 | Hannibal |  |
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ACT V.
Scene I.
—A gallery in the house of Gisco.Enter Gisco and a Senator.
Sen.
Oh, what a devil we have brought home to us,
With a high hand to overthrow the State!
What's this strange talk of his about reform?
Gis.
Reform, indeed! An idiotic word,
That ne'er was heard amongst us till this man,
That would be wiser than his grandsires, comes
To pull those ancient institutions down
Which had, methinks, worked well enough for them,
Which Aristotle praised, which made us great,
And can alone restore us to our greatness.
Sen.
A mere pretext for keeping up his power,
By winning favour with the common people—
Gis.
He calls it by that fine name, patriotism.
But we will not be governed by the people—
Thank heaven, we still have means to keep them down!
Oh, it enrages me to see that man
Play traitor to his order in this fashion,
To feed the grasping cravings of ambition.
And now, his ruinous defeat still fresh,
Comes this audacious talk about abuses—
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Charges 'gainst this and that man of corruption—
Odium brought down upon the magistrates,
And old-established profits cut away,
Till we, the merchant-princes of the sea,
Whose state and splendour in our way of life,
From Gades to Phœnicia is renowned,
Forsooth, must part with our magnificence,
Our daughters lack their portions, and our sons
No longer hold their State amongst the people,
Like sons of kings, as heretofore hath been;
And all because a conquered general,
After mishaps for which as worthy men
Have suffered, and less justly, crucifixion,
Usurps a station at our council-board,
And helps, forsooth, to govern us! Well, well,
The times are changed, I think, when we reward
Those that have ruined us.
Sen.
Why, by the gods,
Could we not rid us of this pest before?
The last and hatefulest of all his house—
A far worse enemy than Rome herself!
I would Rome had him!
Gis.
Ay, and wherefore not?
Tell me now, have you guessed these Roman envoys
Come with a secret errand, other than
That they have openly professed—th'adjustment
Of this our difference with King Masanissa?
Sen.
I had some faint suspicions, I will own.
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And have you stretched conjecture far enough
To guess what is that errand?
Sen.
Ay, thus far,
As that it touches Hannibal.
Gis.
It does.
Within this very hour I seek the envoys
To treat with them upon this very matter.
We had sent them private hints that Hannibal
Was treating with Antiochus already
For a fresh league 'gainst Rome. That was enough.
Straight come these legates on their secret mission.
Sen.
What, to demand that we expel him?
Gis.
More.
Sen.
That we should give him up to Rome?
Gis.
E'en so.
Sen.
By heaven! How face the fury of the mob?
You had almost been stoned for his dear sake
When you stepped forth so boldly to impeach him!
Gis.
Oh, never fear—they love themselves too well,
Not to prefer his loss, once out of sight,
To what we'll tell them we are threatened with
By Rome's displeasure—siege and massacre,
And what not—hanging o'er our heads through him.
But done it must be—ay, and speedily.
The council is unanimous; already
They've held their secret meeting in the Temple,
This business to decide; and nought remains
But to achieve the seizure.
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Are you sure
That he has no suspicion?
Gis.
None as yet;
He has shown himself in public fearlessly
This very day, and courteously saluted
The Roman legates. Oh, he guesses nothing!
But he must not be left another day
To find it out.
Sen.
Ah! on this very night, then!
Gis.
This very night. By midnight we shall send
A force sufficient to surround his house,
And bear down all resistance so surprised.
The Roman galleys in the inner harbour
Are ready to receive him, and set sail
Ere break of day, with the long wished-for prize.
Sen.
I scarcely shall breathe freely till 'tis done.
He's better out of Carthage—yes, much better.
We never can be friends with Rome, so long
As he is known to sway in our state councils.
They will not trust us.
Gis.
Nay, how should they? Now,
'Tis in our power to give convincing proof
Of our desire to win their confidence.
Therefore it must and shall be done. To-morrow
Will see us rid of our worst enemy,
And able to lie down at night in peace.
Come, it is time I should go seek the legates;—
Will you accompany my going thither?
[Exeunt Gisco and Senator.
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[Entering from behind a curtain.]
My lady shall know this! What will she say?
I think she'll weep, for sure she worships him.
[Exit.
Scene II.
