escape from awful peril; and it is hastily resolved upon. Iphigenia
claims a promise of loyalty from her women, sends the prisoners away in
charge of attendants, and goes into the temple for the statue. As she
comes out again, bearing it in her hands, the king himself arrives. To
his astonished questions, she answers as has been arranged, and no point
is overlooked by her ingenuity. A herald should be sent before her, to
clear the streets, and proclaim that no one must look out, or leave his
house, for fear of pollution. Thoas himself, and his attendants, must
veil their eyes when her procession passes; and while she is gone, the
king is to purge the temple with fire in preparation for her return.
Lastly, if she be a long time away, the king need not be anxious, and
she must not be disturbed: the cleansing must be thoroughly performed.
The king consents without a shadow of suspicion, impressed by her piety
and forethought. The prisoners are led out, and as the procession moves
away, Iphigenia utters a prayer for help in her strategy and pardon for
the deceit that she has practised on the king. As Thoas returns to the
temple to carry out Iphigenia’s injunctions, the Chorus break into an
ode in honour of Apollo and Artemis; and for a while there is no sound
but the sweet rise and fall of their voices. As time slips by, bringing
we know not what fortune to the fugitives, we know that the women of the
Chorus, who are in the secret, are tortured by suspense. Then there is a
sudden shout; and a messenger comes running from the shore and cries for
entrance to the temple. The women try to turn him aside; but he batters
upon the gates until Thoas throws them open, angry at the clamour.
In rapid and excited speech the man tells his errand. Let the king come
at once, for he has been befooled. The cleansing was a fraud: the statue
has been stolen; and the Greek princess and the two young men who were
destined for the altar are even now rowing away in a boat which was
awaiting them. But if the king will hasten, they may yet be caught; for
at this moment they are battling with an adverse wind, and they have no
knowledge of the currents of that treacherous shore.
Thoas, furious at the trap into which he has fallen, gives rapid orders:
a company of herdsmen is to go to the headlands, and boats are to be put
off immediately from the shore. So these crafty Greeks will be
overtaken, either by sea or land; and then let them beware of a
barbarian’s anger!
But suddenly, through the shouting and confusion, there is a roll of
thunder and a lightning-flash; and descending through the air the
goddess Athena is seen. Her voice rings out imperiously, commanding
Thoas to stay his haste. Then, in the awed hush that falls she makes
known the will of the gods that Orestes and his sister shall not be
pursued. Fate has ordained their escape, and Thoas may not strive
against it.
“_No death from thee
May snare Orestes between earth and sea._“[33]
As for Orestes himself, Athena declares that it is laid on him to carry
the rescued image of Artemis to Halæ, on the bounds of Attica; and there
it will be worshipped with curious rites designed to recall the old
barbarity while condemning it. These poor Greek women must be restored
to their homes; and, for that fleeing priestess, Destiny has given to
her to end her days in peace and gentleness.
“_And thou, Iphigenia, by the stair
Of Brauron in the rocks, the Key shalt bear.
Of Artemis. There shalt thou live and die,
And there have burial._“[33]
-----
Footnote 33:
From Professor Gilbert Murray’s translation of the _Iphigenia in
Tauris_ (George Allen & Co. Ltd.).
_Virgil: Dido_
Nineteen years before the birth of Christ the great Roman poet Virgil
died, leaving amongst his papers an epic poem which had been the work of
many years. Both in life and art this poet of the Augustan Age had a
very high ideal; and because he was conscious of defects in his work:
because his last illness came before he was able to put the finishing
touches upon it, he begged that it should be burned. But the emperor
Augustus interposed. Some parts of the poem were already known and loved
in the circle of Virgil’s friends, of whom the emperor was one. They
knew its fine theme—the founding of the Roman State by its legendary
ancestor Æneas; and having already some foretaste of its beauty and
charm and strong patriotic appeal, it seemed that the destruction of the
poem would mean an immense and irreparable loss. So the Emperor decided
that it should be preserved, and directed Virgil’s executors to edit it.
