Chapter V: Act IV: Scene I

_They sound to arms with great vehemence, and at the alarm
there enter on the stage SCIPIO, JUGURTHA, and CAIUS MARIUS._

SCIPIO.

What meaneth this? Who sounds the call to arm
At such a time, my captains? Have ye found
Some maddened straggling men, who to their harm
Would seek a sepulchre within this ground?
Or hath some mutiny the war alarm
Provoked with such an urgent, deafening sound?
For this proud foe I hold so firmly now
I have more terror of the friend, I vow.

_Enter QUINTUS FABIUS, with sword unsheathed._

QUINTUS FABIUS.

Calm, prudent general, thine angry mood,
For this my blade doth know the cause right well,
Which now hath cost thee many a soldier good,
Of those who most in manliness excel.
Two Numantines, with pride and daring rude,
Whose deeds of courage my applause compel,
O'erleaping the wide ditch and battled height,
Have waged within thy camp a cruel fight.
They sallied through our guards and pickets first,
To face a thousand spears in open fray,
And dealt their blows with such a fury curst,
That to our very camp they hewed their way;
Into Fabricius' tent with rage they burst,
And made of strength and valour such display,
That in an instant six stout men and true
Were by their deadly steel pierced through and through.
Ne'er did the burning bolt with speedier flight
Cleave in its onward course the smitten air;
Ne'er did the meteor, with its stream of light,
More quickly pass athwart the heavens fair;
Than passed these two, exulting in their might,
Through middle of thy host, and soaked the bare
Hard ground with Roman blood, which forth did stream
Where'er their flashing swords were seen to gleam.
With breast pierced through the bold Fabricius lay;
Horatius fell with head cleft to the brain;
Olmida lost his right arm in the fray,
And little hope of life doth now remain;
Our brave Estatius made a full display
Of all his lithesome vigour, but in vain,
For as he ran the Numantine to meet,
His passage on to death was still more fleet.
With speed of lightning, hurrying where they may,
They ran from tent to tent, until they found
Some scraps of biscuit, which they seized as prey.
With fury, still unquenched, they turned them round;
The one escaped by flight and got away,
A thousand swords made t'other bite the ground;
Whence I infer that hunger made them bold,
And raised their daring to a pitch untold.

SCIPIO.

If worn with hunger, shut in utterly,
They show such daring and such martial ire,
What would they not have done, remaining free,
With all their strength and ardour still entire?
Unvanquished now, yet vanquished shall ye be,
For all your reckless fury will expire,
When matched against our prudence and our skill,
Which have the power to crush the proudest will.

[_Exeunt SCIPIO and his men, and presently they sound
to arms in the town, and MORANDRO enters wounded
and streaming with blood, with a little white
basket on his left arm, containing a small piece of
biscuit stained with blood, and says_:

MORANDRO.

Com'st them not, Leoncio, say?
Friend, what hath befallen thee?
If thou comest not with me,
How can I without thee stay?
Friend, where art thou, tell me, where?
Dying? dead? Alas! to grieve me,
Never, never wouldst thou leave me,
It was I who left thee there!
Can it be that thou art lost,
All thy flesh in pieces torn,
Tokens of the price forlorn
Which this bread of mine hath cost?
Why did not that fatal blow,
Which hath laid thee with the dead,
Rather fall upon my head,
Take my life, and end my woe?
But the Fates, in cruel mood,
Would not have me thus to die;
Gave me greater misery,
Gave to thee the higher good!
Thou wilt bear the palm for ever,
Of the lealest, truest friend;
And to thee my soul I'll send,
To excuse my rash endeavour;
Quickly, for a craving dread
Lures me on my death to meet
At my dearest Lyra's feet,
Giving her this bitter bread;
Bread, which from the foe was taken,--
Taken? 'Tis more precious food,
Purchased with the very blood
Of two friends, by luck forsaken.

[_LYRA enters with some robes, which she is taking to
be burned, and says_:

LYRA.

What is this mine eyes behold?

MORANDRO.

Him, whom soon no more thou'lt see,
For my pains are crushing me
With a speed I cannot hold.
Ended, Lyra, is the strife,
And my promise kept have I,
That thou shouldst not have to die
While I have one spark of life.
Even better might I say,
That thou soon wilt come to know,
How thy strength with food will grow,
And my life will pass away.

LYRA.

What say'st thou, Morandro dear?

MORANDRO.

Lyra, thou wilt lose thy hunger
While, by fate in cruel anger,
Life I lose, and end it here.
But my blood so freely poured,
Mingled with the bread ye eat,
Will, belovèd one and sweet,
But a bitter meal afford.
Here thou hast the bread well-guarded
By full eighty thousand fiends;
And which cost two faithful friends
Life, and all they most regarded.
Love, that so for thee hath bled,
Well, my lady, may'st thou cherish;
I, that love thee so, must perish,
And Leoncio lieth dead.
My affection pure and bright,
Take it with thy hand of love,
That is food all price above,
And will give thee most delight.
Since in hours of joy and dole
Thou hast been my love, I vow,
Take, O take my body now,
As thou hast received my soul.

[_He falls dead, and LYRA gathers him in the folds of
the robes._

LYRA.

O Morandro, sweetest one,
How art thou, what dost thou feel?
How hath all thy strength of steel
Passed away, and been undone?
Woe is me, and is it true
That my spouse is lying dead?
O event of direst dread,
That misfortune ever knew!
Who hath made thee, sweetest friend,
Having excellence supreme,
Valiant lover to extreme,
Luckless soldier at the end?
Thou didst sally to the strife,
Husband mine, in such a way,
That to give my death delay
Thou hast robbed me of my life!
O thou bread, with blood bestained,
Which for me was freely shed,
I do not esteem thee bread,
It is poison I have gained!
To my mouth I'll carry thee,
Not to give me nourishment,
But to kiss, to my content,
That dear blood which flowed for me!

