#7 Aeneas in the Underworld

Episode #7:  Aeneas in the Underworld – Charon & Dido

Vergil Aeneid Book 6 (lines 295-476)

[summarized in ‘Search for a Homeland’ pp. 61-64]

There is a dark road that leads to the waters

of Tartarean Acheron. Here thick with mud a whirlpool seethes

in the vast depths, and spews all its sands into the river Cocytus.

A grim ferryman watches over the rivers and streams,

Charon, dreadful in his squalor, with a mass of unkempt

white hair straggling from his chin: flames glow in his eyes,

a dirty garment hangs, knotted from his shoulders.

He poles the boat and controls the sails himself,

and ferries the dead in his dark ship,

old now, but a god’s old age is fresh and green.

Here all the ghostly souls stream, hurrying to the shores,

women and men, the lifeless bodies of noble heroes,

boys and unmarried girls, sons laid on the pyre

in front of their father’s eyes: as many as the leaves that fall

in the woods at the first frost of autumn, as many as the birds

that flock to land from ocean deeps, when the cold of the year

drives them abroad and dispatches them to sunnier countries.

They stood there, pleading to be first to make the crossing,

stretching out their hands in longing for the far shore.

But the dismal boatman accepts now these, now those,

but driving others away, keeps them far from the sand.

Now when the boatman Charon saw them from the Stygian wave

walking through the silent wood, and directing their footsteps

towards its bank, he attacked them verbally, first, and unprompted,

rebuking them: ‘Whoever you are, who come armed to my river,

tell me, from over there, why you’re here, and halt your steps.

This is a place of shadows, of Sleep and drowsy Night:

I’m not allowed to carry living bodies in the Stygian boat.

Truly it was no pleasure for me to take Hercules on his journey

over the lake, nor Theseus and Pirithous, though they may

have been children of gods, unrivalled in strength.

The first came for Cerberus the watchdog of Tartarus,

and dragged him away quivering from under the king’s throne:

the others were after snatching our Queen Proserpina from her bedroom.’

To this the Sibyl – the priestess of Apollo and guide of Aeneas - briefly answered:

‘There’s no such trickery here (don’t be disturbed),

our weapons offer no affront: your huge guard-dog

can terrify the bloodless shades with his eternal howling:

chaste Proserpina can stay in Pluto’s gloomy bedroom.

Aeneas the Trojan, renowned in piety and warfare,

goes down to the deepest shadows of the Underworld, to his father.

If the idea of such affection does not move you, still you

must recognize this golden bough.’ (She showed the branch, hidden

in her robes.) Then the anger in his swollen breast subsided.

No more was said. Marveling at the revered offering,

at the golden twigs, seen again after so long, he turned the stern

of the dark boat towards them and neared the bank.

Then he turned off the other souls who sat on the long benches,

cleared the gangways: and received mighty Aeneas

on board. The small ship groaned with the weight

and let in quantities of marsh-water through the chinks.

At last, the river crossed, Charon landed the Sibyl and the Trojan hero

safe on the unstable mud, among the blue-grey sedge.

Huge Cerberus sets these regions echoing with his triple-throated

howling, crouching monstrously in a cave opposite.

Seeing the snakes rearing round his neck, the prophetess

threw him some sleep-inducing food of honey and drugged wheat.

Opening his three throats, in rabid hunger, he seized

what she threw and, flexing his massive spine, sank to earth

spreading his giant bulk over the whole cave-floor.

With the guard unconscious Aeneas went to the entrance,

and quickly escaped from the bank of the river of no return.

Immediately a loud crying of voices was heard, the spirits

of weeping infants, whom a dark day stole at the first

threshold of this sweet life, those chosen to be torn

from the breast, and drowned in bitter death.

Nearby are those condemned to die on false charges.

Yet their place is not ordained without the allotted jury:

Minos, the judge, decides their fate: he convenes the voiceless court,

and hears their lives and sins. Then the next place

is held by those gloomy spirits who, innocent of crime,

died by their own hand, and, hating the light, threw away

their lives. How willingly now they’d endure

poverty and harsh suffering, in the air above!

Divine Law prevents it, and the sad marsh and its hateful

waters binds them, and nine-fold Styx confines them.

Not far from there, the Fields of Mourning are revealed,

spread out on all sides: so they name them.

There, those whom harsh love devours with cruel pining

are concealed in secret walkways, encircled by a myrtle grove:

even in death their troubles do not leave them.

Among them Dido of Carthage wandered, in the great wood,

her wound still fresh. As soon as the Trojan hero stood near her

and knew her, shadowy among the shadows, like a man who sees,

or thinks he sees, the new moon rising through a cloud, as its month

begins, he wept tears and spoke to her with tender affection:

‘Dido, unhappy spirit, was the news, that came to me

of your death, true then, taking your life with a blade?

Alas, was I the cause of your dying? I swear by the stars,

by the gods above, by whatever truth may be in the depths

of the earth, I left your shores unwillingly, my queen.

I was commanded by gods, who drove me by their decrees,

that now force me to go among the shades, through places

thorny with neglect, and deepest night: nor did I think

my leaving there would ever bring such grief to you.

Halt your footsteps and do not take yourself from my sight.

What do you flee? This is the last speech with you that fate allows.’

With such words Aeneas would have calmed

her fiery spirit and wild looks, and provoked her tears.

She turned away, her eyes fixed on the ground,

no more altered in expression by the speech he had begun

than if hard flint stood there, or a cliff of Parian marble.

At the last she tore herself away, and, hostile to him,

fled to the shadowy grove where Sychaeus, her husband

in former times, responded to her suffering, and gave her

love for love. Aeneas, no less shaken by the injustice of fate,

followed her, far off, with his tears, and pitied her as she went.