The poem is of course the _Æneid_, and Dido is its heroine. Like the
Greek epics, it is an authentic voice of the ancient world; but of an
Age, a Race and a Civilization vastly different from theirs. It is quite
frankly fashioned in the Homeric form, and its hero is one of the Trojan
chiefs who fled overseas to Italy, to re-establish his race there at the
command of the gods. It actually brings Æneas at one point of his
wanderings within three months’ time of an incident in the _Odyssey_: it
shows us Andromache still mourning for Hector, and the gods still at
enmity over the old feud between Greek and Trojan. But all these links
with the earlier epics, and many others, subtler or more obvious, are
merely formal. In spirit there is as wide a severance as we know to
exist in actual time. The _Æneid_, with its humane, philosophic and
cultured poet, belongs to a state of society many hundreds of years
later than the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. And although it is a mistake to
regard the earlier poems as really ‘primitive,’ they represent an age
which, because it was relatively simpler and less self-conscious, seems
youthful and buoyant by comparison.
The outward similarity and the fundamental contrast between Homer and
Virgil make a fascinating subject on which to linger; and one aspect at
least we must just glance at, because of its bearing on Dido’s story. It
is that added element of purpose in the _Æneid_ which perhaps includes
in itself or is the ultimate cause of all the other points of difference
from the Greek poems. The _Æneid_ was conceived with a deep and serious
aim, and composed with infinite care. It did not originate, as perhaps
the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ may have done, in the almost spontaneous lays
of wandering minstrels, for the delight and honour of princely hosts. It
was designed from the first to represent the divine birth of the Latin
race, the gradual uprising of the Roman state, its long struggle with
barbarism and its mission to civilize the Western world—all as the
ordinance of the supreme deity.
From the very beginning of the poem its purpose is clear upon the face
of it; and one of the most important results is the creation of a new
type of hero. Æneas is not an ardent young soldier like Achilles, nor an
acute and hardy sailor like Odysseus, with their zest and naïveté. He is
a much more complex character, with a deeper estimate of life and some
civic virtues which had not been evolved when the earlier heroes were
created. He is a pioneer and adventurer who loves above all things home
and a settled order; an invader who does not enjoy warfare in the least;
a prince who rules by gentleness; a tender son and husband and father
who is capable of the deepest cruelty to the woman who loves him; a man
sadly conscious of human weakness, but conscious too of the divine
within himself and of the high destiny to which he is called.
The character of Æneas is the primary element in the tragedy of Dido.
Because he was such a man, their love for each other was bound to end as
it did. Of course there was the external cause, too; also arising out of
the design of the poem. For Dido was the founder and queen of Carthage,
the hereditary foe of Rome. And the poet desired to dramatize, as it
were, the first clash of the two races in their infancy; to show the
origin of the long feud; and to prefigure by a sort of allegory the
eventual triumph of Rome. We do not think of the allegory, however, as
we read the story of Dido in the First and Fourth Books of the _Æneid_.
We are caught in the onward sweep of the poet’s imagination, and moved
by the intense human interest of the theme. It is only when the
catastrophe comes, when Æneas, fleeing from Carthage in the cold dawn,
sees the light of the queen’s funeral pyre reddening the sky, that we
begin to reflect on the meaning of it. Even then, so complete is the
victory of the poet’s art, our last thought is one of pity—for the
indignant spirit of Dido that has fled to the House of Shadows; and for
the miserable man no less, whom fate is driving to the coast of Italy.
* * * * *
When Troy was sacked, Æneas sailed away with twenty ships, and all that
remained dear to him of home. His wife Creusa was killed as they were
escaping from the burning city; but his household gods were preserved,
and these he carried with him in his flight, with his aged father and
his little son Iulus.
Misfortune followed him, however. Juno, still unrelenting in her anger
against the race of Paris, buffeted him to and fro upon the seas for
seven years, and cast him at length upon the shore of Libya. The greater
part of his fleet was scattered, and perhaps lost for ever: his own crew
was broken by the long struggle; and he himself, under the cheery manner
which he assumed to encourage his men, was heart-sick with despair. What
this strange land was he did not know. It seemed wild and desolate: it
was most probably inhabited by barbarians, and at any moment a savage
horde might fall upon them.
But the country was not hostile, as Æneas’ goddess-mother Venus took
care to assure him, meeting him in the guise of a mountain nymph. It was
the new land of Dido, the Tyrian princess who had fled from her native
country and the evil rule of her brother Pygmalion. The late king of
Tyre, her father, had given her in marriage to one she dearly loved,
Sichæus, a priest of Heracles, and the wealthiest man of all the wealthy
East. But a little later the king had died. Pygmalion succeeded to the
throne, and in greed for Sichæus’ wealth he secretly slew him at his own
altar.
