Dido

(This is a work of fiction. There are many things I want to express, but only one at its center: the fate of women. I chose two dramatic figures—Queen Dido from the Aeneid and Clarissa Dalloway from Mrs. Dalloway—and dramatized each of them again. For Dido, I retained the history of the original but moved the point of view entirely to her. For Mrs. Dalloway, I created a new story. I ask readers to forgive its flaws.)

I

You see her again in the café that afternoon.

She sits before you on the other side of a table covered in checked cloth. Long black hair, eye sockets curved like crescent moons, long lashes, no lipstick. Today, she wears a white dress. Just before you sat down, she put aside a latte.

She is reading Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.

You remember the first time you spoke with her. It was here too. You sat down across from her and said:

"I think I've seen you many times, but I've never known your name."

"Dido."

"There is a queen called Dido in Virgil's Aeneid. She was beautiful, but everyone forgot her. You remind me of her. Before, I had no image in my mind. Now I finally do."

She smiled.

She was no queen, she said, and did not want to live inside other people's restraints. But she was glad you remembered what everyone else had forgotten.

From the first time you saw her, you knew she was the woman you wanted to become.

Not only because of her mature, graceful body, or the quiet elegance with which she set down a coffee cup. It was the freedom behind her composed face.

Wealth did not burden her. She cared little for the future. You knew she was unmarried and naturally had no children, yet she handled everything with ease, as though every matter had long been arranged and nothing required haste.

How was that possible?

Yet you could not deny it. She was the woman you had dreamed of becoming since childhood.

Now you were married. You had a child. You bought groceries, cooked, embraced your husband. Everything had to follow its proper rule.

You were jealous. Jealous enough to die.

You hoped that one day Dido would turn to you in a frenzy and say:

"I missed everything. I have no man, no home. I regret it."

The thought made you want to laugh.

You remembered Richard. Yes. He was a reliable husband. He worked and supported the family. He had little sense of humor, but that did not matter.

The decision you made at twenty-two was right, you thought. A little rushed, perhaps, but the facts would prove you right.

One day, you would love him.

Now you sat before Dido, and she appeared not to notice. She continued reading.

Her calm made you feel that the scene of her breaking down would never happen. She had not even noticed you: a pitiable young wife, a foolish girl who had recklessly married herself away.

Did she look down on the hands that had bought vegetables and washed dishes that morning? Did she secretly pity your joyless life, empty of art?

Countless times, you wanted to tell her:

When I was young—a few years ago—everyone said I was beautiful and talented, a rare kind of woman. I had more roses than I could hold and love letters with sentences so long they caught in the mouth. I read too. I wrote, especially fiction.

You never began. Once spoken, you felt, the words would only make you smaller.

At last, she lifted her head.

She saw you and smiled.

There was no malice or affectation in the smile, yet it made you awkward. You remembered the love letters long since lost, the words your hand could no longer write.

The roses had withered. Every petal had fallen.

Youth had been gone a long time.

Smiling, she asked:

"How have you been, Mrs. Dalloway?"

II

The first time Dido saw Aeneas, she knew there would be no escape.

She knew he was a Trojan hero. Yet it was not simple heroism that fascinated her. It was his extraordinary sorrow and endurance.

Do not lose yourself in this man, she told herself.

She was the first queen of Carthage. The city's flourishing had only begun. She was hope itself, the trust of the Phoenicians.

Composing herself, she addressed the Trojan exiles:

"Who has not heard of Trojan courage and the flames that rose over Troy? Whether you choose the broad lands of the west or the fields of Latium, I will protect you on your journey. Or would you settle here? This is my city, and it is yours."

That night, Dido held a great feast in the palace.

She sat at the center with a cup raised and watched Aeneas approach one step at a time. His young son Ascanius walked beside him, small but every bit as commanding as his father.

Dido felt happiness beyond measure.

Enough happiness to make her afraid.

She had endured so much, and now love would destroy her.

When Dido rose, the entire palace fell silent. Holding a cup covered in jewels, she prayed:

"Jupiter, I ask you: let this be a happy day for the unfortunate Phoenicians and the wandering Trojans."

Then she poured the wine onto the table.

At once, the hall rejoiced again. A blond boy played the lyre. Girls in white sang of heaven and earth. Trojans and Phoenicians exchanged cup after cup.

Dido too surrendered to happiness. As though drunk, she drew Aeneas beside her.

She asked how Hector had fought with courage and died beneath Achilles's spear. She asked what weapons Memnon, son of Dawn, had carried.

At last, she said:

"Come, my guest. Begin at the beginning. Tell us of your misfortunes and your wandering."

III

Only a few years, you think.

You remember those years ago, when you liked dresses in every color and people always said your hair smelled sweet.

They said boys hid in corners for a glimpse of you.