[_At this point there enters a youth, speaking in an
exhausted way, who is the brother of LYRA._

_Brother._

Lyra, sister, pained am I,
For my sire is dead and gone,
And my mother, left alone,
Dieth now as I must die!
Hunger fell hath laid them low;
Sister mine, and hast thou bread?
Bread, how slowly hast thou sped,
For I cannot taste thee now!
Hunger makes my throat to shrink
With such rigour, though the bread
Were as water pure instead,
Not one droplet could I drink!
Take it to thee, sister dear,
For, my senses to confound,
Now I see the bread abound,
Whilst my life is ebbing here!

[_He falls down dead._

LYRA.

Brother dear, and art thou gone?
Neither breath nor life hath he;
Ill is good in some degree
When it cometh all alone.
Fortune, wherefore dost thou grieve me,
With one loss and then another?
Wherefore at one time together
Orphan, widow, dost thou leave me?
O thou cruel Roman host!
How thy sword doth gird me round
With two corpses on the ground,
Spouse and brother, both are lost!
Sweetest husband, tender brother,
You I'll match in loving well,
For in heaven or in hell
Soon I'll see the one and other!
In the manner of my death
I to part from you am loath;
For the sword and hunger both
Have to take my latest breath.
Rather will I give my breast
Point of dagger, than this bread;
For to one who lives in dread
Death is gain and sweetest rest.
Am I coward, can it be?
Arm of mine, what dost thou fear?
Sweetest husband, brother dear,
I am coming, wait for me!

[_At this point there enters a woman flying, and behind
her a Numantian soldier with a short sword in his
hand to kill her._

_Woman._

Eternal Sire! O Jove compassionate!
Protect me in this dire extremity!

_Soldier._

Although thou hurry with a speed more great,
Beneath my ruthless hand thou hast to die!

[_Exit the woman, and LYRA says_:

LYRA.

Thy cutting sword, thy warlike arm of weight,
On _me_ their fatal power, good soldier, try;
Let her who prizes life with life remain,
And take mine own, for it is full of pain!

_Soldier._

Although it is the Senate's stern command,
That not one woman shall in life abide,
Where shall we find the bold audacious hand
Who would not from thy beauty turn aside?
I, lady, am not one of such a band,
Nor do I wish to be thy homicide;
Some other hand and sword must strike for me,
For I was born alone to worship thee.

LYRA.

This mercy which to me thou dost extend,
O valiant soldier, I do swear to thee,
And Heaven above its seal to this will lend,
That I esteem it harshest cruelty!
I would have held thee as a very friend,
If with a steady hand and courage free
Thou hadst transpierced my heart, so full of woes,
And brought my wretched being to a close.
But since thou wilt thy pity now bestow,
Against my wish, and to increase my gloom,
Then to my wretched spouse like pity show,
And help me now to bear him to his tomb:
Take thou my brother too, who lieth low
Upon the ground, cut off with life in bloom;
My husband went to death to save my life,
While hunger bore my brother from the strife.

_Soldier._

To all that thou requirest I adhere,
Provided on the way thou wilt relate
What brought thy loving spouse, and brother dear,
To this the last extremity of fate.

LYRA.

My friend, I have no strength to speak, I fear.

_Soldier._

Art thou exhausted? Is thy pain so great?
Bear thou thy brother, for the load is less;
And I thy spouse; it giveth more distress.

[_Exeunt, bearing the two bodies._

SCENE II.

_Here enters a woman armed with a shield on the left arm, and
a short lance in her hand, who represents WAR; along with her
comes SICKNESS, leaning on a crutch, her head swathed with
bandages, wearing a yellow mask; and HUNGER follows, clad in a
robe of yellow buckram, wearing a yellow or discoloured mask;
these figures may be represented by men, as they wear masks._

WAR.

Hunger and Sickness, ministers most dire
Of my commands, which make the world to quail!
Of life and health devourers in your ire,
With whom nor cries, nor threats, nor rights avail!
Since ye are cognisant of my desire,
It needs not that again I tell the tale,
How pleasure and content will fill my breast,
If quickly ye fulfil my stern behest.
The Fates, with that inexorable might,
Whose energy none living can impair,
Constrain me now my forces to unite
With these sagacious Roman soldiers there,
Who for a time will rise to glory's height,
While those poor Spaniards perish in despair;
But time will come when I shall change it all,
Will smite the mighty, and assist the small.
For I, who am the great and powerful War,
(By countless mothers all in vain abhorred,
Though he who curses me at times errs far,
Unconscious of the worth that owns me lord)
Do know right well that through all lands that are
Shall flash the valour of the Spanish sword,
At that sweet season when shall rule the land
A Charles, a Philip, and a Ferdinand.

SICKNESS.

If Hunger now, our true and trusty friend,
Had not so swiftly done her work and well,
And made her homicidal power extend
O'er all the folk that in Numantia dwell,
Thy will through me would have secured its end,
In such an easy manner as to swell
The rich reward the Roman will obtain,
Much better far than what he hopes to gain.
Though Hunger, in so far as she hath sway,
Now holds the Numantines in such a strait,
That shut and barred is every open way
Of happy exit from their adverse fate,
Yet Fury's falchion, with its fearful play,
The adverse sign with its tremendous weight,
Within their midst with such a rigour reign,
There is no need of hunger or of pain.
Fierce rage and madness, thy attendant brood,
Have taken foul possession of each breast,
And thirst with equal relish for their blood,
As if they did the Roman's grim behest.
Fire, fury, slaughter are their chiefest good,
To die--they reckon of all fates the best;
To snatch the triumph from the Roman bands,
Themselves will perish by their very hands.

HUNGER.

