Studies in the Poetry of Italy, I. Roman Part 14

Vergil follows common usage in telling his story in an order not chronological. The introduction reminds us that the struggle of the Trojan exiles is not confined to earth, but has its counterpart in heaven, where Juno cherishes many old grudges against the Trojans, while Venus champions them for the sake of her son aeneas. A recognition of this divine element is all essential to an understanding of the story, for it is through the agency of these rival G.o.ddesses that much of the action for better and for worse is wrought out.

The first view of our Trojan band shows them helpless in the grasp of a raging storm, wave-tossed and all but wrecked, they know not where.

Through the uproar of the elements we hear the despairing cry of stout-hearted aeneas himself:

O happy, thrice and yet again, Who died at Troy like valiant men, E'en in their parents' view!

O Diomed, first of Greeks in fray, Why pressed I not the plain that day, Yielding my life to you, Where, stretched beneath a Phrygian sky, Fierce Hector, tall Sarpedon lie: Where Simos tumbles 'neath his wave s.h.i.+elds, helms, and bodies of the brave?

Conington.

But even as he speaks, the mountain waves break and drive his frail s.h.i.+ps upon the quicksands near some wild and unknown sh.o.r.e.

In striking contrast to this wild scene is the calm haven to which a portion of the s.h.i.+pwrecked band is guided by the kindly divinities of the sea. The description of this spot, and the rest and refreshment of the weary toilers forms one of the most charming bits of realism in the poem.

After the necessary refreshment of food and sleep, aeneas, with his faithful Achates as sole companion, sets out at early dawn to explore this wild region upon the sh.o.r.es of which they have been cast. As they wander through a deep forest they meet Venus in the disguise of a huntress, and from her they inquire the name of this land.

aeneas now learns that he has been wrecked upon the coast of Africa, not far from the new city which Dido, a Tyrian princess, is building. He learns her tragic story: how her brother had killed her husband Sychaeus out of greed for gain, and how she had fled, in consequence, with a band of Tyrian followers. The G.o.ddess points out the way to this new city, bids them be of good cheer and follow it, and vanishes from their sight, revealing her true nature to her son as she departs.

They soon reach a height which overlooks the new city of Carthage, and find themselves before a temple of Juno, upon whose architrave are sculptured scenes from the Trojan War. It is early morning, and the city is all a-buzz with toil of its inhabitants who urge on the many busy works. aeneas, homesick for his lost city, and long baffled in his search for his own promised home, cries out in longing as he looks upon this scene:

Yea, all, like busy bees throughout the flowery mead, Are all astir with eager toil. O blessed toil!

O happy ye, whose walls already rise! But I,-- When shall I see my city and my city's walls?

Miller.[F]

[F] These quotations are made from Miller and Nelson's _Dido, an Epic Tragedy_, by permission of Silver, Burdett & Co.

Soon they discover the pictures on the architrave, and are much moved as well as comforted to know that here, so far from home, their heroic struggles are known and appreciated. And now the strains of music and the stir of an approaching throng is heard, and, themselves unseen, aeneas and Achates behold the beautiful and stately queen Dido entering the temple with her train of maidens and courtiers. The queen takes her seat and proceeds to hold an impromptu court, planning the work of the day, and a.s.signing tasks to her lieutenants.

Again the approach of a more noisy throng is heard, and into the stately temple breaks a group of desperate men whom aeneas at once recognizes to be a part of his own band who had been cast up upon another part of the sh.o.r.e. They are followed by a mob of jeering Carthaginians. Old Ilioneus, one of the Trojans, pleads their cause before the queen in a speech of mingled supplication and reproach, while at the same time he bewails the loss of his beloved prince aeneas.

The queen receives the wanderers with open-handed generosity, disclaims all intentional harshness, bids the Trojans freely share her city and her realm, and expresses the wish that their king himself, aeneas, were before her. These, we may be sure, were glad words to aeneas and his companions. They at once stand forth before the eyes of the astonished throng, joyfully greet their comrades, and aeneas salutes the queen with grateful and courtly speech:

Lo, him you ask for! I am he, aeneas, saved from Libya's sea.