You remember the diary you kept. You were always thinking of freedom, love, and beauty.

You wrote that ten years later you would go into the African jungle and paint in oils: enormous green leaves and cheetahs running at speed. You would see the long necks of giraffes and watch elephants draw up water.

Then you wrote that these were merely a stupid girl's fantasies, hardly worth mentioning.

Your friends called you sensitive. You cried for no reason.

You remember the dead squirrel. You cried for it.

That day, you opened the window and found it lying on the sill. Quietly lying there. Wind passed over it, but it was so still that nothing seemed to have happened.

You were afraid.

You crouched beneath the window and covered your ears. Life was fragile, you thought. Everything passed in an instant. One day, perhaps, the wind would lift you too. You would know nothing. The soul would already have no branch to hold.

At the thought, tears ran down your face.

You were always crying.

Of course, you cried for him too. How could you forget?

You remember his appearance: tall and thin, slightly stooped, always walking with care.

Whenever you strolled through the garden with friends, you found him sitting beneath the fountain, leafing through Wordsworth or George Gordon Byron.

You knew he secretly watched you. But whenever you turned, he never dared meet your eyes.

At night, when you opened the window, you saw him wandering below, opening and closing the book in his hands. The moment he noticed the window, he hurried away.

Later, he wrote.

At night, when you opened your window, he left a white envelope in the flowerbed. By the time you ran downstairs, he had vanished.

He wrote that he often saw you crying, that your purity fascinated him. But he could not bear your sorrow. He would take you to the mountaintop, let moonlight dry your tears, and let flowers in the night give you light.

You answered every letter.

You hid the envelope in the flowerbed, watched from behind the door as he searched with solemn care, then hurried away.

You wrote that you too wanted to go to the summit. Best if there were one small clearing and forest everywhere else. You wanted to cross mountains and rivers to reach it, leaving no road back.

You wanted more than moonlight. You wanted sunrise.

Later, he stopped running away after leaving the envelope. When you opened your window at midnight, you went downstairs.

Together, you walked in the garden and talked of Goethe and Hugo.

You told him you did not cry by choice. Tears came without permission.

You put a hand into the fountain. He put in his, then held yours.

Later still, the moment you met at night, you could not wait to embrace and kiss.

Looking up, you asked:

"Will you marry me?"

He stammered.

"I don't know what you truly want."

"Love. Happiness."

"I can give you all of that."

He was always part of the future you imagined.

Yet fear grew. What could a boy who did nothing but recite poetry truly give you?

You feared days of desperate poverty, when you could not afford one rose. You feared having no house, no bed, sleeping on that little clearing at the summit with moonlight for a blanket and petals for pillows.

You shuddered.

You were afraid. Afraid.

You cried for him more times than you could count.

But that night, not one tear fell.

"You can give me nothing. Not love. Not happiness."

He cried. He said he could, he was certain.

You pushed him away.

"You're a poet. I'm not. I don't want this life. You were wrong from the beginning."

You had never lacked suitors.

Richard appeared several months later. You were twenty-two. He was ten years older.

You heard that Richard was kind and treated people well. His parents had money. His career was already advancing steadily.

On your first date, Richard took you to his new house.

"Imagine how happy it will be. From now on, you and I and my child, quietly spending every day here."

He drew you against his shoulder.

"You would be happy too, wouldn't you?"

Three months later, you married.

At the wedding, you smiled at each other and vowed never to part. But your mind held not Richard but you and the poet embracing and kissing beside the fountain.

Still smiling, you tried to level every memory to the ground.

Richard said loudly:

"I will make her happy!"

You wept.

Later, you heard the poet spent entire nights in taverns and drank himself insensible. You heard he staggered along roads and fell asleep against walls in broad daylight.

Marrying Richard had been the right decision after all.

It was not money or wealth you wanted, you thought. Only a little security.

Only security.

Again, you cried, without knowing for whom.

IV

Aeneas told them of the enormous wooden horse that carried a curse.

That night, the whole city of Troy became a sea of fire. The Greeks were demons who would not spare even one child.

Desperate Trojans climbed to the roofs and hurled stones. Furious and powerless, they knew they would die.

Aeneas had resolved to perish with the Greeks. His shield was strapped on, his sword sheathed. Then the gods appeared and ordered him to lead the Trojan survivors toward life, to the distant west, where they would create a new kingdom.

When he looked back, Troy was a great tree beneath farmers' axes. Blow by blow, at last it crashed to earth.

From then on, they drifted over the sea without a home, not knowing what lay in the distance.

The hall was silent while Aeneas spoke.

The Trojans, joyful moments before, now wept. Again, they saw children and old people screaming in the flames. The grief of a home lost remained beyond measure.

Dido was entranced.

She remembered her own past. Long ago, her brother murdered her husband and seized everything she had. She too was forced to lead her people wandering over the sea. Was there one part of Aeneas's pain she had not tasted?

