FIRST PATRICIAN [after a brief hesitation]: Yes, Cæsonia. It was beautiful.
THE OLD PATRICIAN [effusively]: Lovely! Lovely!
CÆSONIA: And you, Cherea?
CHEREA [icily]: It was … very high art.
CÆSONIA: Good. Now I can describe your artistic emotions to Caligula.
[CÆSONIA goes out.]
CHEREA: And now we must act quickly. You two stay here. Before the night is out there’ll be a hundred of us.
[He goes out.]
THE OLD PATRICIAN: No, no. You stay. Let me go, instead. [Sniffs the air.] It smells of death here.
FIRST PATRICIAN: And of lies. [Sadly] I said that dance was beautiful!
THE OLD PATRICIAN [conciliatingly]: And so it was, in a way. Most original.
[Some patricians and knights enter hurriedly.]
SECOND PATRICIAN: What’s afoot? Do you know anything? The Emperor’s summoned us here.
THE OLD PATRICIAN [absent-mindedly]: For the dance, maybe.
SECOND PATRICIAN: What dance?
THE OLD PATRICIAN: Well, I mean … er … the artistic emotion.
THIRD PATRICIAN: I’ve been told Caligula’s very ill.
FIRST PATRICIAN: He’s a sick man, yes.…
THIRD PATRICIAN: What’s he suffering from? [In a joyful tone] By God, is he going to die?
FIRST PATRICIAN: I doubt it. His disease is fatal—to others only.
THE OLD PATRICIAN: That’s one way of putting it.
SECOND PATRICIAN: Quite so. But hasn’t he some other disease less serious, and more to our advantage?
FIRST PATRICIAN: No. That malady of his excludes all others.
[He goes out. CÆSONIA enters. A short silence.]
CÆSONIA [in a casual tone]: If you want to know, Caligula has stomach trouble. Just now he vomited blood.
[The patricians crowd round her.]
SECOND PATRICIAN: O mighty gods, I vow, if he recovers, to pay the Treasury two hundred thousand sesterces as a token of my joy.
THIRD PATRICIAN [with exaggerated eagerness]: O Jupiter, take my life in place of his!
[CALIGULA has entered, and is listening.]
CALIGULA [going up to the SECOND PATRICIAN]: I accept your offer, Lucius. And I thank you. My Treasurer will call on you tomorrow. [Goes to the THIRD PATRICIAN and embraces him.] You can’t imagine how touched I am. [A short silence. Then, tenderly] So you love me, Cassius, as much as that?
THIRD PATRICIAN [emotionally]: Oh, Cæsar, there’s nothing, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice for your sake.
CALIGULA [embracing him again]: Ah, Cassius, this is really too much; I don’t deserve all this love. [CASSIUS makes a protesting gesture.] No, no, really I don’t! I’m not worthy of it. [He beckons to two soldiers.] Take him away. [Gently, to CASSIUS] Go, dear friend, and remember that Caligula has lost his heart to you.
THIRD PATRICIAN [vaguely uneasy]: But—where are they taking me?
CALIGULA: Why, to your death, of course. Your generous offer was accepted, and I feel better already. Even that nasty taste of blood in my mouth has gone. You’ve cured me, Cassius. It’s been miraculous, and how proud you must feel of having worked the miracle by laying your life down for your friend—especially when that friend’s none other than Caligula! So now you see me quite myself again, and ready for a festive night.
THIRD PATRICIAN [shrieking, as he is dragged away]: No! No! I don’t want to die. You can’t be serious!
CALIGULA [in a thoughtful voice, between the shrieks]: Soon the sea roads will be golden with mimosas. The women will wear their lightest dresses. And the sky! Ah, Cassius, what a blaze of clean, swift sunshine! The smiles of life. [CASSIUS is near the door. CALIGULA gives him a gentle push. Suddenly his tone grows serious] Life, my friend, is something to be cherished. Had you cherished it enough, you wouldn’t have gambled it away so rashly. [CASSIUS is led off. CALIGULA returns to the table.] The loser must pay. There’s no alternative. [A short silence.] Come, Cæsonia. [He turns to the others] By the way, an idea has just waylaid me, and it’s such an apt one that I want to share it with you. Until now my reign has been too happy. There’s been no world-wide plague, no religious persecution, not even a rebellion—nothing in fact to make us memorable. And that, I’d have you know, is why I try to remedy the stinginess of fate. I mean—I don’t know if you’ve followed me—that, well [he gives a little laugh], it’s I who replace the epidemics that we’ve missed. [In a different tone] That’s enough. I see Cherea’s coming. Your turn, Cæsonia. [CALIGULA goes out. CHEREA and the FIRST PATRICIAN enter. CÆSONIA hurries toward CHEREA.]
CÆSONIA: Caligula is dead.
[She turns her head, as if to hide her tears; her eyes are fixed on the others, who keep silence. Everyone looks horrified, but for different reasons.]