O, only heart that deigns to mourn For Ilium's cruel care!

That bids e'en us, poor relics, torn From Danaan fury, all outworn By earth and ocean, all forlorn, Its home, it's city share!

We cannot thank you; no, nor they, Our brethren of the Dardan race, Who, driven from their ancestral place, Throughout the wide world stray.

May heaven, if virtue claim its thought, If justice yet avail for aught, Heaven, and the sense of conscious right, With worthier meed your acts requite!

What happy ages gave you birth?

What glorious sires begat such worth?

While rivers run into the deep, While shadows o'er the hillside sweep, While stars in heaven's fair pasture graze, Shall live your honor, name, and praise, Whate'er my destined home.

Conington.

The astonished Dido finds fitting words of welcome for her royal guest, again a.s.sures the Trojans that her city is their own, and proclaims a great feast on the ensuing night in honor of the distinguished strangers.

This feast is a scene of royal and barbaric splendor. The Tyrian lords and Trojan princes throng the banquet-hall with its rich tapestries and flas.h.i.+ng lights, vessels of ma.s.sive silver and of gold, while the bright-hued robes of Dido and her train add gladness and color to the scene. Amidst the feasting there was a song by an old minstrel, which he accompanied by the strains of his lyre. The song was upon the ever fascinating theme of natural phenomena, the powers of the air, the earth, the sea--all the dim mysteries of being. We are told that he sang about these things. Let us phrase them for his lyric measures.

Of the orb of the wandering moon I sing, As she wheels through the darkening skies; Where the storm-brooding band of the Hyades swing, And the circling Triones arise; Of the sun's struggling ball Which the shadows appall Till the menacing darkness flies;

Of the all-potent forces that dwell in the air, With its measureless reaches of blue; The soft, floating clouds of gossamer there, And the loud-wailing storm-rack too; Of the rain and the winds And the lightning that blinds When its swift-darting bolt flashes through;

Of the marvels deep hid in the bowels of earth, In the dark caves of Ocean confined, Where the rivers in snow-trickling rills have their birth, And the dense tangled mazes unwind; In the deep underland, In the dim wonderland, Where broods the vast cosmical mind.

Of the manifold wonders of life I sing, Its mysterious striving to scan, In the rippling wave, on the fluttering wing, In beast and all-dominant man.

'Tis the indwelling soul Of the G.o.d of the whole, Since the dawn of creation began.

Meanwhile the queen, deeply moved with pity first, and now with admiration for her heroic guest, hangs breathless on his words, asks eagerly of the famous war, and at last begs him to tell entire the story of that last sad night of Troy. We listen too while he, whose tears start as he speaks, relates that tragic story. He tells how, at the end of the long struggle, when both warring nations were well-nigh exhausted of their strength, the Greeks at last gained entrance to their Trojan city by the trick of the wooden horse. This huge image, found without their walls, filled all unknown to them with their bravest foes, they draw through their gates, and place upon their very citadel, amid dancing children and the joyous shouts of all the citizens; for they have been a.s.sured by the lying Sinon that the Greeks have gone home, and have left this horse as an offering to Minerva for their safe return.

In the deep night watches, when all are drowned in careless slumber and their festal draughts of wine, aeneas dreams that Hector stands before him, begrimed with gory dust and weeping bitterly.

"Ah! fly, G.o.ddess-born!" cries he, "and escape from these flames--the walls are in the enemy's hands--Troy is tumbling from its summit--the claims of country and king are satisfied--if Pergamus could be defended by force of hand, it would have been defended by mine, in my day. Your country's wors.h.i.+p and her G.o.ds are what she intrusts to you now--take them to share your destiny--seek for them a mighty city, which you shall one day build when you have wandered the ocean over."

Conington.