Now turn your eyes, and see the flaming fire,
That blazes from the tall roofs of the town!
List to the fearful sighings that expire
From thousand breasts, while they their terror drown!
Hark to the wailings terrible and dire
Of beauteous women, who to death go down;
Their tender limbs in flame and ashes lie,
No father, friend, or love to heed their cry!
As timid sheep, upon their careless way,
Whom some ferocious wolf attacks and drives,
Go hurrying hither, thither, all astray,
With panting dread to lose their simple lives;
So, fleeing from the swords upraised to slay,
Do these poor children, and these tender wives,
Run on from street to street, O fate insane!
To lengthen out their certain death, in vain.
Within the breast of his belovèd bride
The husband sheathes his keen and glittering brand;
Devoid of pity, and of filial pride,
The son against the mother turns his hand;
The father, casting clemency aside,
Against his very offspring takes his stand,
And while with furious thrusts to death they bleed,
He finds a piteous pleasure in the deed!
No square, or street, or mansion can be found,
That is not filled with blood and with the dead;
The sword destroys, the fierce fire blazes round,
And Cruelty with fearsome step doth tread!
Soon will ye see upon the level ground
The strongest and the loftiest turrets spread,
The humble dwellings, and the temples high,
Shall turn to dust and ashes by and by!
Come, ye shall see how in the bosoms dear
Of tender children and belovèd wife
Theogenes, with courage all austere,
Doth prove the temper of his cruel knife;
And when the deadly work is over here,
So little recks he of his wearied life,
He seeks for Death, and by a mode unknown,
Which causes other ruin than his own!

WAR.

Now let us go; and see that each prepare
To do his proper work within this spot;
To what I say give undivided care,
Nor swerve from my intention by one jot.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

[_THEOGENES enters with two young SONS and a daughter
and their MOTHER._

THEOGENES.

If love paternal hath no longer sway
To check the fearful deed which I intend;
Think, O my sons, if I can now give way,
When thoughts of honour with my purpose blend!
O poignant is the grief, the sore dismay,
We feel when Life must have a sudden end;
But mine is more, since I by Fate's decree
Your cruel executioner must be!
Ye shall not live, O children of my soul,
To be the Romans' slaves, nor shall their power,
However much it rage beyond control,
Above our lives and yours in triumph tower.
The shortest road which leadeth to the goal
Of our dear Liberty in this sad hour,
Which Heaven offers us with piteous breath,
Conducts us only to the arms of Death.
Nor thou, dear consort, sweetest of thy race,
Shalt suffer peril from the Roman bands;
Nor shall they soil thy modesty and grace
With eyes lascivious, or with ruthless hands!
My sword shall snatch thee from this foul disgrace,
Their schemes shall baffled be by my commands,
And this shall be the guerdon of their lust,
To triumph o'er Numantia in the dust!
Thou, dear, belovèd consort, it was I
Who first advised that we, with one accord,
Should rather perish than as cravens lie
Beneath the terror of the Roman sword;
I will not therefore be the last to die,
Nor shall my children here.

_Wife._

If, good my lord,
There were some other way to set us free,
Then Heaven knows how happy I should be!
But since it cannot be, to my regret,
And since my road to death is near and plain,
Keep back the brutal Roman sword, and let
The trophy of our lives with thee remain.
Though death be sure, it is my pleasure yet
To die within Diana's sacred fane;
Good husband, lead us, and in loving ire
Consign us to the sword, the rope, the fire!

THEOGENES.

So may it be, nor let our steps be slow,
For cruel Fate doth urge me on to death.

_Son._

Why weepest, mother? Whither do we go?
Stay, stay, I am so faint, I have no breath!
My mother, let us eat, 'tis better so,
For me this bitter hunger wearyeth.

_Mother._

Come to my arms, my darling sweet and good,
And I to thee will give thy death for food!

[_Exeunt, and two lads enter flying, one of whom is
he who will hurl himself from the tower, called
VIRIATO, the other SERVIO._

VIRIATO.

Servio, whither shall we fly?

SERVIO.

I will go the way thou shewest.

VIRIATO.

Come, how lazily thou goest!
Dost thou wish that both should die?
Sad one, look behind, before,
Thousand swords pursue to slay!

SERVIO.

Never can we get away,
'Tis for us a task too sore.
Tell me, what dost thou desire?
Tell me, and I shall decide.

VIRIATO.

I shall run, and straightway hide
In the turret of my sire.

SERVIO.

Friend, 'tis well for thee to go,
But I cannot, worn and weary,
And the road so long and dreary,
Hunger gnaws and pains me so.

VIRIATO.

Wilt thou not?

SERVIO.

O leave me here.

VIRIATO.

If thou canst no longer fly,
Here, alas, thou hast to die,
Slain by hunger, sword, or fear!
Go I must, for much I dread
All that robs me of my life;
Be it fire or cruel knife
Which would lay me with the dead!

[_Exit, and THEOGENES enters with two drawn swords, his
hands bloody, and as SERVIO sees him come he flees
and goes behind._

THEOGENES.

O blood, that from my very bosom flows,
Since thou belongest to my children dear;
O hand, which wounds thyself with deadly blows,
Replete with honour and with might austere;
Thou Fortune, who art privy to our woes;
Ye Heavens, devoid of pity or of cheer,
Afford me now, in this my bitter lot,
Some glorious, speedy death upon the spot!
O valiant Numantines, take ye account
That some perfidious Roman foe am I,
Avenge within my bosom your affront,
And in its blood your hands and weapons dye!

[_He hurls one sword from his hand._

Of these two swords take one, and quick confront
My fury wild, my grief that rageth high;
For, dying in the fight, we will not know
The keenest rigour of the final blow!
And he who cuts the other's vital thread,
Let him, in token of the favour free,
Entomb within the flame the wretched dead,
A duty this of highest charity!
Come quick, come now! O whither have ye sped?
My life the highest sacrifice will be;
That sweet compassion, which to friends ye show,
Change now to rabid rage against the foe!

