University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—Metapontum. The house of Ianthe. Ianthe reclining on a couch whilst a slave dresses her hair.
Slave.
Now, lady, to thy sweet face hold this mirror,
And say have I well done? Dost thou approve
The foldings of thy mitra? Seest thou not
That which will make the fairest weep for envy?
Have I well done?

Ian.
Thy fingers are enchanted,
And what I see I think is beautiful—
Yet put back this one tress. Oh, sure, Eunice,
I must be lovelier than Lysistrata?

Slave.
Though all the jewels of Taprobane
Should deck her brow, her beauty would grow haggard
Before one glance out of these long-lashed eyes,
Before one smile upon these sweet red lips.

Ian.
And yet, Eunice—

Slave.
Does my mistress sigh?

Ian.
Why do the gods not send me worshippers
Worthy this beauty?

Eun.
All the city owns thee
For fairest, and is prostrate at thy feet.

Ian.
O gods, I care not for this chattering town!
I would Rome might besiege us—anything
To break this stagnant calm.

Enter Stratonice.
Slave.
Most gracious lady!
Chide my sweet mistress! She has sighed just now
Over her very beauty.

Strat.
Does she so?
Then does she merit, ere her time, to see
In this same mirror, not these lustrous lengths
Of plaited hair, these cheeks so rose-leaf smooth,
These eyes as limpid as Blandusia's well,
But pale sad age like mine, whose foolish youth
For beauty would have gladly paid a world.
Come, thou spoiled child! what is thy silly grief?

Ian.
Oh, if thou knew'st the dream I had, last night!
One of those dreams that glorify the past,
And make the present dreary. 'Tis so hard,
With the half-sweet, half-sad enchantment on us,
To know the past will never come again,
Yet to desire nought else.

Strat.
What past regret'st thou?
What hast thou ever wished for, and not had?
I have spoiled thee, child.

Ian.
Ah, thou hast never guessed!
I have been weary when I wished for nought,
But since I've found a wish, it has become
A vain regret, and I am weary still.
To wish is not to live, only to dream.
I want hope too.—And yet the pain had grown
Fainter, and might have healed, but for this vision
Some god has sent to plague me. I beheld him,
As in the days he loved me, and my heart
Sprang up and groaned to know if still he loves—
But I shall never know.

Strat.
By heaven, whom mean'st thou?
What secret's this?

Ian.
I was ashamed to tell thee.
Thou wilt wonder when thou hear'st it—I have ceased
To wonder at myself.

Strat.
Wonder indeed!
I thought thou couldst not love, but wert content
To laugh through life at thy despairing wooers.

Ian.
Well, I will tell thee. Thou rememberest
Our day of triumph at that happy time—
How happy and how long ago it seems!
That blessed time when Rome withdrew from us
Her hateful garrison to guard Tarentum,
And we threw wide our gates to Hannibal.
Dost thou remember how we watched him enter?
Oh, what a festival of joy that was!

Strat.
A mad time truly! Much we gained indeed!
Much we Greeks profit by this haughty stranger,
Who whilst he courts us, scorns us—studies our lore,
And speaks our language, only to beguile us—
Sits at our citizens' boards, calls us his brothers,
And crazes all our youth with idle hopes,—
To plague us with a never-ending noise
Of war and trouble—brings on our fair lands
The fire and sword of Rome—and to what end?
Rome was our mistress, true—but we had peace,
And led our lives in merriment and ease.
The Carthaginian is our master now,
And peace seems fled for ever. Every day
I tremble for the tidings of the next.
Think, should some Roman spear send post to Hades
That man's fierce soul—what help, what hope is ours,
What refuge from the dire revenge of Rome?
Would he had never come, whose entrance here
You look back to with such rapture! Well, no matter.
Proceed with thy love-tale.

Ian.
What wilt thou say
To hear my foolish thoughts that day I speak of?
My heart so beat at the first trumpet-sound!
It seemed to me as if my fate drew nigh
When those strange warriors first came riding in!
And I, all rapt, gazing on Hannibal,
Was thinking, “women are ambitious too—
Men conquer empires—we, the conquerors.
Oh, if the world's one hero were my slave!
Oh, might his worship fix me in the skies,
A visible star to dazzle all mankind!
The Queen of Heaven herself might envy me.”

Strat.
Oh, thou vain child! was this thy dream?

Ian.
So dreamt I,
When one of those that rode beside him, raised
His eyes and smiled upon me—flashed me back
As 'twere a silent answer to my thought—
Rode on and still looked back. And I—I passed
Unnoticed all those famous generals by,
That rode with Hannibal, all save this one—
So was my soul filled with that brilliant glance.

Strat.
Tell me his name—which was it?

Ian.
Mutines.

Strat.
What, Mutines, the half-blood Carthaginian,
He of the mixed race? was it Mutines,
The traitor Mutines? Is he thy hero?

Ian.
What was his blood to me? He was the son
Of Hannibal's own camp, his favoured soldier.
I knew him brave and famous, and I saw him
Proud as the proudest, noble as the noblest,
And worthy as the best blood there, to ride
At Hannibal's right hand.

Strat.
He thought not so.
Was it not he threw open to Lævinus
The gates of Agrigentum? Was it not he
Lost Sicily to Hannibal for ever?

Ian.
Alas! alas! Yet he adored him still,
I know, I feel that he adored him still!
But think what stinging outrage urged him on,—
Is there a man on earth that could have borne it?
Those envious fools, forsooth, that Carthage chose
To trust her fortunes to in Sicily,
Thought only how to thwart his deep-laid plans,
To court defeat by their presumptuous folly—
And then disgraced him! Took his high command
From him whom Hannibal himself had chosen!
What wonder he was maddened?

Strat.
Is it so?
Thou really lov'st him? Child, I must hear more.

Ian.
Thou know'st not whilst he stay'd in Metapontum,
Commander of the Punic garrison,
Scouring the country round with his Numidians,
A terror to the enemy, our pride
And safeguard—how I've watched him riding in
Gay and successful, with his eager face
Glancing up towards me, as amongst my maids
I sat upon my roof—and well I knew
He loved me. Every morn I woke a queen,
To reign o'er his great heart—until, at last,
A strange thing chanced—for once as I reclined,
Dreaming the noon away in my cool hall,
Horsehoofs that clattered on the marble floor
Startled me, and a swart Numidian sprang
Down from his charger, bent his face to the ground,
And laid this costly token at my feet,
This gorgeous girdle of a Roman knight,—
Saying, “Mutines to the fairest of the fair.”
Then rose, remounted, and was gone again.
And once I met him in the street of Tombs,
When thither with Eunice I had gone
To hang upon my husband's funeral urn
The customary garland. Such a strange
Wild face of anger! as he seized my hands
And cried, “Oh, dost thou better love the dead,
Ianthe, than one living, who would die
A thousand deaths for thee?”

Strat.
What didst thou answer?

Ian.
I answered smilingly—Oh, pardon me,
My husband's mother, I beseech of thee,
That which I said, for I was terrified,
And scarce knew what I said—“I love no man,
Living or dead.” And then he let me go,
And I passed homeward trembling and amazed.
When next I saw him, all his face was dark
And melancholy as a starless night,
And a strange pity filled me. On the morrow
Came a sharp pang I never yet had dreamt of,
For 'twas reported he was bound in haste
For Sicily, at Hannibal's behest.
Then first I knew I loved him, and I sat
Beneath the laurel in the court, my throat
Choking, and a faint sickness at my heart,
When suddenly, a step! I looked, I saw
Himself approach me eagerly—kneel down
Before me, and in silence kiss my robe.
At last he spoke: “Lady, I go this eve—
I go to wage our war in Sicily.
Know now I love thee more than ever yet
Man has loved woman. Shall I find thee still
Cold to a soldier's love when I return?
Or wilt thou quite forget me?” I replied,
“When thou com'st back to me, O Mutines,
Ask me again that question.” While his eyes
Flashed eagerly, yet doubtful, and my soul
Kept whispering to itself, “I cannot love
This half-blood stranger, this half-Carthaginian,
And yet I cannot lose him”—lo! in rode
That same Numidian, and delivered him
A letter. Fiercely he glanced o'er it, turned,
Embraced me with a hasty agony,
Sprang on his horse without another look,
And galloped from me. I have never more
Seen him, nor ever shall; shall never know
If still he loves me—if he suffers pain
To be thus severed from me. Oh! he thinks,
Perhaps, I scorn him now!

Strat.
So should'st thou scorn him!
Forget him as he has forgotten thee!
This then's the dream for which thou pin'st away!
Thou, with thy pure Hellenic blood and nurture,
Forget'st my son, thy husband, in his grave,
And turn'st from all that's best of thine own race
To court the homage of a Libyan stranger!

Ian.
Ah! it was the strange southern soul allured me!
Compared with all our chattering graceful Greeks,
These sons of Afric seem to me like gods.
Until I saw him I had never lived!
A love so beautiful, so wonderful,
I never had before, nor ever dreamed.
Oh, that was life! I might have been content,
Had I ne'er known him, with the prettiness
And commonplace of Metapontine homage;
But now I know a different happiness.
When to thy Lysias I was given, oh, lady,
I was a child; and when I lost him, still
Was half a child. And then the tide of war,
Rolling in from far lands with Hannibal,
Brought me a splendid novelty of passion
Which lifted me one moment to the skies,
But left me blank and restless.

Strat.
Yet, the while,
Thou hast seemed gay and happy as the rest.

Ian.
But inwardly so restless. Oh! that dream!
I woke and hated my past merriment!
I saw him, heard him—breathed enchanted air,
And lived and loved again.

Strat.
Oh! verily,
Has Aphrodite smitten thee with folly!
Here's one of thy adorers.

Enter Philemon.
Ian.
We salute thee,
Philemon.

Phil.
Thee I scarcely dare salute,
Oh! lady, save with hymns of adoration;
For thou art clothed to-day with such a light
Celestial, as men know th'immortals by.

Ian.
Henceforth, Philemon, I discard my mirror,
For thou art kinder. Hast thou news to tell me?

Phil.
Oh! fairest lady, will thou buy mine of me?

Ian.
Ay, surely, if the price be not too heavy.

Phil.
I ask but one song to that gilded lyre,
Which pines to give an echo to thy voice.

Ian.
Make a new song for me, and I will sing it.
Now for thy news.

Phil.
That one of his swift marches
Brings Hannibal to our town. His messengers
Have been seen galloping to the citadel;
And at the gates, Numidian horse by scores
Continue to appear. Pray Heaven none here
Have written Rome love-letters, since his last
Departure!

Strat.
Hush! This town has ever been
Of faith unquestioned.

Phil.
May we so remain,
Lest we should one day share Herdonea's fate,
And stand to see our city burnt to ashes,
After a few preliminary beheadings,
Then be chased forth to grumble life away,
For penance, in some Bruttian town, as here,
These poor Herdonaens grumble.

Ian.
Hannibal here!
What rumours fly before him? Any tale
Of battle? Any stirring tidings yet
From Hasdrubal?

Phil.
Nero, we hear, has tracked
As closely as he dared, the lion's march;
And twice, they say, the lion turned upon him,
And sharply has chastised him.

Strat.
Who comes yonder?
Why, 'tis Silanus!

Phil.
Yea, his very self!
Our grave Sicilian friend arrived already!

Enter Silanus.
Ian.
Smiling, with all the old composure, down
On our inferior natures.—Hail, Silanus!
What, com'st thou from the army thus serene,
As one that saunters homeward from the baths?

Sil.
E'en from the baths I come.

Phil.
Thou hast lost no time.

Ian.
And Hannibal?

Sil.
Tarries without the walls
A moment longer, but will enter shortly.

Ian.
Well, then, thy news. Thou hast lived, since last we met,
Another chapter of that history
Thou mak'st thine idol next to Hannibal.
Tell us a page of it.

Sil.
Nay, I have heard
Important tidings since I passed these gates,
Which must eclipse my news of Hannibal.

Ian.
Now wilt thou condescendingly impart
Some trifle suited to our littleness;
For sometimes thy philosophy will deign
To know what passes in this foolish town.

Sil.
That is my duty, as the chronicler
And student of the times.

Ian.
Well, tell us then.

Sil.
'Tis a mysterious story that will charm thee—
Namely, that an Egyptian sorcerer
Has suddenly dropped down among you—none
Can tell from whence, from land, or sea, or sky—
Who shows his art in all the porticos,
Whose magic mirror is a drop of ink,
And matchless marvels are displayed therein.

Ian.
Haste, haste, Philemon! seek him out for me,
And fetch him hither! Is this all thy news?

Sil.
I have besides a tragic tale to tell thee,
Out of the very camp of Hannibal,
Which with delightful horror will excite
Thy feminine fancy—haply win thy tears.

Ian.
Oh! this is better still. Haste to unfold it.

Sil.
A mighty criminal is on his way
To gladden all the eyes of Metapontum
With a new spectacle.

Strat.
Pray thee explain.
Who is this criminal? What this spectacle?

Sil.
His public execution is the sight
I speak of; for his name—'tis one, in truth,
Well known to Metapontum.

Strat.
Tell us, then.

Sil.
What would you think if it should be your hero,
Your sometime governor—e'en Mutines?

[Ianthe screams.
Strat.
Hush! hush! Restrain thyself! Oh! by the gods!
He says he knows not what! It is not true.

Phil.
Thou hast well done, Silanus! Let's begone.

[Exit.
Strat.
Ay, go! [Claps her hands.]
Eunice! To thy mistress! Haste!

Ian.
Oh! stay, Silanus! Stay, I pray, one moment.
I must see Hannibal! I must! I will!
Oh! who knows but my prayers will move him? None
Has ever yet refused me, nor will he.
Go, find out where he is; then come for me,
And bring me to him. Haste, Silanus, haste!

Sil.
I dare not bid thee hope.

Ian.
But thou wilt do this!
Haste, or my heart will break.

Sil.
Well, thou shalt try
Thy fortune; but thou know'st not Hannibal.

[Exit.