She often thought: I am only a woman. Why must I carry these heavy missions?

But she led a people. Choice had vanished long ago.

For this, she loved Aeneas more.

They bore a similar grief. His resolve, courage, and depth made love impossible to stop.

She could not sleep. She could not hear anyone else. Only his voice entered her ears; only his form lived in her heart.

He reminded her of love long withered inside. After a long silence, youth bloomed again.

Yet she thought: I am a married woman. My husband has been dead for years, but how can I take another man?

And she led a people. If the citizens of Carthage learned, what disgrace would follow?

But did she have no right to happiness?

Was she alive only for a mission?

She had never wanted to be a hero. She wanted a home. She wanted love.

Fate had pushed her to the cliff. Why could she not enjoy the joy of leaping?

She knew Aeneas loved her too.

He lingered in her enormous bedchamber. He kissed and caressed her and gave her every sweet phrase.

Dido held him and asked with perfect seriousness:

"Can you stay? We can build the new Carthage together. Trojans and Phoenicians. You and me."

Aeneas was silent. He could not say it.

Later, he offered ambiguous reassurances and coaxed her to sleep. He lay awake with his eyes open. Dido watched beside him.

Why would this son of a goddess lower himself to spend his life with her?

But he loves me, she thought.

Everything would be all right.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Aeneas turned and saw Mercury, the god in mortal form.

He was wearing the cloak Dido had given him and helping the Carthaginians build new houses.

"Why are you laying the foundations of proud Carthage? Have you entirely forgotten your kingdom and your fate? Do the glorious works ahead no longer stir you?"

When Dido saw Aeneas again, he was preparing to leave. The Trojan fleet stood ready.

"So you're going?" she said. "Ungrateful.

"The vows and tears mean nothing? Will you wait for me to die in misery because of you? Can you be so cruel? The happiness, the future we designed together—is all of it nothing to you?"

Dido bit her lip.

"My people hate me now. Can you not see how much I did for you? For you, I destroyed the name and place that should have been mine. Do you still expect more?

"No. Don't go. If even our brief happiness can stir one ripple inside you, I beg you to stay..."

For his Trojans, for the future city of Rome, Aeneas had to go.

"Then go!"

Dido rose and turned her back.

"Go! As far as you can! Even if I become a ghost, I will hear you call my name again and again. I will see your regret and pain with my own eyes.

"I hate you. I want to see you cursed. Even in hell, I will curse you.

"Go! Go!"

When Dido woke again, the Trojan ships had sailed. Her sister told her she had fainted.

Dido said nothing.

Later, she sent everyone away. At night, she sat alone on the bed.

Nothing in life held her. She did not fear death.

Outside, flourishing Carthage still blazed with the lights of ten thousand homes. She was in a bottomless abyss.

She felt herself falling, faster and faster. No sound, no light. All creation silent.

Then she saw a candle burning at the bottom, its weak flame trembling.

She knew her final mission was to blow it out herself.

V

"Youth passed so long ago. I no longer know what I want," you say.

But when you were young, did you know?

You said you wanted love and happiness. You wanted freedom and beauty. How could you forget?

Did you ask too much?

And simply because you were a woman, were you forbidden to ask for much?

You watch children playing outside the window. They crouch on the ground, laughing in little groups. A girl in a red dress plucks a flower and buries it in the soil.

You remember crying for the dead squirrel. You remember the time before, pure and spotless.

It was long ago.

You feel the children bury you in the earth. Then they all run away, leaving darkness around you.

Quietly, you wither.

"Because we are women." Dido leans forward and holds your hand. "We live for other people."

Do we truly live for others?

Was this the ending appointed to you, or the one you chose with your own hands?

You refused to live in the little clearing on the mountain. You refused the illusion of poetry. You rejected beauty.

You chose all of it yourself.

But did you have room to choose?

Either marry early or find respectable work at once. Enough of this poetry and romance.

That was what they told you.

Stop behaving like something other than a woman.

"What about men?" you ask. "Can men live for themselves?"

Dido smiles.

"Everyone lives in chains. Women more than most."

"And you?" You sneer at her. "Don't you live your own life? Aren't you happy and free? What right do you have to judge ours?"

Dido continues smiling. Her composure and transcendence make you jealous, furious.

"You don't know my past or my pain, Mrs. Dalloway."

"My name is Clarissa!" you shout.

You gather your bag and slam the door behind you.

VI

Perhaps this is the fate of women, Dido thought.

She sat at the head of the bed and watched the Trojan fleet recede. No desire remained.

Did I ask for so much? I wanted only love. Did he want none at all?

Her gaze grew weak.

Could she still beg him to turn back before the cliff?

Men probably wanted only the heroic dream inside their minds.