_A Numantine._

Whom, brave Theogenes, dost thou invoke?
What novel mode of dying dost thou seek?
Why dost thou urge us onward, and provoke
To such a strange and lamentable freak?

THEOGENES.

O valiant Numantine, if terror's yoke
Hath not unnerved thine arm and made it weak,
Take now this sword, and prove its point on me,
As if I were thy mortal enemy!
This mode of dying better pleaseth me,
Than any other in this time of woe.

_Numantine._

It suits me too, and I will pleasure thee,
Since evil Fortune seems to will it so.
On to the square, where now the fire we see
Which burns to have our lives within its glow!
Who conquers there may, without fear or shame,
Consign the vanquished to the furious flame.

THEOGENES.

Thou speakest well; make haste, for my desire
Outruns Fate's tardy step with panting breath;
Let sword devour me, or the furious fire,
I see our glory in whatever death!

[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_SCIPIO, JUGURTHA, QUINTUS FABIUS, CAIUS MARIUS, and some Roman
Soldiers._

SCIPIO.

Unless my thoughts be guilty of deceit,
Or these be lying signs which ye have marked
Within Numantia's walls--the horrid din,
The lamentable cries, the blazing fires--
I fear and dread, and scarcely have a doubt,
That these our barbarous foemen, brought to bay,
Have turned their reckless rage against themselves.
There are no people seen to man the towers,
The watchmen give no customary calls,
A death-like silence reigns within the town,
As if these fierce and fiery Numantines
Were living there in peace, and at their ease.

CAIUS MARIUS.

Thou may'st at once be quit of such a doubt,
For if thou wishest it, I offer me
To scale the battlements, although in sooth
It is a somewhat perilous risk to run;
And solely to observe what our proud foes
Are doing now within Numantia's walls.

SCIPIO.

Plant then some ladder firm against the wall,
And, Marius, make thy present promise good!

CAIUS MARIUS.

Go, bring the ladder, and, Ermilius, you
Give orders that my buckler quick be fetched,
And eke my helmet with the snow-white plume;
For, faith, I mean this day to lose my life,
Or end the doubtings which possess the camp.

ERMILIUS.

Thy buckler and thy helmet both are brought;
And see, Olympius brings the ladder here.

CAIUS MARIUS.

Commend me now to great and mighty Jove,
For I am ready to fulfil my pledge.

[_He ascends the ladder._

SCIPIO.

Raise, Marius, raise the knee a little more,
Contract thy body, and protect thy head!
Courage! for thou hast reached the top at last.
What see'st thou?

CAIUS MARIUS.

Holy gods! and what is this?

JUGURTHA.

What startles thee?

CAIUS MARIUS.

It startles me to see
A ruddy lake of blood, and on the ground
In every street a thousand corpses lying!

SCIPIO.

And is there none alive?

CAIUS MARIUS.

I reckon not;
So far, at least, as my own vision goes,
There is no living being in the town.

SCIPIO.

Leap then within, and look thee well around!

[_CAIUS MARIUS leaps into the town._

My friend, Jugurtha, follow him as well;
We all shall follow thee.

JUGURTHA.

It doth not suit
Thy weighty office to take such a step;
Assuage thy feelings, good my lord, and wait
Till Marius or myself return to bring
The latest tidings of this haughty town.
Hold firm the ladder there! Ye righteous heavens!
O what a saddening spectacle and grim
Is offered to my sight! O strange event!
The smoking blood is bathing all the soil,
The square and streets are crowded with the dead!
I mean to leap within and see the whole.

[_JUGURTHA leaps into the city, and QUINTUS FABIUS
says_:

QUINTUS FABIUS.

Without a doubt these fiery Numantines,
By their barbaric fury goaded on,
Have chosen rather to consign their lives
Unto the sharp edge of their very swords,
Than yield them up to our victorious hands,
Whose sight and touch are horrible to them.

SCIPIO.

If but one living being had remained,
In Rome they had not me the triumph grudged
Of having curbed and crushed this haughty race,
The fierce and mortal foemen of our name;
In will determined, ready aye to face
The greatest peril and the direst risk;
Whom not a Roman here can ever boast
Of having challenged with the naked sword;
Whose valour, whose dexterity in arms,
Have forced me, and with reason, to surround
And pen them in like fierce untamèd beasts,
And gain that triumph with my art and skill
Which was impossible by dint of arms.
But Marius now returns, it seems to me.

[_MARIUS enters by descending from the wall, and says_:

CAIUS MARIUS.

In vain, illustrious, prudent General,
Have we expended all our strength and might;
In vain hast thou been diligent withal;
Thy hopes of victory, that seemed so bright,
Assured thee by thy martial skill and lore,
Have changed to smoke, and vanished out of sight!
The mournful story, and the end full sore
Of proud Numantia's unconquered town,
Deserve to be remembered evermore.
Their loss and fall have gained them good renown;
Their dying, which displayed their firmness most,
Hath snatched from thee the triumph and the crown.
Our schemes are vain, and all our labour lost;
Their death with honour better issue shews
That all the power the Roman arms can boast.
This people, wearied with their countless woes,
Have snatched themselves from life and misery,
And given their long account a sudden close.
Numantia now is changed into a sea
Of ruby blood, encumbered with the slain,
Who fell by self-inflicted cruelty.
Escaped have they from slav'ry's grinding chain,
Whose load unequalled they declined to bear,
With swift audacity that feared no pain.
I saw within the middle of the square,[13]
Exposed to view, a fiercely blazing fire,
Fed with their corpses and their riches rare.
And as I gazed, there came with kindling ire
Theogenes, that valiant Numantine,
Intent on death with an insane desire;
And as he cursed his fate and luckless sign,
He sprang into the middle of the flame,
With fury suited to his mad design;
And as he sprang, he cried: "O brilliant Fame,
Come hither with thy countless tongues and eyes,
Behold a deed it fits thee to proclaim!
Approach, ye Romans, and receive the prize
Of this rich town, to dust and ashes changed,
Its fruits and flowers to thistles turned likewise!"
I went away, with steps and thoughts deranged,
And paced the chief part of the city round.
Through all the ruined streets and lanes I ranged,
But not one single Numantine I found,
Whom I could seize alive and bear away,
To bring thee tidings with a certain sound,
For what grave reason, in what fearful way,
They hurried on to ruin utterly,
With such a grand and terrible display.

