ACT II. SCENE 1

Dido’s chamber. At the left, in front, is a shrine (1). An antique bust with an inscription above it, visible in the light from the glowing censer, indicates that it is sacred to Synchæus. Two broad steps raise it slightly from the level of the stage. On the same side in the middle a door (2), flanked by half columns. At the right, first wing, a door (3); half-way back on the same side (4), a curtained recess in which are hung Dido’s brilliant robes. In the center of the background (5), is a window overlooking the city and harbor, which show in the distance when the window is opened. It is reached by two steps covered with rugs, and the seats about the three sides of the recess are richly upholstered in green and gray.

Anna and Dido both wear simple white, while Barce, the aged nurse, is clad plainly in brown.

Barce lies asleep on a couch near the shrine, her face lighted by the glowing flame. Anna is asleep on a couch in the foreground.

Dido sits at the window in the moonlight, looking out into the night. She gets up and moves restlessly about the room. She kneels before the altar, replenishing the incense. She comes finally to her sister, and, wakening her, tells of her struggle against the new love.

_Dido_ (IV. 9-29):

O sister, what dread visions of the night invade My troubled soul! What of this stranger lodged within Our halls, how noble in his mien, how brave in heart, Of what puissant arms! From heav’n in truth his race Must be derived, for fear betokens low-born souls. Alas, how tempest-tossed of fate was he! How to The dregs the bitter cup of war’s reverses hath He drained! If in my soul the purpose were not fixed That not to any suitor would I yield myself In wedlock, since the time when he who won my love Was reft away, perchance I might have yielded now. For sister, I confess it, since my husband’s fate, Since that sad day when by his blood my father’s house Was sprinkled, this of all men has my feelings moved. Again I feel the force of passion’s sway. But no! May I be gulfed within earth’s yawning depths; may Jove Almighty hurl me with his thunders to the shades, The pallid shades of Erebus and night profound, Before, O constancy, I violate thy laws! He took my heart who first engaged my maiden love. Still may he keep his own, and in the silent tomb Preserve my love inviolate.—

_Anna_ (31-53):

O dearer to thy sister than the light of life, Wilt thou consume thy youth in loneliness and grief, And never know the sacred joys of motherhood, The sweets of love? And dost thou think, that in the tomb Thy husband’s sleeping spirit recks of this? Let be, That never yet have other suitors moved thy heart Which long has scorned the lords of Libya and of Tyre; Let prince Iarbas be rejected and the lords Of Africa’s heroic land: wilt still against A pleasing love contend? And hast considered then Whose are the powers upon the borders of thy realm? Here are Gætulia’s cities, matchless race in war; Here wild Numidians hedge thee round, and Ocean’s shoals; While yonder lies the sandy desert parched and wild, Where fierce Barcæans range. Why need I mention Tyre’s Dark-looming cloud of war, thy brother’s threats? For me, I think that through the favor of the gods and care Of Juno hath Æneas drifted to our shores. And to what glory shalt thou see thy city rise, What strong far-reaching sway upreared on such a tie! Assisted by the Trojan arms, our youthful state Up to the very pinnacle of fame shall soar. Then pray the favor of the gods, and give its due To sacred hospitality. Lo, to thy hand Is cause of dalliance, while still the blustering winds Of winter sweep the sea, Orion’s storms prevail, Their fleet is shattered, and the frowning heavens lower.

Dido, during this speech, has gone to her husband’s shrine. There is a mighty struggle in her soul between love and duty.

Barce, wakened from her sleep and seeing her mistress pale and anguish-stricken, throws herself before her. Dido finally yields and reaches her trembling hand to quench the censer. The old nurse clings to her in terrified appeal. Dido frees herself from her. She quenches the flame and draws the curtain before the shrine. Old Barce sits sobbing before the darkened altar.

Meanwhile the light has been changing into dawn and the sea and harbor begin to be visible through the open window. Dido crosses the chamber, and after a moment’s struggle draws back the curtains from before the recess where hang the brilliant garments laid aside during her widowhood. She takes down a purple mantle, and standing before a mirror, girds it about her with a golden girdle.

The sound of a trumpet and the shouts of the sailors are heard in the distance. Anna goes to the window, and seeing Æneas and his men below on the shore, draws Dido to the window. Dido gazes for a minute and then, filled with her new passion, goes forth with her sister to meet Æneas. Curtain.