Bishops in 5th and 6th Century Frankia: Sidonius Apollinaris & Gregory of Tours

What was the role of Bishop in urban and political life in 5^th and 6^th century Frankia, and why did it evolve into such importance?

The role of the bishop in 5^th and 6^th century Gaul was a complex one that underwent major changes during this period. The collapse of the secular Roman administrative structure and the volatile political situation that followed contributed greatly to this. The lives and writings of Sidonius Apollinaris and Gregory of Tours, both of whom were bishops, reflect the changing demands of the bishopric and the ideological frame through which such men viewed the worlds in which they lived. In combination, these two sources also offer a key insight into the changes that occurred from the 5^th to the 6^th century, as the imperial administration disappeared to be eventually replaced by Frankish rule. This essay, then, will look at these two key sources in an attempt to evaluate the practical and theological concerns of the bishops and the underlying ideology of the men who undertook the role.

Sidonius was born in Lyon around 430¹. He was a member of a prominent Gallo-Roman family with a tradition of service in the Roman administration(Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, I, III).² Sidonius' early career is characteristic of members of his class, following the tradition of service for the state with a sense of duty and perhaps even entitlement (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, I, IV). Sidonius' letters before 470 reflect his secular concerns, for example, his panegyric letter describing Theodoric II (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, I, II). Sidonius' father in law, Avitus, ascended to the imperial purple in a short lived rule that was gained in no small part thanks to Sidonius' literary pursuits.³ The use of panegyric poetry and letters for political purposes was a key factor in Sidonius' success in both secular and, later, ecclesiastical structures (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, IIX, IX).

The year 466 marks a major shift in Sidonius' life and indeed the history of the Western Empire. The rise of Euric to the rule of the Visigothic kingdom effectively ended the ability of the Roman-Gallic aristocracy to influence affairs in Gaul through collusion with the Visigothic and Imperial courts. Euric wanted to establish an independent Visigothic kingdom and the moribund Roman Western Empire, unable or unwilling to resist, ceded control of Gaul to the Goths. Sidonius was himself in Rome at this time, the purpose for which is disputed; Sivan, for instance, argues that he was there to act as an advocate for the praetorian prefect Arvandus,⁴ while Coates says that he had arrived in Rome “anxious to obtain government office”.⁵ However, whatever his purpose, it is clear that in 468 Sidonius retreated quickly home to Gaul and by 470 had taken the role of bishop of Clermont. It is significant that Sidonius, disillusioned with the imperial administration, chose to quickly take up the role of bishop; a letter of 470 to his friend Eutropius, shows that he had lost none of his belief in pubic service (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, III, VI).

It is from the episcopal see that Sidonius mounted a defiant defence of Clermont, rallying his people both practically and in prayer ceremonies known as rogations (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, VII, I). Clermont eventually fell to the Visigoths, although not by force. It was the last city in Gaul to do so, in no small part thanks to the leadership of Sidonius (Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, VII, V). Sidonius' letters from this period show not only his importance to the city, but also the importance of the network of bishops in Gaul, many of whom Sidonius was in correspondence with. This lettered community had common concerns, including maintaining the church itself, which was threatened by the Arian Visigoths. In one notable example, Sidonius lists a number of cities that were without bishops as a result of Euric’s policy of expelling those whom he considered disloyal(Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, VII, VI.⁶ Another major concern of this group was, in fact, their literary pursuits themselves. The exchange of letters was used as a means of preserving their Gallo-Roman culture at a time when it was being directly challenged; Harries writes, “Sidonius was prepared to assert that, in a cultural sense, they still were [part of the Roman Empire] because the Latin language had not faltered”.⁷

Perhaps the most important development of this period was the way that Sidonius and his fellow bishops assumed the role of patrons in their communities. Rosseau argues that the bishops combined the old conventions of patronage with the ideology and language of the church, creating for themselves a powerful image as the father of the city.⁸ This was particularly important at a time when individual cities were becoming politically and, indeed, religiously, isolated.⁹ We see the practical effects of Sidonius’ patronage in his letters which are replete with examples of recommendations of local members of his see(Sidonius, Letters of Sidonius, VII, II & VII, !V). His afore mentioned attempts, including the ritual of rogation, to save the city from Visigothic rule can only have served to enhance this image.

In 507, nearly twenty years after the death of Sidonius, another major shift occurred, with the defeat of the Visigoths at the hands of Clovis’ Franks at Voullie. To this period of history we owe our knowledge predominantly to Gregory of Tours. Gregory was born in 539 in Clermont, and, like Sidonius, was a member of an illustrious Gallo-Roman family. He had risen to the deaconship by 563 and taken over from his mother’s cousin as Bishop of Tours in 573. There is a significant difference Between Gregory and Sidonius, however, when it comes to education. Sidonius was classically educated and acutely aware of the literary tradition that he inherited. This is evidenced by what Van Dam calls “the archaic qualities of his literary culture,” and Sidonius’ “highly mannered and apparently artificial Latin”.¹⁰ Gregory by contrast, although obviously educated, had a “patchy” knowledge of Latin literature and wrote a “barbarized Latin”. ¹¹ With these self-acknowledged limitations (Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, I, 1). ¹² Gregory wrote arguably the most important works of the 6^th century, the majority of which comes in the form of his hagiographical works and the ten books that make up his History of the Franks.

Gregory’s world was significantly different from Sidonius’. In Gregory’s time there was no longer a sharp distinction between Romans and barbarians; for Gregory there were simply Catholics and non-Catholics. ¹³ The role of the bishop, although still dominated by Gallo-Roman aristocrats (Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, X, 31), now involved dealing with the unstable Frankish courts and asserting local power in the diocese, often in opposition with the counts. The means by which the bishops achieved these ends are readily displayed in Gregory of Tours’ History of the Franks. Most notably, the saints and their relics were used to “consolidate and expand” the position of church,¹⁴ as well as that of individual diocese’ and, by extension, their bishops. The bishops associated themselves with saintly figures that were given a status that went beyond the earthly. Gregory’s depiction of St Martin is an obvious example of this (Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, I, 48). Additionally, the Bishops themselves were expected to live up to these ideals, acting in the protection of their peoples, the construction of religious buildings and the ransoming of hostages, as well as performing their traditional religious functions. Gregory mentions many bishops who both live up to this ideal, for example Numantius of Clermont-Ferrand(Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, II, 16), and some who do not, for example Cautinus of Clermont-Ferrand(Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, IV, 12). In this it is evident that the role of the bishops was being extended from that of previous generations. The ideology of the church as father, protector and saviour was being utilised by writers like Gregory to enhance the power of the church, and the bishops, as well as to keep in check the unpredictable Frankish kings. The story of Clovis’ striking down one of his own soldiers in deference, or perhaps fear, of St Martin, exemplifies the way Gregory used the saint for this later purpose (Gregory of Tours, The History of Franks, II, 37).

The role of the bishops in 5^th and 6^th century Gaul evolved throughout the period. Within the church, the ideology of the bishops evolved from that of the Christianised Gallo-Roman aristocracy of the 5^th century to the almost fundamentalist beliefs of the later bishops, here exemplified by Gregory of Tours. In both cases, this ideology was not simply used in the theological realm, but was also centred in the more temporal concerns of the order of men who assumed the position.

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Apollinaris Sidonius The Letters of Sidonius Ed. & transl. O.M. Dalton (Oxford, 1915).

Gregory of Tours The History of the Franks Ed. & transl. L, Thorpe (Penguin, 1974).

Secondary Sources

Coates S., ‘Venantius Fortunatus and the Image of Episcopal Authority in Late Antique and Early Merovingian Gaul’, The English Historical Review 115, 464 (2000) pp. 1109-1137.

Harries J., ‘Sidonius Apollinaris and the Frontiers of Romanitas’ in eds R. W. Mathisen & H. S. Sivan, Shifting Frontiers in Late Antiquity (Hampshire, 1996) 31-44.

Klingshirn W., ‘Charity and Power: Caesarius of Arles and the Ransoming of Captives in Sub-Roman Gaul’  Journal of Roman Studies 75 (1985) pp. 183-203. 

Mathisen R W., ‘Barbarian Bishops and the Churches “in Barbaricis Gentibus” During Late Antiquity’ Speculum, 72, 03, (1997) pp. 664-697.

Rousseau P., ‘In Search of Sidonius the Bishop’ Historia: Zeitschrift fur Alte Geschichte 25 (1976), 356-377.

Sivan H.S., ‘Sidonius Apollinaris, Theodoric II, and Gothic-Roman Politics from Avitus to Anthemius’ Hermes 117 (1989), pp.85-94.

Van Dam R., Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Berkeley: University of California Press (1985).

Wallace-Hadrill J.M., The Long-Haired Kings and other studies in Frankish history, London: Butler & Tanner Ltd (1962).

1 R. Van Dam Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul (Berkeley, 1985) 157

2 Apollinaris Sidonius The Letters of Sidonius Ed. & transl. O.M. Dalton (Oxford, 1915) Henceforth, all references to this work are to this translation.

3 H.S. Sivan ‘Sidonius Apollinaris, Theodoric II, and Gothic-Roman Politics from Avitus to Anthemius’ Hermes 117 (1989), 89.

4 Sivan op. cit. 92

5 S. Coates ‘Venantius Fortunatus and the Image of Episcopal Authority in Late Antique and Early Merovingian Gaul’ The English Historical Review 115 (2000), 1109.

6 J Harries ‘Sidonius Apollinaris and the Frontiers of Romanitas’ in eds R. W. Mathisen & H. S. Sivan, Shifting Frontiers in Late Antiquity (Hampshire, 1996), 34.

7 Harries op. cit. 35

8 P. Rousseau ‘In Search of Sidonius the Bishop’ Historia: Zeitschrift fur Alte Geschichte 25 (1976), 364.

9 Van Dam op. cit. 182

10 Van Dam op. cit. 163

11 J.M. Wallace-Hadrill The Long-Haired Kings and other studies in Frankish history (London, 1962) 54

12 Gregory of Tours The History of the Franks Ed. & transl. L, Thorpe (Penguin, 1974) Henceforth, all references to this work are to this translation.

13 Wallice-Hadrill op. cit. 60

14 Van Dam op. cit. 189

Sherlock Holmes: A Study on "A Study in Scarlet"

In On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History, the Victorian writer and social commentator Thomas Carlyle uses various examples of great men throughout recorded history to convey his notion of a Hero, whom he regards as the epitome of masculinity. He writes of the hero: 'Intellect is not speaking and logicising; it is seeing and ascertaining. Virtue, Vir-tus, manhood, hero-hood, is not fair-spoken immaculate regularity; it is first of all … Courage and the Faculty to do' (218). To what extent does Holmes meet this definition of the hero? In which respects is he heroic and un-heroic?

The concept of heroism is not unique to any particular time or stage in history. It can be argued that the individual figures who a society admires, or look to as an ideal, reflect upon that society. The ancient Greeks conceived of heroism as an aristocratic ideal, where the “honour and status” (Lateiner, 2004, pp25) of a hero was fiercely defended with winged words and swords alike. Equally, there exists a modern conception of the hero. Although this conception can be considered to be much broader, with examples ranging from the superhero, or the athlete, to the movie-star, or even the soldier, there is one fundamental similarity to the Greek ideal. Both conceptions are fundamentally concerned with the individual; the very concept of the hero is intrinsically an individualistic one that emphasis the role of a single person in shaping a society and, indeed, in shaping history.

The Victorian age, too, had its conception of hero, which was shaped by its own ideas and social forces. This essay will us the views of Thomas Carlyle, as expressed in his 'On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History' (1897), as a model for the Victorian conception of heroism. Whether or not Carlyle's model is truly representative of Victorian attitudes is not going to be debated here. For the purposes of this essay, the critical point will be to isolate the key characteristics of Carlyle's hero, and to question which ones apply to Arthur Conan Doyle's fictional creation Sherlock Holmes, as he appears in the novella 'A Study in Scarlet', and which ones do not. Reasons for the discrepancies between Carlyle's ideal and Holmes's character will then be broadly discussed. Again, a thorough analysis of Victorian society will not be possible here, but, as 'A Study in Scarlet' first appeared toward the end of the Nineteenth century, a time of rapid social and literary change and development, this study may be useful in identifying a shift in the attitudes and beliefs of the time, particularly in the area of gender, for, as Smith has shown, “gender is one of the key elements of the Holmes tales.” (2004, pp127).

It can be argued that Carlyle's conception of hero is essentially a masculine one. For Carlyle, a hero should be intelligent, rational, humble, practical, and must have a strong moral doctrine, all of which, especially when viewed within the broader context of Carlyle's ideas, can be viewed as traditionally masculine traits. Additionally, Carlyle's heroes are defined by action, which, in the early Victorian era, inherently meant within the world of men. This action itself, Carlyle believed, should be directed only toward things of great importance in the material, intellectual and spiritual world (Carlyle, 1897). If this, then, is accepted as Carlyle's heroic ideal, the question then becomes, does Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes, of 'A Study in Scarlet', conform to Carlyle's heroic ideal?

The young Sherlock Holmes of 'A Study in Scarlet' (SCAR from here on) is an enigmatic figure, ostensibly devoted to the perfection of his craft. He views his brain as “little empty attic” with “elastic walls” (SCAR, 17), which is capable of holding a limited amount of information. He has devoted his life to filling his mind with the knowledge or “tools” (SCAR, 17) he requires to perfect the art of the detection of crime. With this end in mind, he has developed a method of logic, which enables him to observe a set of material conditions and determine the means by which they came be in that state. Using these powers of “analytically reasoning,” (SCAR, 123) Holmes is able to deduce what would seem an incredible amount of very particular information from a given situation. This is Holmes's self-conception, as described by Watson, the narrator, in SCAR. If he is taken at his word, this represents a decidedly Carlylian doctrine. However, this idea of Holmes is as quickly contradicted in the novella as it is expressed. Holmes is, in fact, much wider read than Watson gives him credit for in SCAR. As Roberts puts it, this assessment of Watson's was “hasty and not wholly reliable” (1953, pp19.). A perfect example of this, as Dakin has shown, is when Holmes, having told Watson that he knows nothing of Thomas Carlyle and his literary exploits, a few pages later quotes him (Dakin, 1972, pp17).

Equally, a contradiction arises when Holmes's seemingly unemotional and logical processes of deduction are analysed. The process is, on the surface, reminiscent of Carlyle's heroic ideal; as Diana Barsham puts it describing Doyle's “masculine models,” they “are persuasive because of the romantic unreliability with which he harnesses his commitment to realist detail and accurate oral testimony” (2000, pp.101). However, here in lies another contradiction in Holmes's character. Yes, he employs a cold, methodical approach to crime detection; however, at the same time, he is continually indulging in long explanations of outcomes that he has previously described as simple or elementary (SCAR, 25-26 & 124). In detailing this logic, in order to make it appear credible, Doyle is both reinforcing Holmes's heroic trait of the practical application of intelligence, but is also creating the decidedly unheroic trait of hubris. It should also be noted that it is Watson who, more often than not, facilitates this process, as Jann has shown (1990). This is significant because it is Watson's constant affirmation of Holmes's conclusions that, in a sense, turn his unheroic “speaking and logicising” into the practical and heroic “seeing and ascertaining” of Carlyle's conception. Additionally, Watson may be viewed as a means by which Holmes, who has no time for late Victorian journalism, informs the world of his exploits; or, as Iain Sinclair puts it, “Holmes, preternaturally gifted, vain, emotionally repressed, finds [in Watson] the one person 'innocent' enough to do justice to his legend” (2001, pp10).

Another contradiction can be found if Holmes's motivation for his pursuit of criminal investigations is considered. That Holmes is wholly devoted to his craft in SCAR is clear, but the reasons for his devotion are less clear. When first discussing with Watson his “practical theories”, and the nature of his work, Holmes says, “I depend upon them for my bread and cheese” (SCAR, 21). This statement appears reasonable as it was their mutual financial difficulties that brought Holmes and Watson together in the first instance. However, Holmes's tone quickly changes as he laments about the level of crime that has become his staple in recent times, “there is no crime to detect, or, at most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it” (SCAR, 23). This statement indicates that the pursuit of crime is not simply a matter of subsistence for Holmes.

Socially altruistic or moralistic motivations for Holmes's activities also seem unlikely. Holmes often shows little interest in the welfare of others and in society as a whole, as his statement lamenting the low standard of crime indicates; he even engages in ethically dubious conduct, such as the poisoning of the dog in SCAR (63-64). Questions can also be raised about the gravity of his work. Holmes is a man of considerable talents, and, while bringing criminals to justice is certainly socially valuable, is it really the most useful way for this gifted man to spend his time? Considering these character traits, it can be argued that Holmes simply enjoys investigating crime and may even have a kind of morbid curiosity with the criminal mind; his pursuit of crime, therefore, may be considered an end in of itself. There is an implicit artistic element in this part of Holmes’s character. He possesses what Roberts calls “a spirit of lofty altruism” (1953, pp18.), which is exhibited in SCAR not just by his lack of a clear motivation for the pursuit of his craft, but in more tangible ways, such as his love for the violin.

These few examples show that, while, on the surface, Holmes can be considered as representative of Carlyle's masculine heroic ideal, there is a certain duality of personality, which could be considered something quite different. Certainly, Holmes is logical and rational, at times almost to the extreme, but equally he is not above seemingly pointless displays of hubris. What's more his character lacks a clear moral doctrine, which leaves the reader unsure to his motives, and suggests a certain decadence of character. He is also wider read than he would like Watson, or perhaps the reader, to believe; appears to devote himself to a vocation simply for the art or enjoyment of it; and engages in long periods of unexplained convalescence, all of which are difficult to reconcile with Carlyle's ideal.

It may, then, be worth considering the society from which Doyle's creation emerged, in search of the origin of these contradictions. The end of the nineteenth century was a time of great change in Victorian Britain. Gender, and the role of gender in society, was a question on the forefront of many people's minds. The emergence of the 'New Woman' not only changed the way that men and women thought about women, but also changed the way that men thought about themselves. This is what Andrew Smith terms the “reassessment of traditional models of masculinity” (2004, pp02). For example, there was the emergence of the aesthetic movement, as personified by Oscar Wilde. New forms of masculinity were being created, ones that differed greatly from the earlier Victorian thinking of the likes of Carlyle. Equally there were those, such as Max Nordau, who were concerned about this development, seeing it as a threat to the fundamental social contract (Smith, 2004, pp03).

It can be argued that Sherlock Holmes and his paradoxical nature represent the times in which he was created: a time of transition. His rationality and logic represent the more traditional ideas of masculinity, and, therefore, are representative of Carlyle's heroic ideal; while his hubris and lack of clear moral doctrine represent a kind of “artistic amorality” (Smith, 2004 pp 03) that can be viewed as representative of a shift in the role of gender in Victorian society. Because of his dual nature, it cannot be said that Holmes represents a new ideal altogether. Rather, it can be argued that he was a paradoxical and somewhat confused figure, who emerged from a paradoxical and confused time.

Reference List

Barsham, Diana, 2000, Arthur Conan Doyle and the Meaning of Masculinity, Ashgate Publishing Limited, Aldershot, England.

Carlyle, Thomas, 1897, On Heroes, Hero-Worship and The Heroic in History, The Macmillan Company, London.

Dakin, D. Martin, 1972, A Sherlock Holmes Commentary, Redwood Burn Limited, Devon.

Doyle, Arthur Conan, 2001, A Study in Scarlet, Penguin Group, London.

Jann, Rosemary, 1990, Sherlock Holmes Codes the Social Body, ELH, Vol 57, No. 03, pp685-708.

Lateiner, Donald, 2004, "The Iliad. An Unpredictable Classic," in R. Fowler, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Homer chapter 2 on plot of Iliad (11-30), Cambridge

Roberts, S, 1953, Holmes & Watson, Oxford University Press, London.

Sinclair, Iain, 2001, Introduction to 'A Study in Scarlet', Penguin Group, London.

Smith, Andrew, 2004, Medicine, Masculinity and the Gothic at the Fin de Siecle, Manchesteer University Press, Manchester.   

Dido's Tragedy: Book IV, The Aenied

Dido's Tragedy

What is it about Dido’s love that drives her to destruction? To what extent is she responsible for her own downfall?

But the queen—too long she had suffered the pain of love,

Hour by hour nursing the wound with her lifeblood

Consumed by the fire buried in her heart.[1]

This opening to book IV of The Aeneid not only announces the two prevailing images Virgil will use to describe Dido’s love, but it also alludes to her fate—Dido is doomed. It seems that all the forces of epic world are conspiring to this end: the gods, even Dido’s supposed protector, Juno; Dido’s own faithful sister, Anna; and finally, Aeneas, though somewhat passively, through his looks and his words. These forces have conspired to inflame in Dido a love that will give her body no rest, until it destroys that very body. Equally however, the queen herself is driven by her passion for Aeneas and forsakes the bonds of marriage and the duties of a queen to her people, in order to pursue her lust. Book IV offers the reader much scope for both a sympathetic and a critical reading of the queen and her tragedy.

This essay, then, will firstly identify the key characteristics of Dido’s love that make it inherently destructive 1) Her love for Aeneas is too ardent, too all consuming a passion 2) It is an imbalanced and therefore intrinsically insecure love 3) Dido conflates her public and private lives so that when Aeneas flees her fall is absolute. Secondly, the degree to which Dido is responsible for this love, and her subsequent demise, will be considered.

When the mist that conceals Aeneas’ presence in front of the temple of Juno is lifted, Aeneas, looking like a god, lauds the queen for her hospitality and declares that “So long as rivers run to the sea … your honour, your name, your praise will live forever, whatever lands may call me to their shores”[2]. This is an early example of the kind of prophetic statement that Virgil employs in the lead up to the tragedy of Dido[3]; it is prophetic as it is precisely because of a call to a foreign land that Aeneas will, instead of praising and honouring Dido, facilitate her demise. Significantly, having completed this greeting to Dido, Aeneas turns and nonchalantly shakes hands with Trojan friends. Dido, by contrast, is marvelled both by the sight of Aeneas and by all that he has suffered. This is significant not only as it is a subtle illustration of a difference between the feelings of Aeneas and Dido towards each other, but also because this understated but notable physical reaction to Aeneas, by Dido, occurs before Venus and Cupid have besieged the queen with the flames of passion[4].

It is not surprising, then, that after Venus intervenes, Dido’s physical passion for Aeneas becomes insatiable; significantly, this passion finds early expression in her reaction to Cupid, disguised as Aeneas’ son, Ascanius[5]. Gutting argues this represents the perversion of Dido’s conjugal and maternal instincts, resulting in the subordination of these instincts to erotic ones as her relationship with Aeneas develops[6].  Dido herself helps to illustrates this by placing her feelings for Aeneas in opposition to those for her deceased husband, Sychaeus, creating a struggle between her sense of duty and the furor of her passion[7]. Ostensibly, it is Dido’s sister, Anna, who enables her to move past her sense of shame and pursue a relationship with Aeneas. However, it appears that Dido misinterprets her sister’s sentiments, which rather than an emotive endorsement of a physical love are more concerned with the familial and dynastic advantages of a partnership with Aeneas[8]. Anna’s words, then, have mistakenly “fanned her sister’s fire,”[9] and Dido, from this juncture on, becomes “the tragic queen”[10] of Carthage.

As Dido’s passion grows, we see an antagonism between private desire and public benefit develop, which is at the heart of Aeneas and Dido’s relationship. Crazed by love, Dido neglects the affairs of the city, leaving Carthage vulnerable to attack from neighbours whom, in the first instance, have been slighted by her favouring of the Greek traveller. Her relationship is leading to public disgrace. Equally, her private sense of guilt and shame is never lost, even after the disputed marriage in the cave[11]. Dido’s neglecting of state affairs and her continued sense of guilt show that her passion has over taken everything else that matters to her. But what of Aeneas, is he equally enraptured with the queen?

The question of Aeneas’ feelings is difficult to answer, as, throughout book IV, Aeneas is most notable for his absence, and, when he does appear, for his taciturn and unemotional state of mind[12]. Indeed, it is not until he has decided that the affair is over that we are explicitly told anything about his feelings. It does appear that Aeneas may not have had the same strength of feeling as Dido. His willingness to abandon her, without a moment’s hesitation or a word of protest against Jupiter’s will, is indicative of this. Equally, Dido’s volatile reaction to the rumour that the “Trojans are on the move” betrays her own insecurity[13]; this was an outcome she had foreseen. The agon like exchange that follows recalls Medea and Jason, during which Aeneas assumes a less then admirable passivity, deferring to the will of the gods[14]; this passivity is not shared by Dido whose invective moves from accurate and reasonable to an uncontrolled fury that resembles the heroic Aeneas of book II, again betraying both the strength of her emotions for Aeneas and her own insecurity. It should be noted that by now her insecurity is well founded; her neighbours are becoming aggressive, her people’s loyalty towards her is wavering, and Aeneas, a man who had assumed the role of protector of Carthage and of Dido’s lover, is fleeing.

In this we see a conflation of public and private calamities for Dido, a mistake that, with the help of a timely reminder from Jupiter and Mercury, Aeneas is unwilling to make. This is the essential difference between Dido and Aeneas’ emotional states and leads Aeneas[15] to the pursuit of his promised country and Dido to the only end left to her, destruction.  Aeneas, though probably feeling genuine affection for the queen, is not so completely invested in the relationship as Dido. This has led some, for example McLeish[16], to argue that Virgil’s inclusion of Dido in The Aeneid serves to emphasize Aeneas pietas. Aeneas had been passive and forgetful of his duty through the first half of book IV, but a single stern nudge from Jupiter is enough to remind the now Pius Aeneas of what must be done. However, Virgil does not let Aeneas completely off the hook for his dalliance. In what might be called a piece of poet justice, it is the tragedy of Dido that gives birth to the enmity between Rome and Carthage: a future public calamity to be visited upon Aeneas’ people through the agency of Hannibal[17]. 

So to what degree can we blame these events upon Dido? To a large extent Dido is the tragic queen because she is burdened with a love, by Venus, which destroys her very essence. The perversion of her conjugal and maternal instincts is an extremely cruel act of the gods; equally, the failure of Juno, her own benefactor, to act for Dido, rather than simply against Aeneas, means that she is almost completely isolated but for the help of her loyal yet somewhat misguided sister, Anna. Aeneas appears to have led her on to a certain degree, assuming the role of husband, and indeed to some extent king, without the deep sense of responsibility that these roles require. In these ways it is easy to see Dido as victim. However, it must be considered, as demonstrated above, that Dido’s feelings were not wholly divinely inspired; she was strongly attracted by Aeneas before Venus had struck. Additionally, as Duckworth argues, the intervention of the gods in the epic tradition often serves “merely to accentuate or inflame a state of mind already eager to do what the deity wishes”[18]. Bryce argues that a similar phenomenon is occurring between Anna and Dido; a kind of doubling effect, with Anna offering the advice that Dido’s sub-conscious wants to hear, to enable her pursuit of Aeneas[19].

These elements of Dido’s struggle raise important questions over fate, divine intervention and human will. To some extent, who is specifically responsible for the tragedy of Dido cannot be easily resolved, certainly not in this brief essay.  However, whatever forces inspired this fatal love in her, it is her battle against it, her submission to it, and her defiance in the face of its failure that offer the reader ample scope to view her as a tragic heroine, and as a magnificent poetic creation. Perhaps it is only in the afterlife that we may glimpse at the true Dido; defiant and loyal to her husband, yet undeniably still in love with the hero Aeneas.

But she, her eyes fixed on the ground turned away …

And at last she tears herself away, his enemy forever,

Fleeing back to the shadowed forests where Sychaeus,

Her husband long ago, answers all her anguish,

Meets her love with love … [20]

Bibliography

Primary Sources

Virgil, The Aeneid, ed. and transl. R. Fagles, New York: Penguin Classics, 2006.

Secondary Sources

Bryce, T. R., ‘The Dido-Aeneas Relationship: A Re-Examination’, The Classical World 67 (1974), 257-269.

Duckworth, G. E., ‘Fate and Free Will in Vergil’s “Aeneid”’, The Classical Journal 51 08 (1956), 357-364.

Fratantuono, L., Madness Unchained: A Reading of Virgil’s Aeneid, Plymouth: Lexington Books (2007).

Gutting, E., ‘Marriage in the Aeneid: Venus, Vulcan, and Dido’, Classical Philology 101 03 (2006), 263-279.

Hamilton, C. I. M., ‘Dido, Tityos and Prometheus’, The Classical Quarterly 43 01 (1993), 249-254.

McLeish, K., Dido, Aeneas, and the Concept of Pietas, Greece and Rome 19 02 (1972) 127-135.

Moorton, R. F., ‘Love as Death: The Pivoting Metaphor in Vergil’s Story of Dido’, The Classical World 83 03 (1990), 153-166.

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[1] Aeneid, Book IV, 1-3

[2] Aeneid, Book I, 728-729

[3] Moorton, 1990, for example, describes the way that Virgil uses fire and the wounded animal as prophetic images that anticipate her death and the means of her destruction.

[4] Aeneid, Book I, 805

[5] Aeneid, Book I, 850-854 “Dido … cannot feast her eyes enough … the more she looks the more the fire grows”, Moorton, 1990, 155 writes, “ Vergil’s suggestion of erotic avidity in the expression is unmistakable”.

[6] Gutting, 2006, 268

[7] Aeneid, Book IV, 20-29

[8] Gutting, 2006 , 271

[9] Aeneid, Book IV, 68

[10] Aeneid, Book IV, 86

[11] Aeneid Book IV, 218, Dido calls her affair a “marriage” to cloak her sense of shame (culpa).

[12] Fratantuono, 2007, 101

[13] Aeneid, book IV, 369-370, “She fears everything now, even with all secure”

[14] Aeneid, book IV, 425-428, Most notably: “ If the fates had left me free to live my life, to arrange my own affairs of my own free will, Troy is the city, first and foremost, that I would safe guard.”

[15] Aeneid, Book IV, 555, Aeneas has become a “sturdy oak,” unmovable in his resolve.

[16] McLeish, 1972, 127

[17] Fratantuono, 2007, 115, points out that for Dido, Aeneas has now become a public enemy (hostis) not just a personal one.

[18] Duckworth, 1956, 358 [my italics]

[19] Bryce, 1974, 258

[20] The Aeneid, Book VI, 545-551