SCIPIO.

And was, mayhap, my breast filled full and high
With barbarous arrogance and deaths combined,
And clean devoid of righteous cruelty?
Is it, perchance, quite foreign to my mind
To treat the vanquished with the mercy due,
As fits the victor who is brave and kind?
Right badly in Numantia's town ye knew
The manly valour reigning in my breast,
Which burns to conquer and to pardon too!

QUINTUS FABIUS.

My lord, Jugurtha may have news the best
Concerning that which thou desir'st to know,
For see, he now returns with much unrest.

[_JUGURTHA returns by the same wall._

JUGURTHA.

O prudent General, 'tis vain to shew
Thy valour further here; some otherwhere
Thy matchless skill and industry bestow.
Thy work is over in Numantia there;
They all are dead and gone, save one, I ween,
Who still doth live to give thee triumph rare.
Within that very tower, as I have seen,
There right in front of us, doth lurk a youth,
Alarm'd and timid, but of gentle mien.

SCIPIO.

This is enough to make, if it be truth,
In Rome my triumph o'er Numantia sure,
For more I do not now desire, in sooth.
Let us go straightway thither, and procure
Some means to get the youth within our hands,
Alive, for that is needful to secure.

VIRIATO[14] [_from the tower_].

What come ye here to seek? Ye Roman bands,
If ye would fain within Numantia go,
There's nought to hinder ye in all these lands!
But with my tongue I give you here to know,
That I possess this city's ill-kept keys,
Which Death hath triumphed over as a foe!

SCIPIO.

O youth, I come desirous to have these;
But more to let thee know what lies for thee
Of pity in this bosom, if thou please.

VIRIATO.

Too late is all thy tardy clemency,
When there are none to claim it, since I go
To face the rigour of our stern decree;
For that resolve, so full of grief and woe,
Made by my kinsmen and my country dear,
Hath caused the fearful, final end ye know.

QUINTUS FABIUS.

This rash endeavour dazzles thee, I fear;
Say, dost thou hold it as a dreadful fate
To keep thy life in all its bloom and cheer?

SCIPIO.

Assuage, O tender youth, thine ardour great,
Subject the slender valour thou hast stored
To mine, which hath more honour and more weight;
For from this day I pledge my faith and word
That thou wilt be, what more canst thou require,
Thine only master, and thy proper lord;
And thou wilt jewels have and rich attire,
And live a life as happy and as free
As I can give thee, and thou canst desire,
If thou surrender with good-will to me!

VIRIATO.

The complete fury of the countless dead
Within this city, now reduced to dust;
Their fear of pactions with the foeman made;
Their horror of subjection all unjust;
Numantia's hatreds and her rancours dread,
I hold them all within this heart as trust;
I am the heir of all her bravery:
What folly then to think of conquering me!
Belovèd land, O town unfortunate,
Fear not that I, reared in thy bosom dear,
Do rave about my duty in this strait,
Or e'er will flinch through promise or through fear!
Though country fail me now, and Heaven and Fate,
Though all the world conspire to crush me here,
It cannot be that I will ever do
What is not worthy of thy valour true!
If to this hiding-place I ran through fear,
The fear of speedy death and desperate,
I'll sally forth, with mind and courage clear,
Impelled to follow and to share thy fate.
Vile dread hath passed, and I will offer here
Amends as daring as the fault was great;
And this the error of my guileless age
I'll pay by dying with a manly rage!
O valiant citizens, I here maintain
That I do hold your grand resolve as trust,
That these base Romans shall no triumph gain,
Unless it be above our very dust!
Their scheming plans with me shall prove in vain,
If so they deal at me a deadly thrust,
Or wile me on, with promises of weight,
To life and pleasure, that wide-opened gate!
Hold, Romans, let your burning ardour cease,
To break the wall ye have no need to move;
For though your mighty power should more increase,
Ye shall not conquer me, as I shall prove!
My firm resolve ye now may view in peace,
And if ye doubt the pure and perfect love
Which I have cherished for my country dear,
This fall of mine will straightway make it clear!

[_He hurls himself from the tower._

SCIPIO.

O matchless action, worthy of the meed
Which old and valiant soldiers love to gain!
Thou hast achieved a glory by thy deed
Not only for Numantia, but for Spain!
Thy valour strange, heroical indeed,
Hath robbed me of my rights, and made them vain,
For with thy fall thou hast upraised thy fame,
And levelled down my victories to shame!
O could Numantia gain what she hath lost,
I would rejoice, if but to see thee there!
For thou hast reaped the gain and honour most
Of this long siege, illustrious and rare!
Bear then, O stripling, bear away the boast,
Enjoy the glory which the Heavens prepare,
For thou hast conquered, by thy very fall,
Him who in rising falleth worst of all!

[_A trumpet sounds and FAME enters._

FAME.