FIRST PATRICIAN: You … you’re sure this dreadful thing has happened? It seems incredible. Only a short while ago he was dancing.
CÆSONIA: Quite so—and the effort was too much for him. [CHEREA moves hastily from one man to the other. No one speaks.] You’ve nothing to say, Cherea?
CHEREA [in a low voice]: It’s a great misfortune for us all, Cæsonia.
[CALIGULA bursts in violently and goes up to CHEREA.]
CALIGULA: Well played, Cherea. [He spins round and stares at the others. Petulantly] Too bad! It didn’t come off. [To CÆSONIA] Don’t forget what I told you.
[CALIGULA goes out. CÆSONIA stares after him without speaking.]
THE OLD PATRICIAN [hoping against hope]: Is he ill, Cæsonia?
CÆSONIA [with a hostile look]: No, my pet. But what you don’t know is that the man never has more than two hours’ sleep and spends the best part of the night roaming about the corridors in his palace. Another thing you don’t know—and you’ve never given a thought to—is what may pass in this man’s mind in those deadly hours between midnight and sunrise. Is he ill? No, not ill—unless you invent a name and medicine for the black ulcers that fester in his soul.
CHEREA [seemingly affected by her words]: You’re right, Cæsonia. We all know that Caius …
CÆSONIA [breaking in emotionally]: Yes, you know it—in your fashion. But, like all those who have none, you can’t abide anyone who has too much soul. Healthy people loathe invalids. Happy people hate the sad. Too much soul! That’s what bites you, isn’t it? You prefer to label it a disease; that way all the dolts are justified and pleased. [In a changed tone] Tell me, Cherea. Has love ever meant anything to you?
CHEREA [himself again]: I’m afraid we’re too old now, Cæsonia, to learn the art of love-making. And anyhow it’s highly doubtful if Caligula will give us time to do so.
CÆSONIA [who has recovered her composure]: True enough. [She sits down.] Oh, I was forgetting.… Caligula asked me to impart some news to you. You know, perhaps, that it’s a red-letter day today, consecrated to art.
THE OLD PATRICIAN: According to the calendar?
CÆSONIA: No, according to Caligula. He’s convoked some poets. He will ask them to improvise a poem on a set theme. And he particularly wants those of you who are poets to take part in the competition. He specially mentioned young Scipio and Metellus.
METELLUS: But we’re not ready.
CÆSONIA [in a level tone, as if she has not heard him]: Needless to say there are prizes. There will be penalties, too. [Looks of consternation.] Between ourselves, the penalties won’t be so very terrible.
[CALIGULA enters, looking gloomier than ever.]
CALIGULA: All ready?
CÆSONIA: Yes. [To a soldier] Bring in the poets.
[Enter, two by two, a dozen poets, keeping step; they line up on the right of the stage.]
CALIGULA: And the others?
CÆSONIA: Metellus! Scipio!
[They cross the stage and take their stand beside the poets. CALIGULA seats himself, backstage on the left, with CÆSONIA and the patricians. A short silence.]
CALIGULA: Subject: death. Time limit: one minute.
[The poets scribble feverishly on their tablets.]
THE OLD PATRICIAN: Who will compose the jury?
CALIGULA: I. Isn’t that enough?
THE OLD PATRICIAN: Oh, yes, indeed. Quite enough.
CHEREA: Won’t you take part in the competition, Caius?
CALIGULA: Unnecessary. I made my poem on that theme long ago.
THE OLD PATRICIAN [eagerly]: Where can one get a copy of it?
CALIGULA: No need to get a copy. I recite it every day, after my fashion. [CÆSONIA eyes him nervously. CALIGULA rounds on her almost savagely] Is there anything in my appearance that displeases you?
CÆSONIA [gently]: I’m sorry.…
CALIGULA: No meekness, please. For heaven’s sake, no meekness. You’re exasperating enough as it is, but if you start being humble … [CÆSONIA slowly moves away. CALIGULA turns to CHEREA.] I continue. It’s the only poem I have made. And it’s proof that I’m the only true artist Rome has known—the only one, believe me—to match his inspiration with his deeds.
CHEREA: That’s only a matter of having the power.
CALIGULA: Quite true. Other artists create to compensate for their lack of power. I don’t need to make a work of art; I live it. [Roughly] Well, poets, are you ready?
METELLUS: I think so.
THE OTHERS: Yes.
CALIGULA: Good. Now listen carefully. You are to fall out of line and come forward one by one. I’ll whistle. Number One will start reading his poem. When I whistle, he must stop, and the next begin. And so on. The winner, naturally, will be the one whose poem hasn’t been cut short by the whistle. Get ready. [Turning to CHEREA, he whispers] You see, organization’s needed for everything, even for art.
[Blows his whistle.]
FIRST POET: Death, when beyond thy darkling shore …
[A blast of the whistle. The poet steps briskly to the left. The others