—One of the principal streets of Carthage, crowded with chariots, elephants, horsemen, and foot passengers, &c.Enter Ada and Zilla disguised, carrying flowers.
Ada.
Oh, this great crowded street!
Zil.
Take courage, lady!
There's no one here takes you for what you are.
Would you but step a little boldlier forth!
The common people do not move so softly,
Nor look so terrified at every man
That brushes past them.
Ada.
Zilla, we are lost!
Surely—yes, surely—'tis my father yonder,
Coming towards us with three other men?
Zil.
'Tis he, indeed. Should he discover us,
For me, at very least, the scourge and dungeon,
And for thee, lady—
Ada.
Hush, O Zilla, hush!
We will but think of what we came to do.
Where shall we turn to?
Zil.
Slip beneath this archway—
He'll never notice us. Would he dream, think you,
That two poor flower-girls in the public streets
Could be his daughter and her handmaid? Ah,
Here he comes, lady! Sure enough, 'tis he!
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Ada.
The Romans, doubtless. Oh, my blood runs cold!
Zil.
He looks half cowed amongst his stern companions,
And 'tis no wonder, sure.
Enter Gisco and the Roman Legates, passing in front of the archway.
Gis.
This street we count
Our noblest. Doubtless, sirs, your city boasts
As splendid thoroughfares?
1st Leg.
Our city's boast
Is in the men that walk them.
Gis.
In your streets
The various dresses, languages, and products
Of other lands, we here encounter daily,
Would be a wonder, doubtless?
2nd Leg.
We behold them,
When conquering generals enter Rome in triumph.
[Gisco and the Roman Legates pass on.]
Zil.
Now we are safe! Now thou may'st come forth, lady.
Didst thou not tremble at those haughty strangers,
Lest they should find us out? One scowl of theirs
Had scattered all my wits.
Ada.
I scarce can stand;
Yet know not if I trembled most for fear
Or for abhorrence. Let me but take breath. ...
And now I will go on. Our time is short.
[Exeunt Ada and Zilla.
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Scene III.
—The house of Hannibal. A spacious hall, supported on pillars, from which a crowd of petitioners, &c., have just departed. Hannibal alone pacing slowly up and down.Han.
I would have saved them—it was not too late;
I would have healed their weakness—there was time;
But now 'tis over, and I must begone.
Enough! I've seen my father's house once more,
And found it coldly empty of the past
In all its stately, long-deserted space.
Am I the child that left it long ago,
Who now walk in a city of a dream,
Like one whose term of days by miracle
Is stretched beyond the natural life of man,
Who sees familiar generations die,
And stands a living statue of the past?
I have no friend in Carthage, save myself,
Nor elsewhere any friend. On Zama's field
I've left the last who loved me; happier they,
Than I who live without them. What of that?
What if the fiery iron of my soul
Must now grow cold? 'Twas hammered on the forge
Of destiny into a lasting shape,
And will not mould again. Thou know'st it, thou,
Hamilcar! that hast given three sons to Carthage!
Two of thy gifts are rendered back to thee,
But, oh! salute not yet thy Hannibal.
Father, my vow still chains me to the world,
And Rome and I must not part company.
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Pass in, and
You will find my lord alone.
[Ada and Zilla pass in through the pillars at the further end, and pause a moment.]
Zil.
[whispers.]
'Tis he himself! He paces, look! with arms
Folded. Oh, and now he has seen us, lady!
See, he approaches! God of light, what eyes!
Han.
I am he whom you seek. Speak your petition.
[Zilla withdraws.]
Ada.
O Hannibal!
Han.
Speak on, and fear not, lady.
If, as I guess, thou art not what thou seem'st,
Tell me what danger calls for this disguise?
Ada.
I cannot speak. .. Oh, pardon me, my lord! ..
I am the daughter of thine enemy—
Would he were not so!—Ada, Gisco's daughter—
But do not, do not for that cause mistrust me!
Han.
It would be strange could I mistrust that face.
Speak freely, lady—I but wait thy words.
Ada.
Indeed, 'tis life and death! You are betrayed!
Our council has betrayed you to the Romans!
You know not that these envoys have in truth
A secret charge to claim your own surrender.
This very day a plot is laid with them
At midnight to surround you in this house,
And to the Roman galleys yield you up,
Now anchored in the harbour. O my lord!