_Blinded with lust of gold,
And heedless of his sister’s passionate love,
Pygmalion on his brother crept by stealth,
And slew him at the very altar’s foot._[34]
For some time he hid his guilt and tried to win from Dido, in her grief,
the immense treasures of Sichæus. But her intelligence, and her love for
her murdered husband, could not be long deceived. She discovered her
brother’s guilt, and realizing that to remain in Tyre would mean her
death too, she instantly laid plans to leave the country. It was to be
no timid surrender, however. She gathered about her all those who hated
Pygmalion’s tyranny, and proposed that they should join her. Ships were
seized and rapidly manned: Sichæus’ wealth was stored in them, and Dido
sailed to found a new city on the coast of Africa.
At the moment when Æneas landed there, the building of the city was in
eager progress; and Dido, the brain of the enterprise, was beginning to
forget her sorrow in the joy of achievement. When Æneas climbed the hill
above the bay, he saw the city stretched beneath, and the Tyrians busy
upon it ‘like bees in summer fields.’ Walls were rising, trenches were
being dug and foundations laid: houses and streets were already
finished: great blocks were being hewn for the citadel and columns for
the theatre; while in the centre of the town, complete in every detail
of ornament, a magnificent temple stood. Here Æneas made his way,
passing invisibly through the crowded street by the spells of Venus. As
he stood gazing at the walls, marvelling to see that they were carved
with the history of his Troy, a shout arose. The great queen was coming.
_Queen Dido, beautiful beyond compare,
Enters the temple, by a mighty train
Of youths attended. Like Diana she,
When on Eurotas’ banks, or on the heights
Of Cynthus, she the dances leads ...
A quiver on her shoulders, as she moves._[34]
Dido took her seat upon a throne raised high beneath the central dome,
surrounded by her guards. Before her thronged the captains of her great
work, merchants, emissaries from distant states, and many of her own
folk who had come to petition her for justice. She was the ruling
spirit, and by no mere accident. Æneas stood in amazement at the scene,
as she allotted to each his task, and adjudged every difficult question,
and dispensed the law.
Suddenly there was a tumult outside the gate, and a noisy interruption,
as a band of foreigners approached the temple and claimed audience of
the queen. The strangers were brought in, and Æneas, in joyful
astonishment, recognized in them the comrades who he had thought were
lost. He longed to rush forward to greet them, but Venus’ spell was on
him still; and he stood invisible while the Trojans threw themselves on
the mercy of the queen and implored her help. She answered kindly, and
with modest dignity. Long ago she had heard and pitied the fate of Troy,
she said; and though she is bound to guard her infant state against
invasion, she has no quarrel with a peaceful folk, and least of all with
fugitives from Troy. She will, if they so desire, send them away in
safety, with provision from her ample store.
“_But should you wish to settle here with me,
This city I am building, it is yours.
Draw up your ships. Without distinction both
Trojan and Tyrian I alike will treat.
Oh, would that driven by the same South Wind,
Tour king Æneas self were here!_“[34]
Æneas could keep silence no longer. Breaking the spell of darkness that
was shrouding him, he gained the throne and stood before the astonished
queen.
“_I, whom thou seekest, here before thee stand—
Trojan Æneas._“[34]
It is a great moment, fraught with significance of which the two chief
actors seem to have a perception. To Dido, this handsome prince whose
fame has reached her, and whose melancholy history is so like her own,
seems to have flashed upon her as the fulfilment of her wish. And to
Æneas, who has just learned that she can be kind as well as brave, she
seems peerless among women. While from each to each is passed the silent
intuitive sense that here is a nature great and good. Æneas, touched by
her generosity to his comrades, tries to thank her. But he feels that
only the gods can reward her adequately.
“_If powers divine
There be, who look with reverence on the good,
If anywhere be justice, or a soul
Conscious of inward worth, oh, may the Gods
Confer on thee commensurate reward!...
So long as rivers to the ocean run,
So long as shadows hang on mountain sides,
Long as the firmament is gemmed with stars,
Thy name and fame and praise with me shall live,
Whatever lands may claim me._“[34]
In the warmth of his words there is a hint of coming passion; and
thinking of the tragic end, there is something ominous in them too.
Æneas will indeed remember Dido in far-off lands, but otherwise than he
imagines. And she, as she invites the Trojans to banquet in her palace
and hospitably begs them to make their home in Carthage, is serenely
unconscious of the pitiful entreaties that she will one day make to
Æneas.
The ships were laid up, and generous provision made for the weary
sailors, while their chief and his friends were feasted by the queen in
Oriental splendour and luxury. Rich gifts from Troy were presented to
Dido by Æneas, and received by her with great delight. There were the
jewels of Ilione, King Priam’s eldest daughter: the sceptre that she had
borne, her diadem of gold and gems, and the pearls that once hung about
her neck. They were scarcely of happy omen, one would think; but more
ill-fated still were the presents that Dido found most beautiful.
_A mantle stiff with figures, and with gold,
A veil, too, with a border wrought about
Of saffron-flowered acanthus, ornaments
Of Argive Helen._[34]
Yet no shadow from their history fell upon the queen. She was strangely
happy as she listened to her guest and caressed his beautiful little
son. She did not know that the mighty love-goddess was plotting against
her; and when the feast was over, she rose to pour a libation to the
gods with a prayer for peace and blessing.
“_Oh Jupiter! for thou, they say, art he
Who gives the laws that govern host and guest,
Grant that this day a day of joy may be
To us of Tyre, and these our guests from Troy,
A day to be remembered by our sons!
May Bacchus the Joy-Bringer be with us,
And Juno the Beneficent._“[34]
When the Fourth Book opens Æneas is still the honoured guest of the
queen, entertained by her at the banquet as each succeeding night falls,
and accompanying her during the day as she rides to inspect the progress
of her city. But Dido was no longer quite untroubled in her happiness.
She could not hide from herself her growing love for the Trojan hero;
and she was assailed by a sense of wrong to her dead husband.
At first she fought against her passion and called up every resource of
pride and modesty to hide it from the prince. But the emotion of a
richly dowered nature was not easily to be kept in check; and Dido had
not learned to dissemble. The inner conflict grew daily stronger,
absorbing every thought: on the one hand drawing her irresistibly toward
Æneas, and on the other claiming fidelity to the memory of Sichæus. At
last, craving relief and counsel, she confided in her sister Anna. But
Anna was no idealist, and her advice to Dido was the plainest
commonsense. Was she to waste all her life for the sake of faith to the
dead? It was certain that Sichæus himself would not desire it; and why
then should Dido renounce the joys of love and motherhood? Why pine
alone all her days, her country menaced on every side by wild African
tribes, because she had no warrior at her side to make them fear? So the
argument ran, turning adroitly from questions of sentiment to the call
of patriotism and ambition. Undoubtedly Dido was right in refusing
marriage with the barbarian chiefs who had asked for her hand; but she
must remember that she had thereby made enemies of them. Let her
consider the danger to her little state from these jealous kings; and on
the other hand let her think of the power and glory which Carthage might
win, if only it were allied to the race of Troy. Lastly, added the
astute pleader, with a word which she knew had power to move her sister,
for her part she believed that the coming of Æncas was ordained by
heaven, and by Juno herself, the great goddess of marriage.
No wonder that Dido’s resolution was weakened, when every instinct of
her being was thus championed, and the only opponent was an idea, an
abstraction, that even to herself began to look fantastic. Again she
begged her guest to remain in Carthage, and the memory of Sichæus began
rapidly to fade.
_Now Dido leads
Æneas round the ramparts, to him shows
The wealth of Sidon, all the town laid out,
Begins to speak, then stops, she knows not why._[34]
Then at night, when the guests are gone from the banquet: when—
_The wan moon pales her light, and waning stars
Persuade to sleep, she in her empty halls
Mourns all alone, and throws herself along
The couch where he had lain._[34]
Æneas himself was losing all thought of his mission in the society of
the lovely queen. Italy was forgotten in the peace and luxury of his
life; and he gave himself up to content, without one glance beyond the
present. He had toiled so long and hard; surely he might take his ease
for a while. Moreover, it would be mere churlishness to refuse Dido’s
gracious bounty; and he could not be so ungentle. So both the lovers
wrapped themselves in a golden dream, with reality shut far away.
_The unfinished flanking turrets cease to rise,
No more the young men exercise in arms,
Build harbours, or rear bastions for defence;
All work is at a standstill—giant walls
That frown defiance, cranes that climb the sky._[34]
All the happy toil of brain and muscle was suspended, and Carthage,
silent in the sun all day, gave itself up, like its queen, to idleness
and revelry. The weeks slipped quickly by, and one by one the restraints
which her clear spirit had imposed were loosened or forgotten. And then
the autumn came, and the fatal day of the hunt, when Dido gave herself
without reserve or shame to her lover.
_The nymphs
Along the mountain-tops were heard to wail.
That day bred death, disasters manifold;
For now she took no heed what men might say._[34]
She who had been so proud and chaste, whose wisdom and fidelity had been
the fame of all the countries round about, was now the prey of every
evil tongue. Rumour flew from city to city, soiling her fair name; and
soon it was known in all the jealous neighbouring lands that the queen
of Carthage had joined herself in unlawful union with Æneas, Prince of
Troy. The reputation that had been so painfully won was quickly lost;
and not one of her many qualities were remembered. The courage and quick
wit and resource, the generous hospitality, the impartial judgment, the
kindness and tender sympathy—were all forgotten.
Dido knew of the malignance and scorn that were smouldering about her;
but she was too honest to hide her sin, and secure in Æneas’ love, she
paid no heed. Together they recommenced the work which had lain idle so
long; and as winter came, the towers began to rise again.
But now the gods grew envious of the little barbarian state, and Jupiter
turned an angry glance upon Æneas. Was this the end for which he had
been saved from Troy—to make his home among a savage people, heedless of
the divine command? Has he so poor a soul that he is content to spend
his days in dalliance while the fair land of Italy cries out for a hand
to govern it? Let Mercury carry to the prince this warning from the
ruler of Olympus:
“_With what hopes lingers he
‘Mongst hostile races, heedless of the great
Ausonian line, and the Lavinian plains?
Let him put out to sea! My last word this._“[34]
The message fell upon Æneas with a shock of fear and remorse. His dream
was shattered: his sleeping conscience suddenly sprang to life, and in a
flash he saw the long months spent in Carthage as treachery to the gods,
to his countrymen, and to the son who was to inherit the great Roman
state. In a rush of penitence, his first thought was to flee instantly:
to leave at once and for ever the land that had seen his folly. But the
moment after he remembered Dido, and realized in horror all the
suffering that he would bring to her. He knew the intensity of her love;
and recalling all her kindness to him and his, he could not summon
courage to face her and tell her that he must go. Weakly he resolved to
prepare in secret for departure; and orders were sent down to the ships
to fit out with all speed. But the unworthy act was bound to bring
disaster. Word was soon brought to the queen that the Trojan fleet was
being furtively prepared for sea, and she leapt to the obvious
conclusion. Æneas intended to forsake her—and to go by stealth. All her
frank nature revolted at the deception. That he should wish to go at
all, lightly flinging away her love and honour, was a thing that her own
fidelity had never suspected; but to steal away thus was baseness that
drove her to fury. Her ungoverned Oriental rage was loosed upon him.
“_False as thou art, and didst thou hope, ay, hope
To keep thy infamous intent disguised,
And steal away in silence from my realm?_“[34]
[Illustration:
THE DEATH OF DIDO
_Gianbattista Tiepolo_
_By Permission of Ad Braun et Cie._
]
But the first gust of anger past, she dropped to a softer mood and
besought him by every tender plea that her tongue could frame, not to
leave her—by their great love: by her trust in him, and the pledge that
he had given her; by the constant service that she had paid him, and all
that she had forfeited for his sake.
“_Because of thee it is, the Libyan tribes,
And Nomad chieftains hate me; my own people
Are turned against me; all because of thee
My woman’s honour has been blotted out,
And former fair good name whereby alone
I held my head aloft. To whom dost thou
Abandon me, a woman marked for death?
My guest, my guest! Since only by that name
I am to know my husband!_“[34]
It would seem that her anguish must melt a heart of stone, but Æneas
remained apparently immovable. Before him still shone the vision of the
god, and in his ears Jove’s message rang insistently. Controlling every
tender impulse, he answered in words that were made harsh by restraint.
To Dido their coldness was as cruel as death and far more bitter. She
did not know the gentle Æneas in the grip of the force that was driving
him, transforming him into a monster of ingratitude.
“_This man thrown up a beggar on my shores,
I took him in, insanely gave him up
A portion of my realm, from very death
Redeemed his comrades, saved his scattered ships.
... Go! Make for Italy!
Chased by the winds, across the wild waves seek
These vaunted kingdoms! But in sooth I hope,
If the benignant Gods can aught avail,
Vengeance will strike thee midway on the rocks,
Calling and calling upon Dido’s name._“[34]