Aeolus' Storm

Dramatic Interp #1

Dramatic Interpretation:  The Storm of Aeolus

(adapted from Kline’s online translation)

Juno now offered these words to the wind-god, humbly:

‘Aeolus, since the Father of gods, and king of men,

gave you the power to quell, and raise, the waves with the winds,

there is a people I hate sailing the Tyrrhenian Sea,

bringing Troy’s conquered gods to Italy:

Add power to the winds, and sink their wrecked boats,

or drive them apart, and scatter their bodies over the sea.

I have fourteen Nymphs of outstanding beauty:

of whom I’ll name Deiopea, the loveliest in looks,

joined in eternal marriage, and yours for ever, so that,

for such service to me as yours, she’ll spend all her years

with you, and make you the father of lovely children.’

Aeolus replied: ‘Your task, O queen, is to decide

what you wish: my duty is to fulfil your orders.

You brought about all this kingdom of mine, the sceptre,

Jove’s favour, you gave me a seat at the feasts of the gods,

and you made me lord of the storms and the tempests.’

When he had spoken, he reversed his spear and struck

the hollow mountain on the side: and the winds, formed ranks,

rushed out by the door he’d made, and whirled across the earth.

They settle on the sea, East and West wind,

and the wind from Africa, together, thick with storms,

stir it all from its furthest deeps, and roll vast waves to shore:

there quickly follows a cry of men and a creaking of cables.

Suddenly clouds take sky and day away

from the Trojan’s eyes: dark night rests on the sea.

It thunders from the pole, and the aether flashes thick fire,

and all things threaten immediate death to men.

Instantly Aeneas groans, his limbs slack with cold:

stretching his two hands towards the heavens,

he cries out in this voice: ‘Oh, three, four times fortunate

were those who chanced to die in front of their father’s eyes

under Troy’s high walls! O Diomede, son of Tydeus

bravest of Greeks! Why could I not have fallen, at your hand,

in the fields of Ilium, and poured out my spirit,

where fierce Hector lies, beneath Achilles’s spear,

and mighty Sarpedon: where Simois rolls, and sweeps away

so many shields, helmets, brave bodies, of men, in its waves!’

With these words hurled out, a howling blast from the north

strikes square on the sail, and lifts the seas to heaven:

the oars break: then the prow swings round and offers

the beam to the waves: a steep mountain of water follows in a mass.

Some ships hang on the breaker’s crest: to others the yawning deep

shows land between the waves: the surge rages with sand.

The south wind catches three, and whirls them onto hidden rocks

(rocks the Italians call the Altars, in mid-ocean,

a vast reef on the surface of the sea) three the east wind drives

from the deep, to the shallows and quick-sands (a pitiful sight),

dashes them against the bottom, covers them with a gravel mound.

A huge wave, toppling, strikes one astern, in front of his very eyes,

one carrying faithful Orontes and the Lycians.

The steersman’s thrown out and hurled headlong, face down:

but the sea turns the ship three times, driving her round,

in place, and the swift vortex swallows her in the deep.

Swimmers appear here and there in the vast waste,

men’s weapons, planking, Trojan treasure in the waves.

Now the storm conquers Iloneus’s tough ship, now Achates,

now that in which Abas sailed, and old Aletes’s:

their timbers sprung in their sides, all the ships

let in the hostile tide, and split open at the seams.