From land to land let my clear voice extend,
And, with its sweetest, most melodious sound,
To every soul an ardent longing lend
To make this deed eternally renowned!
Raise, Romans, raise your heads, which lowly bend,
Bear off this body, which such vigour found,
In green and tender age, to snatch from you
The glorious triumph which you thought your due!
For I, who am the far-resounding Fame,
For ever on, while moves the orb of light
With step majestic through the heavenly frame,
And gives this lower world new strength and might,
Will give good heed to publish and proclaim
With tongue of truth, with wingèd words and right,
Numantia's valiant worth, unique and sole,
From Nile to Baltic and from pole to pole.
This peerless deed hath given proofs most plain
What valour, in the ages yet to be,
Shall dwell within the sons of mighty Spain,
The heirs of such ancestral bravery!
The cruel scythe of death shall work in vain,
And eke the flight of time, to hinder me
From sounding forth in song, without control,
Numantia's powerful arm, and constant soul!
In her alone I find such worth extreme
As claims a record in the proudest lays;
Such wealth of matter for the poet's theme,
I That thousand ages may rehearse always
Her deathless courage, and her strength supreme,
Which claim in prose and verse the loftiest praise;
'Tis mine, in trust, to garner so much glory,
And so give happy ending to our story!

END OF THE TRAGEDY.

NOTES.

NOTE 1, PAGE 1.

_Scipio._ This general was the famous Publius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Minor. His first campaign in Spain was in the year B.C. 151, when he acted as "legatus" to the Consul Lucius Licinius Lucullus, who was then engaged in the conquest of the Celtiberians. He greatly distinguished himself at the siege of Intercacia, where he was the first to scale the battlements, and received for his exploit a mural crown. He also displayed his personal courage in fighting single-handed and slaying a mighty Spanish giant, who used to insult and defy the whole Roman camp. He was then about thirty-four years of age. In the year B.C. 147 he was elected Consul and sent to Africa, where he fulfilled the stern mandate of the Senate: "Delenda est Carthago!" and became the most renowned warrior of his age. In the year B.C. 134, when affairs in Spain were at the lowest ebb, and the Numantines had thoroughly cowed the Romans, Scipio was again made Consul, and sent to do what no one else was thought competent to do--to bring the siege of Numantia to a final end. The result is well-known, and details may be found in the pages of Floras, Appian, Plutarch, and Livy. A very graphic summary of these is given in the third book of Mariana's _Historia de España_. The vivid picture presented in this tragedy of Cervantes may suffice, however, for the present generation. Though Scipio is therein represented simply as the chief minister of Fate, yet his personality stands boldly out; and his character as accomplished scholar, stern disciplinarian, and cautious tactician, is very skilfully pourtrayed. His stirring address to the soldiers is a perfect epitome of his whole military creed. The fall of Numantia was the sensation of the day throughout the empire, and the last great military feat of Scipio. It settled the fate of Spain for many a long year. Scipio entered Rome in triumph, and the Senate added to his other titles that of "Numantinus."

NOTE 2, PAGE 1.

_Jugurtha._ This notorious Numidian prince, the illegitimate son of Manastabal, grandson of Masanissa, and the nephew of Mecipsa, king of Numidia, was sent by his uncle to give succour to Scipio during the siege of Numantia. He arrived there with a train of ten elephants, and a goodly array of horse and foot. His uncle's secret design, however, was to get rid of him, as a dangerous rival to his own sons, Adherbal and Hiempsal, in the succession to the crown. This, however, was not to be. Jugurtha not only survived the campaign, but so distinguished himself, that he became a prime favourite of Scipio, and returned to his native country with added lustre to his name, and stores of military experience. His after-career, adventurous, reckless, and unfortunate, which led him at last to the Mamertine prisons in Rome, does not concern us. It is to be found, as every schoolboy knows, in the brilliant pages of Sallustius, _De bello Jugurthino_.

NOTE 3, PAGE 2.

_Caius Marius._ This man, whom Cervantes represents as a bluff, quick-witted, daring soldier, was the celebrated Caius Marius, a plebeian by birth, and the cruel scourge of the patricians in after times. He was only twenty-three years of age at the date of the siege, and was still in the ranks. His peculiar military qualities gained him the good-will of Scipio, who used often to invite him to his table. On one occasion, when the question was asked where a similar general to Scipio could be found when he was gone, Scipio placed his hand on the shoulder of Marius and said smilingly, "There, perhaps!" The glory and experience he gained under Scipio's auspices were the foundation of his future fortunes. Strange to say, when twenty years afterwards he rode in triumphal procession through the streets of Rome on account of his victories in Africa, the principal captive who graced his triumph was his old Numantian comrade, Jugurtha, in chains. The prince and the peasant had met again, but under what altered circumstances!

NOTE 4, PAGE 6.

_Full sixteen years and more._ According to the Latin historians, the war with Numantia lasted fourteen years, and the close siege under Scipio, a year and three months. The ruins of Numantia are still to be seen at Puente de Garray, near the source of the Duero, about five miles from Soria, an ancient town of Old Castile. The present remains, however, are principally imperial, and prove that the town must afterwards have been rebuilt. Numantia was a stronghold by nature. It was situated on a little hill precipitous on three sides, and on the fourth, looking towards the north, sloping down to a spacious plain, covered with thick forests and fertile fields, watered by the Tera, a tributary of the Duero. From its commanding position in the centre of northern Spain, it served as a bulwark to check the advance of the Roman legions, and also as a city of refuge for the oppressed tribes. According to Cervantes its warriors amounted only to three thousand:--

"Can three thousand stand the shock
Of the eighty thousand there?"