Do not despise my tale—beseech you do not. ..
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I own it was my father's lips revealed
This treason in my watchful handmaid's ears.
Pardon the traitor, but oh, save yourself!
Han.
Thanks, my true friend. You tell me what I know;
When Rome and Carthage meet to plot together,
'Tis easy guessed what man they plot against;
But I perceive, by that which you have told me,
My foes are not disposed to let time slip,
And I must hasten what I have to do.
Ada.
Oh, place yourself in safety, then!—now, now!
My lord, lose not a moment.
Han.
There is time;
And if there were not, I have means to die.
But tell me, do you put yourself in danger?
Will not your absence be discovered?
Ada.
No;
My faithful Zilla has planned all for me.
I have passed safely through my greatest danger.—
May I dare ask what refuge you will seek.
With whom take shelter?
Han.
With Antiochus.
Ada.
What—and leave Carthage? Thou wilt leave us, leave us!
Han.
Yes—I have taken counsel with my soul;
To serve my country, I have now no choice,
But to fly from her.
Ada.
Leave us! Wilt thou leave us?
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Say not for ever! Say thou wilt come back!
Han.
That must depend upon Antiochus.
If, as I little doubt, his plenitude
Of royal condescension will exalt
Rome's enemy to his high council table,
I yet may live to strike a blow for Carthage.
Ada.
And is it thus all heroes are rewarded?
Oh, that the lords of Carthage felt like me!
Why sprang I from a lineage I must blush for?
Han.
There is in thee that which might well redeem
The baseness of a hundred generations;
Let not the burden of such earthiness
Weigh down a spirit so ethereal.
Ada.
What can I do for Carthage?
Han.
Still remain
That which thou art, noble, and pure, and true—
So best thou honourest and serv'st thy country;
And so, the deep shame of the final ruin
Shall brand no burning stains upon thy conscience.
And as for me—if ever I again
Sit in my country's councils, or at least
May be permitted, from my place of exile,
To deal once more some deadly hurt to Rome,
I shall remember who it was who came
To save me one hope from the wreck of all.
Ada.
O Hannibal! of such an hour as this,
How from my childhood I have dreamed and dreamed.
That I, that I should serve thee!
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Were I still
The lord of thousands that held Rome in terror,
Be sure, with no more thankfulness of soul,
Would I owe life and liberty to thee,
Than now when life and liberty are all
That I am lord of.
Ada.
Oh, and what will be
The fate of Carthage?
Han.
Wherefore dost thou ask?
The first words of her sentence are pronounced—
May I not hear the last!
Ada.
Yet save us! save us!
Han.
Not from the farthest East will I forget you!
In house and field, in palace and in camp,
Fasting and feasting, waking or in sleeping,
I'll know no joy nor sorrow, save for Carthage.
Heart, brain, and arm shall work their last for her,
Ere in a wintry night of disappointment
The one dear hope, first kindled in my childhood,
For ever and for ever be extinguished.
Ada.
Tell me how that dear hope was kindled first!
Each word thou utterest, I shall treasure up.
Han.
What, must I tell thee of my childhood, Ada?
Like other childhoods it was rich in dreams,
Ripened by ripening manhood into hopes,
And crossed in middle age.
Ada.
Yet tell me more!
Thy childhood never could have been like others!
How wert thou made that which thou hast become?
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It was my happy fortune to be snatched,
In those first plastic years when minds are moulded,
From the soft pleasures of a Punic home.
Ada.
Thy mother—sister?
Han.
Were, and are but dreams.
My mother, from my father's austere worship,
In her soft youth had vanished goddess-like—
My scarce-known sister lived to be a bride,
Then soared in splendour from the world away.
The women of my race were formed of fire
Too subtle to burn long in grosser air;
The men were left to sterner destinies.
I am no Carthaginian in my nurture;
Reared on the stormy battle-fields of Spain,
My childhood grew to youth beneath the blaze
Of great examples; heroes were my friends,
And in the whirl of action, victory
And danger tracing out his path before him—
Still fierce and brilliant as his name of Lightning,
My father in his terrors flashed before me;
Yet oft as he could make a green oasis
Of rest around us, softened into love.
That was the love which vivifies the soul
It breathes on, and exalts it into purpose.