She remembered her husband, dead for years. Before Aeneas, she too had loved him to madness.

Love is absurd, she thought.

But so are human beings.

Perhaps she had asked too much. Love and happiness were things that vanished in an instant.

To live in the world was to suffer. These drifting fragrances were merely rewards along a difficult road.

Women were destined for supporting roles in history. Men who shed blood on battlefields became heroes. What did women receive for throwing themselves into the same fire?

She shook her head.

Even a queen could not retain one fragment of dignity.

Perhaps being forgotten was good. She did not care to leave her name in history.

She begged the gods to let the wind scatter her existence, leaving not a grain of sand, pure as a thought passing lightly through the mind.

Dido climbed the sacrificial pyre herself.

She looked at her city. Even knowing her choice with perfect clarity, she felt regret. She hoped someone would succeed her and lead Carthage into prosperity.

But she could no longer do it.

At first, she wanted to curse the Trojan king at sea. Then she wanted him safe.

Now, she wanted nothing.

Aeneas was only a projection within a broken piece of memory.

The mirror had shattered. Fragments sprang upward, then fell.

At the instant they touched the ground, Dido drew the sword and drove herself down upon it.

Virgil said that at that moment, her warmth scattered and her life departed on the breeze.

VII

Richard Dalloway says, "I'm taking you and the child for a drive."

"The sun is beautiful today. I'm in a wonderful mood.

"My colleagues all envy me. They say my wife is beautiful, dignified, and talented. After all these years, I've never properly thanked you."

He draws you against his shoulder.

"Thank you, my Mrs. Dalloway."

You walk along the street. Richard lifts little Dalloway over his head and turns in circles. The child giggles.

Richard is a good father, you think.

You remember him reading storybooks to little Dalloway, continuing even after the child fell asleep.

Not many men would do that.

You remember your neighbor Mary, who is always talking with you. She says she loves her husband and children beyond measure and feels the joy of family every day.

"For women, it is still best to do what we did. Find a good husband early, have children early. Then you don't have to worry too much for the rest of your life."

Perhaps you are simply discontented, you think, like the girl you were, never knowing enough.

"I have everything I wanted," Richard says. "When I see you and the child happy, I'm happy too.

"Do you remember our first date? I brought you home and said that from then on, you and I and my child would quietly spend every day here.

"Look. The dream came true, didn't it?"

You smile.

"You're wonderful."

He takes your hand.

"Without you, could I have become the person I am today?"

VIII

Black doors, layer after layer, without end.

This must be hell, Dido thought.

She felt neither regret nor fear. This was good too. With nothing to hold and no love, there could be no pain of being shattered.

Here, she could see past and future. She knew every truth.

At the feast, Aeneas's young son Ascanius had been Cupid in disguise. He trapped her and made her love Aeneas without reserve.

"So all that love was only a scheme?"

Dido laughed aloud.

Even if it had been a game of the gods, the happiness and pain had been perfectly real to her.

She preferred to believe what she had believed before: fate had caused everything.

What was fate? She no longer wished to inquire.

It was over now.

Everything she had experienced seemed worthwhile. Love and hatred, right and wrong: all worthwhile.

Later, she encountered Aeneas here.

He was still on his journey. After straying onto a distant shore, the gods guided him to this place.

He saw Dido and rushed toward her.

"I truly did not want to leave you. The gods arranged it. Fate forced me away!"

Dido neither smiled nor wept. As though she had never seen the hero, she simply turned and walked away.

Aeneas also met his father.

"Fate will make you a great hero," his father said. "You will create glorious Rome, remembered through the ages. You will become its first king."

A thousand years later, the poet Dante came.

He had already seen Aristotle and Plato. Here he saw Dido, blown back and forth by violent winds.

His holy guide Virgil told him this was the punishment for lust.

But suicide was a graver sin. Whether lust was Dido's punishment or reward was difficult to say.

Dante did not speak to her. He still had many things to do. He and Virgil were chosen great men. There was no time to linger.

IX

Richard has gone to work. Little Dalloway is sleeping.

You lie in bed and read Dante.

These wonders and good fortune belong to other people's lives, you think.

You put the book aside and pull up the blanket.

You remember Dido, the woman in the café who always seemed to move through life with ease. You have not seen her since the day you abruptly left.

Her past and pain do not interest you.

Everyone has pain. No one can smooth it away.

You remember the dead squirrel.

You were young then. The roses were still red.

You opened the window and found it lying quietly. The wind passed. It behaved as though nothing had happened.

Later, you crouched beneath the window and cried. You have forgotten whether you cried for the squirrel or the world.

Or for yourself.

Now you too want the wind to lift you.

Best if it is violent gust after violent gust, never allowing you to touch the ground.

Let the soul leave the body. Let there be no sensation.

Only blown back and forth.

Back.

And forth.