Some historians estimate the number at eight thousand, and even this seems too small for the grandeur of their achievements. On one occasion (three years before the advent of Scipio) when the Consul, Caius Hostilius Mancinus, raised the siege in despair, and attempted to escape through the defiles of the mountain by night, the Numantines sallied forth in force, slaughtered 20,000 of the Roman troops, and allowed the rest to capitulate, under condition of signing a perpetual peace with Numantia, and retiring to Rome. The Roman Senate repudiated the transaction, and sent back the disgraced Consul to submit to the mercy of the Numantines. Thereafter it was found necessary to concentrate the whole military talent of Rome on the reduction of this proud city. The siege of Numantia, like that of Saguntum, displayed in a marvellous way the tenacity, vigour, and reckless heroism of the aboriginal tribes of Spain. It was, therefore, with a pardonable pride that Cervantes, intent on rousing the patriotic feeling of his countrymen, addressed them as:--

"Los hijos de la fuerte España,
Hijos de tales padres herederos."

NOTE 5, PAGE 20.

_Thou gentle Douro._ This passage in the original is admired for its exquisite sweetness. We give it as a specimen of the melodious octaves of Cervantes:--

"Duero gentil, que con torcidas vueltas
Humedeces gran parte de mi seno,
Ansi en tus aguas siempre veas envueltas
Arenas de oro qual el Tajo ameno,
Y ansi las ninfas fugitivas sueltas,
De que está el verde prado y bosque lleno,
Vengan humildes á tus aguas claras
Y en prestarte favor no sean avaras:

"Que prestes á mis asperos lamentos
Atento oido, ó que á escucharlas vengas,
Y aunque dexes un rato tus contentos,
Suplicote que en nada te detengas:
Si tu con tus continuos crecimientos
Destos fieros Romanes no me vengas,
Cerrado veo ya qualquier camino
A la salud del pueblo Numantino."

This famous river (the _Durius_ of the Romans) we prefer calling, in Portuguese fashion, the Douro, as being a name more familiar to English ears, and more amenable, too, to the laws of rhythm.

NOTE 6, PAGE 22.

_And, forcing way into the Vatican._ The event here alluded to is the fearful sack of Rome, in 1527, perpetrated by a portion of the army of Charles V. under the command of the Constable de Bourbon, when the Pope took refuge, and was besieged, in the castle of St. Angelo. The "Pilot of the Sacred Bark" was Clement VII.

NOTE 7, PAGE 23.

_The great Albano he._ This is a poetical name for Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, the Duke of Alva, who was famous for many things and infamous for more. The exploit referred to is the siege of Rome by Alva, after the battle of St. Quentin, 1557, when the French, who were allies of Pope Paul IV. against the Spaniards, had to leave Italy to save their own capital and country. In the time of Cervantes, no doubt, this siege was looked upon with pride as a "brandishing of the Spanish knife above the Roman neck," but in the light of history we see nothing more than a mock siege, a mock defence, and a mock withdrawal. Alva's hands were thoroughly fettered by his devout master, Philip II., who feared to humiliate the Pope too much, lest he should lose his title of "Most Catholic Majesty." This event is narrated with sarcastic brevity by Motley in the third book of his "History of the Netherlands."

NOTE 8, PAGE 23.

_The second Philip, second yet to none._ No doubt Philip II., at this period, had more power in his hand than had ever been held by a purely Spanish king. Motley, in his characteristic way, thus sums up his many titles: "He was king of all the Spanish kingdoms, and of both the Sicilies. He was titular king of England, France, and Jerusalem. He was 'Absolute Dominator' in Asia, Africa, and America. He was Duke of Milan, and both the Burgundies, and Hereditary Sovereign of the Seventeen Netherlands." To all this mighty inheritance he himself added the crown of Portugal. Cervantes took a part, maimed as he was, in this conquest, and it is, therefore, with legitimate pride that he speaks of the "Lusitanian banner that had been knit anew to the stately robes of Castile." Sixty years, however, sufficed to tear it asunder again. What Cervantes thought of Philip as a man and a ruler we can only conjecture. Twelve years after, in 1598, when the life of this monster of cruel bigotry had come to an end, and pompous funeral rites were everywhere being celebrated, we find Cervantes standing in the cathedral of Seville gazing on the astounding catafalque raised in honour of the deceased, and reciting with a roguish air that famous sonnet of his, beginning, "_I vow to God this grandeur stuns my brain!_" This sonnet, which Cervantes prized as the prime honour of his writings (_honra principal de mis escritos_), and which his countrymen regard as a model of exquisite raillery, was certainly not intended to do honour to the dead. Philip was no friend of poets, players, or outspoken thinkers, and literature breathed again when he expired. For a translation of the sonnet, see Gibson's translation of the "Journey to Parnassus," p. 375.

NOTE 9, PAGE 51.

_The Body._ Ticknor, who is certainly not over-lavish at any time in his praise of Cervantes, declares that the incantations of Marquino surpass in dignity those of the Faustus of Marlowe, who was a contemporary of Cervantes. He also affirms, that not even Shakespeare, when he presents on the stage the armed head raised up, under constraint, to reply to the criminal enquiries of Macbeth, excites so much our sympathy and horror as does Cervantes with that tormented spirit, which returns to life only to suffer a second time the pangs of dissolution and death. We give here the original of the speech of the resuscitated corpse, which Bouterwek describes as terrific:--

EL CUERPO.

Cese la furia del rigor violento
Tuyo, Marquino; baste, triste, baste
La que yo paso en la region escura,
Sin que tu crezcas mas mi desventura.
Engañaste si piensas que recibo
Contento de volver á esta penosa,
Misera y corta vida que ahora vivo,
Que ya me va faltando presurosa;
Antes me causas un dolor esquivo,
Pues otra vez la muerte rigurosa
Triunfará de mi vida y de mi alma
Mi enemigo tendrá doblada palma.
El cual, con otros del escuro bando
De los que son sujetos á aguardarte,
Está con rabia en torno aqui esperando
A que acabe, Marquino, de informarte
Del lamentable fin, del mal nefando
Que de Numancia puedo asegurarte,
La cual acabará a las mismas manos
De los que son á ella mas cercanos.

Throughout this scene, the pompous solemnity of the regular priests and the mock-heroic fury of Marquino are cleverly contrasted. Cervantes, who from his readings was familiar with all sorts of wizards and enchanters, makes Marquino a kind of old-world Merlin, kept, however, under necessary tragic restraint. The time had not yet come for the humours of "Don Quixote."

NOTE 10, PAGE 65.

_Sons of mothers, sad in lot._ This spirited speech of one of the Numantine wives has the true Spartan ring in it, of which our translation is but a feeble echo. We give the most effective part of it in the original:--

Hijos destas tristes madres,
Qué es esto? Como no hablais?
Y con lagrimas rogais
Que no os dexen vuestros padres?
Basta, que la hambre insana
Os acabe con dolor,
Sin esperar el rigor
De la aspereza Romana.
Decildes que os engendraron
Libres, y libres nacistes,
Y que vuestras madres tristes
Tambien libres os criaron.
Decildes que pues la suerte
Nuestra va tan de caida,
Que como os dieron la vida,
Ansi mismo os den la muerte.
O muros desta ciudad,
Si podeis hablad, decid,
Y mil veces repetid:
Numantinos, libertad!

NOTE 11, PAGE 69.

_Cause that these wretched Romans._ The _morale_ of the tragedy as a whole is so perfect, and the character of Theogenes, as represented, is so noble and chivalrous, that this savage decree of his seems strange and out of keeping. There are, it is true, more brutal things presented in "Titus Andronicus," but that is hardly a model of tragic dignity and decorum. The Latin historians tell us that when the crisis arrived the Numantine citizens ate raw flesh, and drugged themselves with a liquor called _Celia_, to madden themselves for the unnatural slaughter; but, artistically speaking, there was no necessity to give such things prominence especially in the mouth of Theogenes.

NOTE 12, PAGE 70.

_Morandro._ Bouterwek says: "The transition into light _redondillas_, for the purpose of interweaving with the serious business of the fable the loves of a young Numantine, named Morandro, and his mistress, is certainly a fault in the composition of the tragedy. But to this fault we are indebted for some of the finest scenes in the drama." We agree with the latter assertion, but not with the former. Neither Nature nor Art forbids the combination; and if love was to be introduced at all into such a play, the redondilla measure, on the Spanish stage at least, was _de rigeur_. It seems to us that the little ray of sunshine let into the surrounding gloom, and then suddenly extinguished, gives a deeper intensity to the supervening darkness. These love-scenes, moreover, if such they may be called, for they are very saddening, lead up to some of the most tragic scenes of the drama. Ticknor has rendered the whole scene with much spirit, but not in the metre, nor with the simplicity, of the original. We give two short extracts. The first contains the opening stanzas:--

MORANDRO.

No vayas tan de corrida,
Lira; déjame gozar
Del bien que me puede dar
En la muerte alegre vida;
Deja que miren mis ojos
Un rato tu hermosura
Pues tanto mi desventura
Se entretiene en mis enojos.
O dulce Lira, que sueñas
Contino en mi fantasía
Con tan suave harmonía
Que vuelve en gloria mis penas!
Qué tienes? Qué estás pensando,
Gloria de mi pensamiento?

The second extract is the parting scene, which is justly praised for its pathetic tenderness:--

LIRA.

Morandro, mi dulce amigo,
No vayas; que se me antoja
Que de tu sangre veo roja
La espada del enemigo.
No hagas esta jornada,
Morandro, bien de mi vida,
Que si es mala la salida
Es muy peor la tornada.
Si quiero aplacar tu brio,
Por testigo pongo al cielo,
Que de mi daño recelo
Y no del provecho mio.
Mas si acaso, amado amigo,
Prosigues esta contienda,
Lleva este abrazo por prenda
De que me llevas contigo.

NOTE 13, PAGE 109.

_I saw within the middle of the square._ This fine description of the end of Theogenes, as seen and described by Marius, may fitly wind up our extracts from the original. It is written in very vigorous Tercets, a form of verse in which Cervantes was more expert than in any other:--

En medio de la plaza levantado
Está un ardiente fuego temeroso,
De sus cuerpos y haciendas sustentado.
A tiempo llegué á verle, que el furioso
Teogenes, valiente Numantino,
De fenecer su vida deseoso,
Maldiciendo su corto amargo signo,
En medio se arrojaba de la llama
Lleno de temerario desatino.
Y al arrojarse dijo: O clara fama,
Ocupa aqui tus lenguas y tus ojos
En esta hazaña que a cantar te llama!
Venid, Romanos, ya por los despojos
Deste ciudad en polvo y humo envueltos,
Y sus floras y frutos en abrojos!

NOTE 14, PAGE 112.

_Viriato._ It is a touch of genius, on Cervantes' part, to give this youth, who concentrates at last in his own person all the heroism of his nation, the name of the illustrious Lusitanian hero, Viriatus, the William Wallace of his age and country, who for more than a decade was the terror of the Romans and the pride of his nation, and who, like the Scottish hero, was at last done to death by treachery.

END OF THE NOTES.

CHISWICK PRESS:--C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.

Footnotes are collected in a 'NOTES' section at the end of the play,
as in the original book.

Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. For example,
good-will, good will; pourtrayed; energetical; fulness; leal.

Pg 23, 'vicegerent' replaced by 'viceregent'.
Pg 94, 'stern hehest' replaced by 'stern behest'.
Pg 95, 'who am the the great' replaced by 'who am the great'.
Pg 111, 'go straighway' replaced by 'go straightway'.
Pg 121, 'continos creciementos' replaced by 'continuos crecimientos'.

End of Project Gutenberg's Numantia, by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra