thy scepter up.—
Lo, there ‘s the fealty of him who, rumor says,
His country’s gods with him in all his wandering bears
And on his shoulders bore his sire from burning Troy!
Why could I not have torn his body limb from limb,
And strewed his members on the deep? and slain his friends,
His son Ascanius, and served his mangled limbs
To grace his father’s feast?—Such conflict might have had
A doubtful issue.—Grant it might, but whom had I,
Foredoomed to death, to fear? I might have fired his camp,
His ships, and wrapped in common ruin father, son,
And all the race, and given myself to crown the doom
Of all.—O Sun, who with thy shining rays dost see
All mortal deeds; O Juno, who dost know and thus
Canst judge the grievous cares of wedlock; thou whom wild
And shrieking women worship through the dusky streets,
O Hecate; and ye avenging Furies;—ye,
The gods of failing Dido, come and bend your power
To these my woes and hear my prayer. If yonder wretch
Must enter port and reach his land decreed by fate,
If thus the laws of Jove ordain, this order holds:
But, torn in war, a hardy people’s foeman, far
From friends and young Iulus’ arms, may he be forced
To seek a Grecian stranger’s aid, and may he see
The death of many whom he loves. And when at last
A meager peace on doubtful terms he has secured,
May he no pleasure find in kingdom or in life;
But may he fall untimely, and unburied lie
Upon some solitary strand. This, this I pray,
And with my latest breath this final wish proclaim.
Then, O my Tyrians, with a bitter hate pursue
The whole accursèd race, and send this to my shade
As welcome tribute. Let there be no amity
Between our peoples. Rise thou from my bones,
O some avenger, who with deadly sword and brand
Shall scathe the Trojan exiles, now, in time to come,
Whenever chance and strength shall favor. Be our shores
To shores opposed, our waves to waves, and arms to arms,
Eternal, deadly foes through all posterity.
The servants rush in terrified during her passionate speech, and as she utters her curse, stand cowering before her. She dismisses with a gesture all except old Barce, who approaches her mistress.
(634-640):
Go, bring my sister Anna hither, dearest nurse:
In flowing water bid her haste to bathe her limbs,
And bring the rightful sacrifices of the flock.
So let her come. And thou with pious fillets gird
Thy temples; for to Stygian Jove my mind is fixed
To carry on the magic sacrifice begun,
And end my cares, and to devouring flames consign
The relics of that cursed son of Dardanus.
Barce totters away to do her bidding. Dido takes Æneas’ mantle and sword from the wall, and unsheathes the sword.
(651-662):
Sweet pledges of my lord, while fate and god allowed,
Accept this soul of mine, and free me from my cares.
For I have lived and run the course that Fortune set;
And now my stately soul to Hades shall descend.
A noble city have I built; my husband’s death
Have I avenged, and on my brother’s head my wrath
Inflicted. Happy, ah too happy, had the keels
Of Troy ne’er touched my shores!—And shall I perish thus?—
But let me perish. Thus, oh thus, ‘t is sweet to seek
The land of shadows.—May the heartless Trojan see,
As on he fares across the deep, my blazing pyre,
And bear with him the gloomy omens of my death.
She rushes forth from the chamber in her frenzy. The sailors’ chorus is repeated fainter and fainter. In a moment her death cry is heard. The servants rush in, and finding their mistress gone, hasten in the direction of her cry. Their lamentation is heard. They return bearing the body of the queen upon a couch. She has fainted, and upon her bosom the wound shows red and terrible. Anna enters, beside herself with grief.
Anna, kneeling beside the couch, addresses Dido, who revives enough to smile upon her sister (676-685):
Was it for this, O sister, thou didst seek to hide
Thy heart from me? Was this the meaning of the pyre,
And this the altar fires? What plaint in my despair
Shall I offer first? And didst thou spurn me, in thy death?
Thou shouldst instead have bidden me to share thy fate;
The selfsame moment should have reft the lives of both.
And with these impious hands did I thine altar rear,
And with this voice unto our country’s gods appeal,
That, heartless, I might fail thee in this final hour?
O sister, here hast thou destroyed thyself and me,
Thy people, thy Sidonian fathers and thy realm.
With soothing water let me bathe her flowing wounds,
And if there hovers on her lips the fleeting breath,
With my own lips I claim it in the kiss of death.
The sailors’ chorus sounds in the distance. Aroused by this, the dying queen half raises herself upon the couch. The servants throw open the casement and the Trojan ships are seen far away, sailing off over the sea.
Dido falls back lifeless. Curtain.