Hannibal A Drama [Part 1] |
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Scene I.
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 | Hannibal |  |
Scene I.
—Apulia. The camp of Hannibal at Canusium.Enter Hannibal, going the round of the camp, accompanied by Silanus. Bruttian Soldiers, round a fire, are watching a Magician.
Han.
[Pauses.]
Hark! 'tis the murmur of the Aufidus.
Sil.
Still heard across the murmur of the camp;
A music echoing from the Apennines,
Which lonely Vultur lifts his fierce old head
To listen for, as it goes clamouring by—
Much softened from its angry winter-roar,
But yet unsilenced by the summer sun.
Thou'lt be far hence e'er then, we'll humbly trust;
Ere these wide pastures wear the tawny tint
Of Cannæ's burning August, and yon stream
Shall lazily unwind along the plain
A tiny silver thread, may we not hope,
With a new Cannæ thou'lt be busy elsewhere?
Who knows what deeds thy Hasdrubal e'en now
Is adding to the sum of your renowns,
Whilst we, far off, can catch no sound of them?
Han.
Far off, yet never have I felt him closer.
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Happy for Carthage that in you she sees,
In glaring breach of one of earth's pet laws,
The rare descent of a great father's soul,
Not merely to one son—and that's scarce seen—
But to a pair of them—nay, I'll say three;
For Mago has in him the fire divine,
By tokens unmistakeable, though as yet
The sparkles break irregularly forth.
Han.
We were all like each other from our childhood;
But Hasdrubal, the next to me in age,
Was more entirely one with me in spirit.
A separate influence has been still at work,
From early youth, on Mago's troubled soul,
Perplexing much his course of action, and
Clouding the sunshine of his best successes.
Sil.
Thou mean'st his hopeless love for Sophonisba,
That bride betrothed, and beauty, from her cradle.
I never held with him an intercourse
So close as with thyself and Hasdrubal,
So often was he absent then from Spain;
Yet, knowing of his history, have watched,
With somewhat of a curious sympathy,
The outward workings of that passionate dream,
O'er which he brooded then, and still broods now,
With obstinate and unconsoled devotion—
How the boy's worship of the queenly child
Became the youth's heroic inspiration,
And, last, th'accustomed yoke of man's despair.
Han.
That love has followed him like his evil genius;
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Home to my heart the Mago of my youth,
The same who crossed the Alps so gaily with me—
The same who burst at Trebia on the rout
Of Rome's astounded legion, like their doom—
The same who hastened with such happy zeal
To bear the news of Cannæ home to Carthage;
But, noble as he is, and ever must be,
An influence, one like Sophonisba's father,
Could ne'er have exercised on such as Mago,
But for this fatal spell, has hitherto
Cramped his fierce energies, and fretted sore
The finer part of his heroic nature.
Far elsewise has it been with Hasdrubal,
The singleness of whose career and aims
Kept pace in Spain with mine in Italy,
And formed as close a tie betwixt our souls,
As that betwixt the lightning and the thunder.
Sil.
To my mind's eye you picture such a group
As I behold in yonder pines, which spread,
The same in form and hue, their sombre tops
Across white clouds, and yellow moon new-risen,
Like Titans lifting up their iron shields—
Three of them, but the third one bends apart—
Lo! as I live, the wonderful Egyptian,
The newest mystery of Metapontum!
See there! The soldiers with their eager eyes
Devour his awful countenance. What brings
The honour of his presence to thy camp?
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Watch we awhile what passes. For the moment
They see me not, they are so rapt in him.
A Sold.
This laughing lad here, he will serve thy purpose.
He's a sharp-witted Greek, fresh from Crotona.
Come forward, Hiero—do what he bids thee.
Mag.
Be not afraid, there's nothing here to harm thee.
Hold forth thy hand; see, I let fall therein
The magic ink-drop. All is ready now.
What he sees there, let him describe to you.
But, first, whose portrait do you ask of me?
Living or dead, this lad shall look upon him.
Another Sold.
Let it be Hasdrubal. He is the man
We look for, and we talk of, day and night.
Mag.
Look in the ink, and tell us what thou seest.
Boy.
I see a brush, without a hand to hold it,
Sweeping the ground. It disappears, and now
I see a crowd of tents, and flags, and men
On foot and horseback. Some are dressed in white
And scarlet.
2nd Sold.
Ay, the Spanish infantry.
He'll bring us thousands more of them from Spain.
Boy.
And here are some Numidians swarming in;
They dart on their swift horses to and fro,
Like flights of dark birds hovering o'er the plain,
And throwing forth their spears as if for sport,
And some, long-haired and fair-faced, like our Gauls,
Are drinking, and some sleeping.
3rd Sold.
Villains all!
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And where is Hasdrubal?
Mag.
Whisper down to them,
“My master greets you well, and bids you bring
The Punic Hasdrubal, Hamilcar's son,
Into his magic mirror.”
Boy.
Here he is!
This must be he! On a tall horse he comes,
And slowly rides towards me. Now he turns
And speaks to some one—now he points his hand
As to a distant object—now I see
His features plainly. Why, 'tis Hannibal!
No, there's a difference.
3rd Sold.
What, then, is he like?
Describe him to us.
Boy.
He is tall, like him,
Yet somewhat slightlier built—a comely head,
And yet 'tis less majestic than my lord's—
And yet I know not, but he carries it
With a more fierce and glowing eagerness—
Swarthy, like him, but a more burning brown.
When he turns sideways, then he seems less like.
Sil.
[Aside to Hannibal.]
'Tis true, the portrait is exact, so far.
4th Sold.
Come, tell us more.
Boy.
He knits his straight black brows—
His eyes keep flashing, now this way, now that.
He watches something—oh, it grows so dark!
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Mag.
Wait. Light will soon appear.
Boy.
Yes, now a red streak burns along the sky,
And light falls on his figure standing still.
Oh, now he turns! He looks so sad and fierce,
And seems to listen gloomily. He smiles!
A strange and sudden smile like Hannibal's.
Sil.
That's a true touch too.
1st Sold.
Ay, that looks like battle.
Boy.
Now all's confusion. I discern no more
The form of Hasdrubal. What does it mean?
There seems a sort of mist, and fighting shadows
Gliding within it—forms like elephants
Seem to rush heavily on every side,
Trampling down all before them. Horrible!
5th Sold.
Come, foolish lad! If thus thou shudderest
To watch a mimic battle, how wouldst feel
Were it a real one?
Boy.
Now 'tis clear again.
Now I see nothing but a warrior stretched
Along the ground, whose face is hidden from me,
And by him gazing stand two grave, stern men,
Each wearing scarlet cloaks above their armour.
5th Sold.
Why, those are Roman generals. By the gods!
This fellow has a mind to frighten us
With his mysterious pictures. Look again,
And tell us if thou now discern'st the face.
Boy.
No—all is vanished. Is there nothing more?
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This spectacle is finished. Thou mayst raise
Thine eyes again.
Soldiers.
[Clamouring together.]
Hast thou come here to mock us?—
What mean'st thou by thy lying drop of ink?—
Interpret this, thou juggling greybeard, straightway,
Or limb from limb we'll rend thee!—Dost thou dare
To mock us to our faces?
Mag.
Know you not,
That I myself pretend not to explain
The meaning of the visions that I show,
By the fixed laws of my world-ancient art?
These things are secrets into which my skill
Strives not to penetrate. My hand puts forth
Its cunning, with mechanical obedience
To those few simple rules my master taught me,
But why th'effects should follow that you see,
My understanding can no more conceive,
Than of the other mysteries of nature,
Such as the growth of seed to flower and fruit,
Or life and death itself, greatest of all.
Doubtless there have been men whose mighty minds
Pierced deeper through these wonders than mine own,
And by their knowledge, ignorantly thus
I profit; more than this I cannot tell you.
Sold.
Tear him in pieces! Trample him under foot!
Han.
[Advancing.]
Nay, touch him not! What mischief can he do,
Forsooth, to you, or me, or Hasdrubal,
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I bid you keep him a safe prisoner,
Till such time as our Hasdrubal himself
Shall come to read this mighty riddle for us,
And laugh at your perplexities. Fear nothing;
He cannot harm you, therefore harm him not.
[The Soldiers relinquish their hold of the Magician, and return to their places.]
Sil.
Thou art not superstitious, Hannibal,
Else wouldst thou vex thyself to penetrate
The meaning of this cunning mystery.
Han.
Nay, I reserve myself to question him
At mine own time, if he perchance have gathered
Some floating rumour that may prove half true,
Some hint of Hasdrubal's still unguessed movements,
That may concern me somewhat. For the rest,
Too urgent and too human is life's business
To wait on signs and omens.
Sil.
And in thee
The gods themselves have but a reverent son,
Never, I think, a slave.
Han.
If dread be slavish.
Sil.
Yet brave must be the faith which can embrace,
Serenely, the conception of those terrors
Wherewith the ritual of your Syrian worship
Still shrouds, to earthly eyes, the powers divine—
Though shorn of its old favourite ornament,
The human sacrifice. Your faith, it seems,
Finds there no menace, but an inspiration,
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Han.
I know not if the gloomy soul of Carthage
Hath figured deity aright; for me,
I am what the religion of my youth
Has made me. Though its form, perhaps, be changed,
The passion of its loyalty gone by,
Its purpose and devotion are the same.
I hear the gods' voice in my heart alone,
Nor seek a sign from heaven, save that which came
Betimes to me, as still it comes to all
Who follow the first whisper of their genius;
A few steps forward in a perfect faith,
And then a strong wind lifts the spirit up,
And bears us on with twice our human speed—
'Tis we no more—it is the deity.
And if at times there falls upon the soul
That's so possessed, a shadow of great sadness,
An awful lonely consciousness of power,
We feel but more assured the god is with us.
Some, doubtless, have fallen headlong from such heights
Dizzied as by the mighty eagle-wings
That flap around the solitary head
Of some bewildered climber of the Alps.
But no such fiend hath yet assailed my soul.
Sil.
My brain can comprehend and can admire
This the fanatic passion of your being;
My heart meanwhile is cold—so paralyzed
To such emotions, earthly science holds
No medicine to revivify its powers.
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Nor would have others like me. What you are,
With something of the artist's sense I see,
Who copies with his pencil, not his actions—
But since you stray not after signs and omens,
Tell me what found you on the haunted shore
Of the ne'er-fathomed, sad Campanian lake,
When you did homage to th'infernal gods,
Above the very kingdom of the dead?
What saw, what found you, other than you sought—
A politic mask to hide your purposed spring
At near Puteoli?
Han.
When I returned
To the blue sky and sun, as back to life,
I came from such communion with the dead,
As nature offers us in chosen hours
And chosen places; and that circle gray
Hollowed deep in the voice-subduing shade
Of forest-blackened hills, by fires that now
Are known but through the cinders of the past,
Was to my spirit even as a gate,
Out of the pent-up prison of this life,
Into the vastness of the other world,
Where fancy moved awhile in awe, not fear.
Sil.
To those who waited on your sacrifice,
You seemed, no doubt, to brave a very host
Of venerable terrors—birds that drop,
Dead from the poisoned air—lamenting cries—
Infernal music from the waters' depths,
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Doubtless, they questioned, with believing eyes,
The mystery that solemnized your brow,
And read therein a message from the dead.
Han.
Now to the quarter of the Gauls. Wilt follow?
[Exeunt Hannibal and Silanus.
| Hannibal | |