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Anna to Dido

Dana Oliveri

I cast these words down to you, unhappy sister, from the world you fled. What were your feelings, Dido, then,[1] when with your love Aeneas’ sword you abandoned Carthage?

Yourself disappointed, you disappointed all.[2] Sister, in your raving haste did you consider your citizens? On one side glad Pygmalion batters our walls. On the other Gaetulian Iarbas fights the Numidians, who also jostle with the Syrtis. You protected me from our evil brother and resisted our neighbors. Now Carthage turns to me but I do not know my duty. What a city and what a kingdom[3] you built and then abandoned. Fear reigns in your streets as your people, with whom you left Phoenicia, wait to learn who will rule Carthage in your absence. O, that the walls would crash and that Africa would reclaim this town before I must meet the unjust king who will conquer and ascend your throne!

You were always able, sister. You discovered the truth of the Phoenician scandal and, escaping Pygmalion, led treasure-laden ships to Africa. Think of the land you enclosed in the hide of one bull and the kingdom you built! No woman has accomplished as much as you, Dido, yet one man crushed you. What happened to your wits; why did the Trojan soldier so easily capture you? How could you forget your citizens? How could you forget your sister?

Did you think of Anna, stranded on these African shores? For I do not have my own home, Dido; I have followed you all my days, from Phoenicia to this Libyan city, and, had you called me, I would have accompanied you to Hades. Why did you not ask me to accompany you; why did you leave me? Though I urged you to take your second, I myself have had no husband. I have had no love, no life, sister; I lost my youth. I have never known sweet children.[4] My love was Dido, who acted like compelled Aeneas. Ever faithful, I too was abandoned.

My loyalty earned me few confidences. Unaware, I orchestrated your departure. I built your ship at your request, sister, although you disguised your intentions. You did not tell me that you wanted to leave me, drearily lonely, in your city. At your command I raised a pyre and I laid out the Trojan’s weapons. By your maid you had me bathe with river water, bring the cattle, and appoint all for atonement.[5] Could you not have asked me yourself, Dido? Why did you have oblique fraud delivered to me? Why did you not say goodbye to your sister? Could you have loved me much when you could so cruelly depart from me? A cruel departure, which you had me meticulously arrange. How passionate were you when you could intentionally deceive me? Though frenzied by the loss of your pious lover, you devised a plan to leave me.

Abandoned Dido, how could you leave me?

O Dido, forgive me! I know Aeneas drove you mad. It is my anguish that causes my fury. I forget that madness has its own methods. Though you rationally orchestrated your funeral, it was an unnatural mind that devised the plan. If only I could have soothed your brow! If only I could have calmed your rabid thoughts!

I am abandoned, but I still hold my duty. Sister, I could not see your desperation, though it was apparent in your pale quivering cheeks and your eyes, bloodshot and rolling.[6] Why did I not fear when you resorted to magic arts? O, to have known the intended sacrifice of your pyre, so that I could have offered some prevention. Too late I see you tortured, too late I see where your love led you. Had I known I could have saved Belus’ other daughter.

Why did you not tell me of your burning? When did your desperation reach a pitch too high for me to hear? Dido, you confided all else to me. What caused you to hold back your frenzied and consuming sorrow? Perhaps there was nothing I could do to alleviate your torment, but if only you had told me. As your loyal sister, was it not my right to know your heart?

If I could again plead with Aeneas, I would persuade him never to leave Libya. I could not conceive the disaster that would befall Carthage after his departure. You bade me to deliver your message, but I gave it to an unwilling heart. How did I fail to keep him here, when it was to me that he confided his secret feelings? It was I who knew best how to approach him.[7] Though it was unwilled by the gods, I would have tangled with fate to give your love to you. Then I too might have kept my love. If I could have persuaded him only to give you the empty time you sought, then I also would have had a few empty hours.

Empty hours, sister, are all I ask: time that does not shake like the walls of Carthage, time that does not scream like the echoes of women in houses, time that does not fly like the rumors in this city.[8] Peace fled this kingdom when Iris cut your hair. Not only your death, but also Carthage’s turmoil, rest on my shoulders.

They were my words that fed your burning fire, relieved your doubt and destroyed your shame.[9] Dido, my sister, my sister Dido, I was the wretched sharer in the knowledge of your fault;[10] I pushed you down unchaste paths. Fair wife of Sychaeus, I misled you. I am afraid to meet your husband, for I bear the guilt of your betrayal. I hope that he will love you again, regardless of your wound. Were it in my power, I would annul your certain marriage to Aeneas.

Had I known the fate that awaited you, I would have urged you to send Aeneas from our shore. Instead I bid you to hold him here. I thought the gods had arranged for your marriage to the Dardan soldier. Always unhappy sister, I believed Aeneas to be the perfect suitor to persuade your heart and protect your kingdom. My misjudgment proved the undoing of both.

Dido, your death was both untimely and un-fated, and it was I who pushed you towards it. Without my reckless advice, noble sister, you would have restrained yourself. I have clasped your body and washed your wounds; your own black blood stains my dress. Yet there are no amends I can make. I cannot bring you back from unordered death. My guilt burns within me, like torches of wax tipped with sulfur.[11]

I pace the halls of your castle, feet bare, my girdle unfastened. I cannot keep myself from the inner courtyard. I understand that which burned within you. I am alone, abandoned. Why did you ascend your pyre without my help? Why did you not invite me with you? No longer do Aeneas’ arms lie atop it; no longer does any Carthaginian grieve for the Trojan soldier. The pyre holds your Sidonian robes with their embroidered borders, your purple cloak. Your wedding gown, dear sister.

Sister, you dearer to me than light itself,[12] I am hoping too late to ease your suffering. I too am unable, unable to relieve Dido, unable to relieve Anna.

Eros and Psyche. (Antonio Canova)

Photograph by Susanna Ciotti. Used by permission.