Him too I had, that other Hasdrubal,
The gentle, noble husband of my sister;
And then my brothers—as their childhood grew,
They followed next, to the stern school of Spain,
And drank from the same fount of living fire,
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Those were my loves—no treacherous tenderness,
With sad division, pleaded 'gainst esteem—
I never loved the heart I could not honour.
E'en in the vivid summer of my life,
When beauty dazzled fancy into passion,
My soul has turned away unsatisfied,
To lay its homage on austerer shrines.
But all of those I worshiped in my youth,
Hamilcar and his house, one after one,
All save myself, have perished by the sword.
Ada.
Oh, thou wert left, that mission to accomplish,
For which their holy lives were offered up!
Han.
Ada, since thou hast asked me of my childhood,
My heart is inly moved to tell thee that
I never yet have told to living ears—
The first, the holiest secret of my life—
So much the wistful fervour of thine eyes
Is answered by the deep trust of my soul.
Ada.
How shall I thank thee? Speak on, I beseech thee.
Han.
Thou knowest, perhaps, that I was but a child,
When to those Spanish wars that were his last,
My father—to unwilling peace with Rome
By evil fate constrained—for the last time,
Sailed from his country's harbour. Ere he parted,
He held a solemn public sacrifice
To all the gods of Carthage. I was present,
That day, with all his household. By my side,
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We, the three lion-whelps my father vowed
To rear for Rome's destruction, stood together,
And watched with childish curiosity,
And childish reverence, the sacred rites.
And well, too, I remember how I thought
The mighty music, which at every pause
Came pealing out of darkness, was the voice
Of all the gods, calling us forth to war,
And guessed how anxiously my father's heart
Must thrill and swell within him to obey it.
The victim slain—the omens found propitious—
The sacred offering on the altar laid—
And, lastly, the libation duly poured
By his own hand upon the sacrifice—
My father, on a sudden, turning him
To his armed captains that around him stood,
Bade them withdraw themselves a little space,
And called me, through the silence, with a voice
Whose half-stern pathos still I seem to hear,
To stand beside him. Then, in tones so low
That no one else could catch the words he spake,
He asked me, would I go with him to Spain?
Instantly, with a childish eagerness,
I prayed that he would take me to the wars.
Thereat, with something too of a sad smile,
To hear my answer, did he bid me lay
My hand upon the altar, and there swear
Never to cease from hatred of the Romans.
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Bowing to a religious destiny,
Felt its wild fancies cluster round one theme.
I swore, and never have forgot my vow;
Then, least of all, when, in the hall of council,
I called on Carthage to make peace with Rome.
Not less my life's one burning vision then
Glared on my soul, than on that other hour,
When, at my feet, like a spent thunderbolt,
Frowned the pale horror of my brother's head.
Ada.
O Hannibal! I wept, I wept for him.
Alas! my lord, would I could comfort thee!
Would I could die to bring thee back thy brother!
Han.
Not for the slain, the slain ones of my house,
Not for Hamilcar, nor for Hasdrubal,
Nor Mago, waste again those holy tears.
I would not wish them to be living now.
Yet foolish words!—had he been living now,
All this had never happened.—Gods of Carthage!
Did you, who look upon me now, inspire
That summer-night dream, on the tented field—
The dream I dreamed in Spain, the golden Spain,
That saw me glorious with a thousand hopes
The dream which guided me like prophecy,
Betwixt the sparkling turrets of the Alps,
And through their white eternity of sleep?
I never shuddered, in the chill sublime,
Wherein strong soldier hearts did die away,
And the great elephants like infants pined,
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A sign for wondering ages yet to come—
I gazed with love upon the cold, pale blue,
That veiled the promised land; mine eyes did rove
Through labyrinths of ice to seek the sun,
And still I felt in spirit warm as if
My own sweet south blew o'er me. 'Twas my dream,
My lovely lying dream, by which the gods
Set their own awful seal on my life's vow—
Lovely, and yet a lie.
Ada.
What was that dream?
Han.
My dream? A mere creation of my purpose,
Which heard the message of the gods in sleep,
No less than waking, with its breathless zeal,
Listening for the least whisper of their will.
'Twas on the night after I left New Carthage,
Flushed with my late won triumph o'er Saguntum,
And marching for the Ebro. It was May,
Just deepening into June; my sleeping camp
Lay cradled in the shadow of the hills,
And I, the last, slept too. 'Twas then, methought,
The guardian deity of my father's house,
With a subdued yet godlike exultation,
Called me to enter the vast council hall
Of all the gods of Carthage. There they sat,
High on their thrones of State, pale presences,
Sublime and silent as the mountain tops;
But when I entered, broke from the whole throng,
As with a trumpet-voice, their awful charge
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And one of them, methought—I knew not how—
Stepped forth to guide me. As I followed him,
I heard him say, “See thou look not behind.”
And on I went, pursuing the clear star
Of my far hope, till my impatient soul
Broke through his bidding, and I looked behind.
Ada.
What saw'st thou, then?
Han.
In dreamlike imagery,
That which I've seen since then with waking eyes;
I saw the desolation of Italia.
Shaped like a giant serpent, it rolled on,
Swift, pitiless, resistless, o'er her fair
Expanse of harvests; and, where'er it passed,
A blurred and blotted picture of the land
Lay grey behind me. But my guide cried out,
“Pass on thy way, and never look behind.”
So have I done, through all my waking life,
And what has come of it?
Ada.
And yet that life,
So great, so changeful, and so marvellous,
Must have been more than happy. Thou hast never
Longed to turn backward?
Han.
Never.
Ada.
Oh, my lord!
Time flies! The sun is setting!
Han.
The last sun
That through my father's halls will shine on me!
It lingers but to crown thy brow with fire.
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Waste not, no longer waste these hours of danger!
Han.
Fear not for me; take heed now for thyself.
Ada.
How soon, then, may I dare to think thee safe?
Han.
So soon as falls the darkness I take horse,
The fleetest of my fleet Numidian steeds,
And count on lighting, ere the dawn of day,
At my own country mansion by the sea,
At Thapsos. There must I take ship to Tyre,
To Tyre, the fountain of our race—to Tyre,
The fallen mother of a fallen child;
There, when mine eyes take their farewell of Afric,
I will imagine that I hear thy voice
Wish Hannibal good fortune in the East.—
And now, what future, Ada, shall be thine?
Young as thou art, child of mine enemy,
I am proud, fair creature, thou art born of Carthage!
But tell me, must I have to think of thee
Enslaved by wedlock ties to any soul,
So pitiful as these with whom thou livest?
Be faithful to thy country; marry nobly,
To be the star of all her matronhood,
And mother of her heroes.
Ada.
Never! Never!
I'll take no husband, whilst my country lives
Widowed of hope, of glory, and of thee!
Henceforth, a priestess to the temple vowed,
I will devote my life, from morn till eve,
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Without one hope, save the dear thought of thee—
Han.
Poor child! and if that visionary thought
Should wed thee to vain hopes of my return,
Still, o'er the long, long distance that divides us,
Mine eyes shall seem, whene'er they turn to Carthage,
To meet with thine, and we shall talk together;
And, numbered now with his few precious things,
The memory of these thy tears shall follow
The heart of Hannibal to exile.
Ada.
Zilla—
Han.
I have no gift wherewith to pay them back,
Except my thanks .....
Ada.
They shall be treasured up!
Han.
And this memorial of my happier days!
This ring—of all the rings that Carthage bids
Her soldiers wear for every year of war,
The one I prize the most—shall leave this finger,
For Ada's sake, till I return to claim it.
Ada.
And this—which year is this for?
Han.
'Tis for Cannæ.—
And now, upon one passionate parting moment,
Worth a whole lifetime of the love that's wasted
On a less perfect purity and beauty—
My soul must spend its all of tenderness,
And never melt again. In this one kiss,
A thousand, and a thousand times, I bless thee,
Dear child! that weepest by thy country's grave,
Rich in thy treasure of a noble sorrow,
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And yet again I bless thee, that thou art
The revelation of a womanhood
I never thrilled to recognize till now!
And so to that last tenderness farewell!
That dear emotion which to-day has taught me
All softness died not from my heart for ever,
When my heart's love, my heart's own brother died!—
And now—yes, Ada ... Ada ... we must part!
Farewell, beloved! and farewell to Carthage!
| Hannibal | |