As aeneas springs up from his couch, warned by this vision, his ears are greeted by the confused sound of distant clamor, hoa.r.s.e cries, and the accustomed noise of battle. The sky is red with flames. Rus.h.i.+ng out, he finds that the Greek forces from wooden horse and fleet have filled the city, while the Trojans, taken unawares, are making brave but desultory resistance. Collecting a band of men, he makes stubborn stand again and again; but at last overpowered, his men flee in scattered twos and threes.

aeneas finds himself near Priam's palace. This is beset by swarms of Greeks, who scale the walls and batter at the doors, while desperate defenders on the roof hurl down whatever comes to hand. aeneas gains the roof by a private way, and looking down upon the inner court, he is witness to the darkest tragedy of that night. Old Priam, with Hecuba his wife and helpless daughters, sits cowering upon the steps of the central shrine. A mighty crash and outcry from within tell that the Greeks have gained an entrance at the door. Now out into the peristyle, along the beautiful colonnades of the s.p.a.cious court, comes Priam's youthful son Polites, hard-pressed by the spear of Pyrrhus, leader of the Greeks. In breathless fascination they watch the race for life until the boy falls slain just at his parent's feet. The aged king, roused by this outrage, stands forth; clad in his time-worn armor, and weak and trembling with age, he chides the Greek:

"Aye," cries he, "for a crime, for an outrage like this, may the G.o.ds, if there is any sense of right in heaven to take cognizance of such deeds, give you the full thanks you merit, and pay you your due reward; you, who have made me look with my own eyes on my son's death, and stained a father's presence with the sight of blood. But he whom your lying tongue calls your sire, Achilles, dealt not thus with Priam his foe--he had a cheek that could crimson at a suppliant's rights, a suppliant's honor. Hector's lifeless body he gave back to the tomb, and sent me home to my realms in peace." So said the poor old man, and hurled at him a dart unwarlike, unwounding, which the ringing bra.s.s at once shook off, and left hanging helplessly from the end of the s.h.i.+eld's boss. Pyrrhus retorts: "You shall take your complaint, then, and carry your news to my father, Pelides. Tell him about my shocking deeds, about his degenerate Neoptolemus, and do not forget. Now die." With these words he dragged him to the very altar, palsied and sliding in a pool of his son's blood, wreathed his left hand in his hair, and with his right flashed forth and sheathed in his side the sword to the hilt. Such was the end of Priam's fortunes, such the fatal lot that fell upon him, with Troy blazing and Pergamus in ruins before his eyes--upon him, once the haughty ruler of those many nations and kingdoms, the sovereign lord of Asia! There he lies on the sh.o.r.e, a gigantic trunk, a head severed from the shoulders, a body without a name.

Conington.

The tide of carnage sucks out of the palace and ebbs away. As aeneas descends from the palace roof, he sees Helen skulking in a neighboring shrine. His heart is hot at sight of her who has been the firebrand of the war, and he resolves to kill her. But Venus flashes before his vision and warns him to hasten to the defense of his own home would he not see his own father lying even as Priam. Conscience-smitten, he hurries thither, divinely s.h.i.+elded from fire and sword. His plan is fixed to take his household and seek a place of safety without the city.

The unexpected resistance of his aged father, who is resolved not to survive his beloved Troy, is at last overcome; and soon, with his sire upon his shoulders, his little son held by the hand, and his household following, aeneas steals out the city gate on the side toward Mount Ida, and makes his way to a preconcerted place of meeting. Here, to his consternation, he discovers that his wife Creusa is missing, and wildly rushes back to the city in search of her. Regardless of danger to himself, he is calling her name loudly through the desolate streets when her shade appears to him and says:

"Whence this strange pleasure in indulging frantic grief, my darling husband? It is not without heaven's will that these things are happening. That you should carry your Creusa with you on your journey is forbidden by fate, forbidden by the mighty ruler of heaven above. You have long years of exile, a vast expanse of ocean to traverse--and then you will arrive at the land of Hesperia, where Tiber, Lydia's river, rolls his gentle volumes through rich and cultured plains. There you have a smiling future, a kingdom and a royal bride waiting your coming. Dry your tears for Creusa, your heart's choice though she be. I am not to see the face of Myrmidons or Dolopes in their haughty homes, or to enter the service of some Grecian matron--I, a Dardan princess, daughter by marriage of Venus the immortal. No, I am kept in this country by heaven's mighty mother. And now farewell, and continue to love your son and mine." Thus having spoken, spite of my tears, spite of the thousand things I longed to say, she left me and vanished into unsubstantial air. Thrice, as I stood, I essayed to fling my arms round her neck--thrice the phantom escaped the hands that caught at it in vain--impalpable as the wind, fleeting as the wings of sleep.

So pa.s.sed my night, and such was my return to my comrades. Arrived there, I find with wonder their band swelled by a vast mult.i.tude of new companions, matrons and warriors both, an army mustered for exile, a crowd of the wretched. From every side they were met, prepared in heart as in fortune to follow me over the sea to any land where I might take them to settle. And now the morning star was rising over Ida's loftiest ridge with the day in its train--Danaan sentinels were blocking up the entry of the gates, and no hope of succor appeared. I retired at last, took up my father, and made for the mountains.

Conington.

Thus simply ends the thrilling story of the Trojan War, told by one who was himself an active partic.i.p.ant in those mighty deeds. It pa.s.ses from turbulent action to pathetic rest like the tired sobbing of a child which has cried itself to sleep.

The banquet-hall of Dido has remained throughout this recital in breathless silence, and now a long sigh of relief from the strained tension of pa.s.sionate sympathy breathes along the couches.

After an impressive pause, during which no word is spoken, aeneas resumes his story and tells of the seven years of wandering over the sea in search of the land that fate has promised him. With his little fleet of vessels, built at the foot of Ida, he touches first at a point in Thrace, intending to found a city there; but he is warned away by a horrible portent. He touches next at Delos, and implores the sacred oracle for a word of guidance to his destined home. To this prayer the oracle makes answer by a voice wafted from the inner shrine, while the whole place rocks and trembles:

Sons of Darda.n.u.s, strong to endure, the land which first gave you birth from your ancestral tree, the same land shall welcome you back, restored to its fruitful bosom; seek for your old mother till you find her. There it is that the house of aeneas shall set up a throne over all nations, they, and their children's children, and those that shall yet come after.

Conington.

So it is "Ho, for the mother-land!" But where is that? Whence sprang the Trojans? Here old Anchises, father of aeneas, rich in the lore of old tradition, says:

Listen, lords of Troy, and learn where your hopes are. Crete lies in the midst of the deep, the island of mighty Jove. There is Mount Ida, and there the cradle of our race. It has a hundred peopled cities, a realm of richest plenty. Thence it was that our first father, Teucer, if I rightly recall what I have heard, came in the beginning to the Rhoetean coast, and fixed on the site of empire. Ilion and the towers of Pergamus had not yet been reared; the people dwelt low in the valley. Hence came our mighty mother, the dweller on Mount Cybele, and the symbols of the Corybants, and the forest of Ida: hence the inviolate mystery of her wors.h.i.+p, and the lions harnessed to the car of their queen. Come, then, and let us follow where the ordinance of heaven points the way; let us propitiate the winds, and make for the realm of Gnossus--the voyage is no long one--let but Jupiter go with us, and the third day will land our fleet on the Cretan sh.o.r.e.

Conington.

They quickly reach the Cretan sh.o.r.e, joyfully lay out their new city, and begin again the sweet, simple life in home and field which had been theirs before Paris brought the curse on Troy. But alas for their bright hopes! A blighting pestilence falls on man and beast, on tree and shrub; the very ground is accursed. It is the harsh warning of fate that they must not settle here. But where? To aeneas, as he tosses in sleepless anxiety through the night, there appear in the white moonlight the images of his country's G.o.ds, who give him the needed counsel: