Chapter III: Part 3

THE PREFECT. Friends and citizens, and more especially, citizens of Puteoli and Baiæ: It is with feelings of peculiar emotion that I rise to propose that toast, which of all toasts is the nearest to the heart and leaps most readily to the lips of a Roman--I mean, of course, the toast of our beloved Emperor. I may say that in all the vast extent of this Empire, of which we are so justly proud, the Emperor has no more loyal subjects than those of Baiæ and--(_cheers_)--of Puteoli. (_Cheers._) Although in the past we of Puteoli may not always have been able to see eye to eye with our neighbours of Baiæ, in matters of local administration, to-day, happily, all such rivalry has ended. And to whom is this due? To whom but the Emperor, who, with his knowledge of the Roman heart, has had the happy, the graceful, nay, more, the truly Imperial and the truly Roman idea of joining the two cities by this elegant and monumental bridge. (_Loud cheers._) We of Puteoli are not quick to forget the benefit we have received in the past from the Imperial Family. And some of us who are here present remember that auspicious and never-to-be-forgotten day when the Emperor’s illustrious father, the ever-memorable Germanicus--(_loud and prolonged cheers_)--I say many of us here present will recall that thrice-memorable occasion when the illustrious Germanicus--(_loud cheers_)--paid us a visit. Romans, I have no wish to rake up things which are better forgotten; I have no desire to abuse the ashes of him who, whatever his faults and his failings may have been, is now for ever beyond the reach of our recrimination. We Romans have a proverb which says: “Of the dead nothing but good”--(_cheers_)--and you, citizens of Puteoli and Baiæ, have ever strictly observed, both by precept and by practice, the wisdom that has been handed down to us in the popular phrases of the Roman people. (_Cheers._) Therefore, it is with no fear of being misunderstood, and in no carping or unjust spirit, that I say that the example which our beloved Emperor Caligula is daily setting us, both in peace and in war, and in all the arts and graces of life--this example is, I say, as it were, heightened when we--and we of Puteoli and Baiæ are especially sensible of the fact--when we think of the shortcomings and the mistakes of the late and unfortunate Tiberius--(_hisses and groans_)--shortcomings and mistakes to which our present Emperor put so swift an end, and out of whose ashes he bade our Empire and our Government, our internal affairs and our foreign policy, rise rejuvenated and splendid like the Phœnix. (_Cheers._) Citizens, I will detain you no longer. All I will say is this: so long as we have at the head of us one who is the pattern of what a Roman gentleman should be, one who is at the same time the elder brother and the father of his people, so long as this shall be, so long will the Roman Empire, throughout all its length and breadth, act together in that same spirit of fraternal love and unity, bound by ties as strong as that with which our Emperor has to-day united and linked the people of Baiæ to the people of Puteoli. Citizens, I propose the health of the divine Emperor. (_Loud cheers. The toast is drunk with enthusiasm._)

HYGERIUS. A first-rate speech.

THE PREFECT OF BAIÆ (_rises_). Citizens, it is with the keenest sense of my unfitness to so exalted a task that I rise to propose the toast which is second on our list, that toast which of all others, with the exception of that which we have just drunk, is most grateful to Roman ears, namely, the Army. (_Cheers._) Although not a soldier myself, my heart is with the Army; but I will go farther, I will say that all of us, whatever our avocations may be, whether we be lawyers, merchants, engineers, painters, poets, philosophers, are in a sense soldiers of the Emperor. (_Cheers._) And Peace, citizens, has its battles as well as War. (_Loud cheers._) To-day we are gathered together to celebrate one of those battles--a battle which has ended in a triumph. (_Cheers._) [DEMOPHILUS (_aside_). What battle?] I allude to the completion of this handsome bridge--(_cheers_)--which is a notable--I may even say an unparalleled example--of the triumph of man’s will over the elements. As the immortal poet Camerinus--(_cheers_)--has said:

O’er vanquished Nature Man shall spread his sway,
And force the fretful ocean to obey.

(_Cheers._)

And while the utmost credit is due to the skill and patience with which the engineers, Demonax and Hegias, of Corinth, have executed their stupendous task, still greater praise is due to the Emperor, in whose fertile brain the great idea had its origin, and without whose unceasing aid and constant interest, it could never have been completed. (_Cheers._) We of Baiæ know how keen was that interest, how valuable that aid, and we will never forget it. I have said, citizens, we are all of us in a sense soldiers, and it is a sight like this, an occasion such as to-day’s, that brings home to every Roman the self-sacrifice, the patience, the stubborn will, and the dogged persistence--qualities all of them essentially military--of the Roman race. I therefore propose the health of the Army, coupled with the name of its glorious Commander-in-Chief, the Emperor. (_Loud cheers. The toast is drunk._)

SEVERUS. He misquoted Camerinus.

[_A_ PRÆTORIAN OFFICER _rises._

THE PRÆTORIAN OFFICER. Citizens, my trade is to speak and not to act--I mean to act and not to speak. (_Loud cheers._) I am a humble particle of what has so rightly been called the great dumb one. (_Cheers._) I thank you all very much for drinking the last toast, and I in my turn have great pleasure in proposing the toast which comes next on the list, namely, the toast of Literature. (_Cheers._) I am not much of a literary man myself, but I greatly enjoy reading the description of battles in the works of that poet who, though not a Roman by birth, is practically a Roman--I mean Homer--(_cheers_)--and also in the great epic of our Roman Homer, I mean Camerinus. (_Loud cheers._) I propose the toast of Literature, coupled with that of the divine Emperor, who, as we all know, is a first-rate author himself. (_Cheers._)

[EROTIANUS, _an elderly poet, rises to reply._

EROTIANUS. Citizens, great and immortal names have been mentioned to-day. Homer, Camerinus, have lent by the very mention of their names a diviner light to this already illustrious occasion. Nor has our gallant friend in his masterly oration failed to remind us of the talents, the brilliant and exceptional literary gifts, of our noble Master. (_Cheers._) I am the last person who should address you on this theme. (_Cries of No, No._) We had hoped that Seneca--(_cheers_)--whose verses are for ever on our lips, would be present. Unfortunately a bad cold has detained him in Rome. Æsculapius has conquered the Muses--(_cries of Shame_)--and instead of a brilliant literary light you have the flicker of a new artisan in the field of letters. (_Cries of No, No._) I am, if I may say so, no more than a humble shepherd on the slopes of Parnassus. But, citizens, those slopes are so high and so wide that there is room on them for the greatest, such as Homer and Ovid--(_cheers_)--and for more humble but none the less painstaking, such as Virgil and myself. (_Cheers._) I will now proceed to read to you a short epic in six cantos which I have prepared for this occasion. (_Cheers. He clears his throat._) It is called “The Bridge.” (_Cheers._)

[_The_ EMPEROR _makes a signal, upon which a regiment of
Prætorians, concealed in a neighbouring tent, rush among the
guests armed with swords and sharp tridents, and proceed to toss
them into the sea. The meal breaks up in confusion. Some of the
guests escape, but a large number are drowned, including_
EROTIANUS.

CURTAIN.

XI

THE AULIS DIFFICULTY

SCENE.--AGAMEMNON’S _tent at Aulis. Discovered:_ AGAMEMNON
_seated at a camp table writing._

_Enter_ IPHIGENIA

IPHIGENIA. Do you want to speak to me, papa?

AGAMEMNON (_nervously_). Yes, yes, a moment. (_A pause._)

IPHIGENIA. Well?

AGAMEMNON. Sit down--on that chair--it’s more comfortable there.... I ... er.... (_A pause._)

IPHIGENIA. If you’ve got nothing particular to say, papa, I’ll go, if you don’t mind; because mamma wants me to help her with the dinner. The cook is quite helpless----

AGAMEMNON. Wait a minute. I do want to speak to you very particularly.... (_A pause._)... It’s a lovely day again to-day.

IPHIGENIA. Really, papa----

AGAMEMNON. It’s not so irrelevant as you think. You see, there’s not a breath of wind.

IPHIGENIA. I know. They say it’s quite impossible for you to start.

AGAMEMNON. We shall have been here two months next Tuesday.

IPHIGENIA. You mean next Saturday.

AGAMEMNON. Tuesday or Saturday, it’s all the same.

IPHIGENIA. It’s a mercy we did stop here. Mamma says that your linen was in a dreadful state, and that if she hadn’t come out she doesn’t know how you would have managed.

AGAMEMNON. Yes, I don’t say that the stay hasn’t been of some use; but now it is absolutely essential that we should get to Troy.

IPHIGENIA. Why don’t you start to-day?

AGAMEMNON. Whenever we put to sea there’s either no wind at all, or a gale which drives us straight back home.

IPHIGENIA. It is very tiresome, but it can’t be helped, can it?

AGAMEMNON. Well, that’s just it. I’m afraid it can be helped.

IPHIGENIA. What do you mean, papa?

AGAMEMNON. To cut a long story short, Calchas consulted the Oracle this morning, and it appears, he says, I mean the Oracle said, or rather the goddess----

IPHIGENIA. Which goddess?

AGAMEMNON. Artemis.

IPHIGENIA. Oh, she’s impossible.

AGAMEMNON. Well, as I told you, Calchas says that it is Artemis who is causing the delay by sending us adverse winds, and----

IPHIGENIA. Can’t something be done?

AGAMEMNON. That is precisely the point. The goddess has, through the Oracle, suggested a way out of the difficulty, and it concerns you.

IPHIGENIA. Me? What can I have to do with it?

AGAMEMNON. Now, my dearest Iphigenia, I want you to be reasonable. You always were a sensible girl, and I want you to bring all your good sense to bear on this ... in this ... er ... trying occasion.

IPHIGENIA. I don’t understand.

AGAMEMNON. I will go straight to the point. Artemis says that we shall never leave Aulis unless you consent to go through the form of being sacrificed to her.

IPHIGENIA. What do you mean by “going through the form”?

AGAMEMNON. I mean that in all probability ... in fact, quite certainly, the sacrifice would be purely a formal one, and that there is every chance ... in fact, I may say it is almost certain that one of the other gods or goddesses would intervene at the last moment and prevent the sacrifice from being fatal.

IPHIGENIA. You mean to say that there is not the slightest chance of my being killed--that it’s only a farce?

AGAMEMNON. I won’t go so far as that ... but I will say that as far as we know every precedent in the past----

IPHIGENIA. Oh, bother the precedents. What I want to know is this: Is there the slightest chance of my being _really_ sacrificed?

AGAMEMNON. It is highly improbable, of course; only you _must_ consent; you must behave exactly as if you were going to be sacrificed; you must express your entire willingness to lay down your life for your country; and knowing what a patriotic, obedient, filial child you are, I am certain this will be a positive pleasure to you.

IPHIGENIA. I won’t.

AGAMEMNON. You mean you won’t even pretend to----

IPHIGENIA. I won’t have anything to do with it at all--I think it’s monstrous, and I’m sure mamma will agree with me.

AGAMEMNON. My dearest child, let me beg of you not to say a word about this to your mother just yet.

IPHIGENIA. Of course I shall tell her. (_Enter Clytæmnestra._) Here is mamma. Mamma----

CLYTÆMNESTRA. What is all this?

IPHIGENIA. Papa says I must be sacrificed to Artemis, in order that they may have a smooth passage to Troy, and to prevent Ajax being sea-sick. I say I won’t. (_She begins to cry._)

CLYTÆMNESTRA (_taking her in her arms_). Of course you shan’t, my love--my darling. (_To_ AGAMEMNON) What is this ridiculous nonsense?

AGAMEMNON. I assure you it is not my doing. I merely repeated what Calchas had said. He consulted the Oracle, and it appears that Artemis is vexed: she is, in fact, very much displeased. She says we shall never leave Aulis unless Iphigenia consents to go through the form of being sacrificed--of course it’s only a matter of form--but she must consent.

CLYTÆMNESTRA. I see. As long as I’m here my child shall not degrade herself by being a party to any ridiculous farce of this nature. I don’t care a bit if we do stay here. You ought never to have come here for one thing. I always said it was absurd from the first--just because of Helen’s silly escapade. If you can’t get a fair wind you’ll have to go home; but you shan’t touch Iphigenia.

_Enter a_ MAID

THE MAID (_to_ CLYTÆMNESTRA). The cook wants to know whether the fish are to be boiled or fried.

CLYTÆMNESTRA (_angrily_). I told her fried. (_To_ AGAMEMNON) I must go and look after her. I’ll be back in a moment.

[_Exit_ CLYTÆMNESTRA.

AGAMEMNON. There, you see what you’ve done. You’ve set your mother against the whole plan.

IPHIGENIA (_crying_). I hope I have. Of course, if you want to kill me, please do ... just (_sobbing_) as if I were a sheep.

AGAMEMNON. My dear child, do be calm. Who ever talked of killing----

_Enter_ CALCHAS

AGAMEMNON. She won’t hear of it.

CALCHAS. My dear child, please be sensible and think of the interests at stake. Remember you are grown up, and we grown-up people have to face these things.

IPHIGENIA. I don’t care what you say, I won’t be sacrificed--I won’t be killed like a sheep.

CALCHAS. Even if the worst came to the worst, I promise you you would feel no pain. I assure you we have reached a pitch of perfection in the working of these things which makes all accidents impossible. Besides, think of the honour and the glory.

AGAMEMNON. And it’s not as if she would be killed _really_.

CALCHAS. It’s extremely improbable; but even if she were to lose consciousness and not recover, I am sure most girls would envy her. Just think, your statue would be put up in every city in Greece.

AGAMEMNON. All the poets would celebrate her.

CALCHAS. You see it’s not as if she were married.

AGAMEMNON. She has always refused every one.

CALCHAS. And now it’s too late.

AGAMEMNON. Girls are so independent nowadays.

CALCHAS. They think nothing of tradition, country, or of the respect they owe their parents. They are ungrateful.

AGAMEMNON. They never think of what they owe the goddesses. In my time....

_Enter_ ODYSSEUS

IPHIGENIA. I don’t care what you say. I won’t be sacrificed. (_She bursts into tears._)

[ODYSSEUS _whispers to_ AGAMEMNON _and_
CALCHAS _to withdraw. They go out._

ODYSSEUS. And how is our little Iphigenia to-day?

IPHIGENIA (_drying her eyes_). Quite well, thank you; only papa wants to kill me.

ODYSSEUS. Kill you, my dear child! I assure you you are mistaken. Nobody, and least of all your father, could dream of such a thing. You are the life and soul of the expedition. It was only this morning I wrote to Penelope to tell her how well you were looking and what a difference it made to all of us your being here.

IPHIGENIA. Papa wants me to be sacrificed.

ODYSSEUS. You can’t have understood your father. Let me explain it to you. You know what Artemis is; she’s a charming goddess--quite charming--only she’s touchy. Well, she happens to be very much put out at this moment by the attention that has been paid to the other goddesses; and by a very regrettable oversight her sacrifice has been neglected once or twice lately. Of course she is put out; but, believe me, the situation only requires tact--just a little tact ... and we all want you to help us.... You see if you don’t help us we are lost, and the whole expedition may be ruined, all just for the want of a little tact at the right moment. Now, nobody can help us as well as you can. You see Artemis has taken a peculiar fancy to you. She admires you enormously. I happen to know this on the very best authority. She thinks you are far more beautiful than your Aunt Helen. At the same time she is just a shade hurt that you never take any notice of her. Now, what we want you to do is to consent to our stratagem: a delicate piece of flattery which will soothe Artemis and make everything all right. All you will have to do is to wear the most beautiful dress--white and silver--and a band of wrought gold studded with rubies round your head, and to walk with your wonderful hair reaching almost to your feet, in a procession of weeping maidens to the Temple; and there, after the usual prayers and chants, you will sing a hymn to Artemis, especially composed for the occasion, to a flute accompaniment; then, in the gaze of all the crowd, you will kneel down before the altar, and Artemis, flattered and pleased, will carry you off in a cloud, and substitute a sheep or something else for you. Every one will praise you; you will have had all the amusement of the festival, all the glory and honour of the sacrifice, and none of the inconvenience.

IPHIGENIA (_pensively_). It would be rather fun. Are you sure I shouldn’t risk being killed really? Calchas said I probably would.

ODYSSEUS. Calchas knows nothing about it at all. I promise you that it’s just as safe as if you were going to sing at the festival of Bacchus.

IPHIGENIA. But what will happen to me afterwards?

ODYSSEUS. That must be a secret between you and me. Artemis has arranged that a charming young man shall carry you away. I need not mention his name, as you know it too well. It begins with an A. But the marriage must remain a secret until after the siege.

IPHIGENIA. All right, I will do it. I mean I will pretend to consent, but there must be no question of its really coming off. That you must swear.

ODYSSEUS. I swear we shall sacrifice a sheep instead of you, or if the worst comes to the worst Achilles’ slave, who is so like you.

IPHIGENIA. And then I shall really marry Achilles.

_Enter_ CLYTÆMNESTRA

ODYSSEUS (_to_ CLYTÆMNESTRA). It’s all settled; only don’t discuss it with Agamemnon. He doesn’t quite know how to deal with goddesses. He is--you forgive me saying so--a little bit heavy.

CLYTÆMNESTRA (_to_ IPHIGENIA). You don’t mean to say you’ve consented. I forbid it.... I am your mother, and I positively forbid you to do any such thing.

IPHIGENIA. I’m of age. I’m old enough to judge what I can do and what I can’t do. It’s my duty, and it’s a question of principle; and if I choose to be sacrificed, nobody has the right to prevent me. And I _do_ choose. The one thing I’ve always longed for all my life has been to die for my country.

[_Exit_ IPHIGENIA _in a passion._

[ODYSSEUS _looks at_ CLYTÆMNESTRA _and smiles._

CLYTÆMNESTRA. Serpent!

CURTAIN.

XII

DON JUAN’S FAILURE

LUCASTA. My mother will be down directly, if you don’t mind waiting.

DON JUAN. On the contrary, I could wait a hundred years in the company of one whom I know not whether she be a goddess or a mortal.

LUCASTA (_blushing_). It’s very kind of you to say so, sir, but I am very busy this morning. I am wanted at the farm to see about the cows.

DON JUAN. Fortunate cows! But cannot they wait a moment? Surely there is no desperate hurry?

LUCASTA. I am late already, sir, and I am loath to keep people waiting.

DON JUAN. How nice, how considerate and charming of you. I adore those who are loath to keep others waiting. It is the revelation of a delightful nature. I am sure we shall be friends. I feel as if we had always known one another.

LUCASTA. Oh, sir, but I do not even know your name! I only know you are the Spanish nobleman who was expected.

DON JUAN (_proudly_). My name is one you may perhaps have heard of. I am Don Juan of Seville.

LUCASTA. One of our ponies is called Don Juan--the old one. It takes the children out in a cart; but he’s lame now.

DON JUAN (_vexed_). You must let me give you a horse, a fiery steed fit to carry you, for I’m sure you ride like Diana, and you shall call that Don Juan.

LUCASTA. Thank you, sir, but my mother says one must never accept gifts from strangers.

DON JUAN. But I am not a stranger. You must not look upon me as a stranger. You must look upon me as a friend.

LUCASTA. Mistress Markham says that one has no right to call people friends until one has known them for seven years.

DON JUAN. Who is Mistress Markham?

LUCASTA. She is our governess.

DON JUAN. She knows nothing about it. Believe me, all governesses are fools.

LUCASTA. Not Mistress Markham. She knows everything--even the Greek irregular verbs.

DON JUAN. Well, let us admit, then, that there is only one thing she doesn’t know.

LUCASTA. What, sir?

DON JUAN. The birth, the growth, and the nature of our friendship. May not I claim to be a friend? You surely do not wish to regard me as an enemy?

LUCASTA (_after reflecting_). Well, I suppose there’s no harm; because I do not suppose it is wrong to make friends with old people.

DON JUAN (_laughing uneasily_). I am old enough to claim friendship with you; but I am not so old as all that. Do I look so very old?

LUCASTA (_blushing_). Oh no, sir. I never meant that, I’m sure. All I meant was that you were old compared with my friends.

DON JUAN. Have you many friends?

LUCASTA. Oh yes! There’s Harry, who has just left school; and Philip, he is a student at Oxford; and Valentine, he is about to join the Yeomanry; and my cousin Dick, he is my greatest friend.

DON JUAN. How old is he?

LUCASTA. He left school six months ago. He’s going to be a great soldier, like Sir Philip Sidney.

DON JUAN. Oh! and are you very fond of him?

LUCASTA. Very. He plays tennis better than any one. Do you play tennis, sir?

DON JUAN. I’m afraid I don’t.

LUCASTA. Bowls?

DON JUAN. I’m afraid not either.

LUCASTA. Rounders?

DON JUAN. I’m afraid I don’t play any games except draughts and lansquenet.

LUCASTA. Lansquenet and draughts are indoor games. We don’t count them. Cousin Dick says they are all very well for women.

DON JUAN. You see, I never have time for that kind of thing.

LUCASTA. Are you an officer, sir?

DON JUAN. Oh no!

LUCASTA. A sailor?

DON JUAN. No; I hate the sea.

LUCASTA. I suppose you are a discoverer. Spaniards are such great travellers.

DON JUAN. No; I have only travelled in Europe and for pleasure.

LUCASTA. How stupid of me, sir. You are, of course, a diplomatist.

DON JUAN. No; I am merely a gentleman at large.

LUCASTA. Do you mean you follow no profession?

DON JUAN. No profession exactly, but many occupations.

LUCASTA. But how do you contrive to pass the time?

DON JUAN. Well, you see, we Spaniards are different from you English. We are less practical, and more--what shall I say?--more fiery, more impatient, more romantic. We consider it quite enough for a man who is a Spaniard and a nobleman as I am, nay, more, we consider that such a man can have no nobler occupation than to devote his life, his heart, his brain to the constant and daily service and worship of a beautiful woman.

LUCASTA. Oh, I see; you are engaged to be married.

DON JUAN. No, alas!

LUCASTA. Haven’t you got enough money to marry on?

DON JUAN. It’s not that: my purse is equal to my station.

LUCASTA. Her parents, I suppose, have refused their consent.

DON JUAN. I have not yet asked them.

LUCASTA. I wish you all success, sir.

DON JUAN. But you don’t understand, most charming and gracious of Englishwomen. It is true that I love. I am consumed with a love which will never diminish nor die, a love that burns within me like a raging fever; but I have not yet dared to speak it. The divine and adorable creature whom I worship does not suspect the cruel plight I am in. She ignores my flame.

LUCASTA. Why do you not tell her, sir?

DON JUAN. Ah! That is so easily said! But what if she were to take offence? What if I were by a too sudden and abrupt declaration of the passion that consumes me to nip in the bud all chance of my love finding a response in her breast? What if I by a too hasty word were to shatter my hopes for ever?

LUCASTA. Is she so very young? Pardon me, sir, if I am wrong in asking.

DON JUAN. You could never do wrong. No fault could ever mar those faultless lips. (LUCASTA _blushes._) I will tell you she is very young, and I have only seen her once.

LUCASTA. Then it was a case of love at first sight?

DON JUAN. Yes, but love is a weak word to express the great wave which has carried me away.

LUCASTA. They say that love at first sight is often mutual.

DON JUAN. I pray Heaven that it may be so in this case; but I doubt if she has guessed my sweet and bitter secret. She is so young, so innocent.

LUCASTA. Is she fair or dark, sir?

DON JUAN. Her hair is the colour of your hair, and, like yours, it has the glitter of sunshine, with miraculous shades and adorable crisping curls like those that wreathe your brow. Her skin is like yours; that is to say, a rose lately sprinkled with dew. Her eyes are the colour of your eyes; that is to say, they have the radiance of the azure sky and depth of the summer sea. Her nose is the pictured semblance of your nose, delicate as a flower, tip-tilted, transparent, enchanting. Her lips are like your lips; they put to shame ripe cherries, red roses, and rubies; and her teeth are like your teeth, more perfect than Orient pearls. She has your carriage, your grace and rhythm of movement, the stately poise of your head, and the divine contour of your form. She has the radiance of your smile and the laughing music of your speech.

LUCASTA. It is very kind of you, sir, to compare me to so well-favoured a person.

DON JUAN. I am not comparing you to her. I am comparing her to you. Until this morning I did not know that such beauty could live and breathe.

LUCASTA. Did you see her this morning for the first time?

DON JUAN. Yes, it was this morning; to-day is the fatal day that has changed the earth for me to a giddy ladder suspended between heaven and hell.

LUCASTA. Then I know who it is. It is Electra Harrington our neighbour. You saw her on your way here.

DON JUAN. Believe me, it was no Electra Harrington. Electra Harrington would be a wrinkled hag in comparison with the goddess whom I worship. But tell me, do you think I might dare to plead my cause? Do you think there is the frailest hope of her listening to my suit?

LUCASTA. Why not? I am sure, sir, any girl would feel very much flattered at the attentions of a nobleman such as yourself.

DON JUAN. But you said I was old.

LUCASTA. Oh, sir, I told you I never meant that. All I meant was that you were grown up and a man, and not a schoolboy like Philip.

DON JUAN. Then you think that a maiden could look at me without disgust?

LUCASTA. Oh, sir!

DON JUAN. Even if at first I found her heart hard as adamant, if she will only let me plead my cause I feel certain I can soften it. That is all I ask--a hearing.

LUCASTA. I should tell her at once, sir, in your place. Girls are often bashful. (_She blushes._)

DON JUAN. Then there is another grisly fear that haunts me. She may already have given her heart away. She may already have a betrothed.

LUCASTA. That is not likely if it’s any of the girls in our county. They are all so young; and the others are married--except Dianeme, and then she’s a fright, so it could hardly be her.

DON JUAN. Then you think I ought to be bold?

LUCASTA (_clapping her hands_). Oh yes, do be bold!

[DON JUAN _seizes_ LUCASTA _and endeavours to kiss her. She gives
him a very smart box on the ears._

LUCASTA. Sir, what does this unpardonable liberty mean? I thought you were a gentleman and a nobleman.

DON JUAN (_kneeling_). Forgive me. I thought you had understood. I thought you must have guessed--don’t interrupt me, only hear me--I thought you must have known when I described to you my heart’s desire; when I told you that you had her every feature; but I was mad. It was unpardonable of me; but hear me all the same, Lucasta; adorable, lovely, perfect Lucasta, I love you; I love you passionately. I offer you my hand, my life, my fortune.

LUCASTA. Please get up, sir. I hate men who kneel--they look so silly; and if you are going to talk nonsense any more I shall go upstairs.

DON JUAN (_rising_). Then you mean that I may not even hope?

LUCASTA (_bursting into peals of laughter_). Forgive me, but I can’t help it.

DON JUAN. It is really no laughing matter. (_He draws his sword._) I am ready to stab myself.

LUCASTA (_still shaking with laughter_). Please do not be so foolish. Why, you’re much older than my father. Here is my mother.

_Enter the_ COUNTESS OF WESSEX, _a handsome lady.
She curtsies deeply._

LUCASTA (_aside to her mother_). Oh! he’s so funny.

[_She runs away, vainly suppressing a peal of laughter._

CURTAIN.

XIII

CALPURNIA’S DINNER-PARTY

SCENE.--_A room in_ JULIUS CÆSAR’S _house. Discovered:_ JULIUS
CÆSAR _and_ CALPURNIA.

CALPURNIA. Catullus has accepted, so that will make us thirteen.

CÆSAR. I won’t sit down thirteen to dinner; it isn’t fair to one’s guests.

CALPURNIA. What nonsense! They none of them mind.

CÆSAR. I beg your pardon. I happen to know that Cicero is intensely superstitious. Of course I don’t mind personally, but one must think of others.

CALPURNIA. Then what shall we do?

CÆSAR. Ask some one else.

CALPURNIA. Then you must get another man. You are sure to see some one at the Forum.

CÆSAR. I will ask Calvus.

CALPURNIA. How like a man. In the first place he is in mourning.

CÆSAR. Who for?

CALPURNIA. Quintilla, of course.

CÆSAR. We need not go into that.

CALPURNIA. He won’t go anywhere--at present--but even if it wasn’t for that, don’t you see that it would quite spoil the dinner to ask Calvus with Catullus?

CÆSAR. Why?

CALPURNIA. Because they both write poetry.

CÆSAR. What does that matter?

CALPURNIA. Of course, if you want to spoil the dinner----

CÆSAR. Must it be a man?

CALPURNIA. Yes; we have got quite enough women.

CÆSAR. Why not ask Atticus?

CALPURNIA. Then we should have to ask Pilia.

CÆSAR. She hates going out.

CALPURNIA. It is impossible to ask him without her--and I won’t ask her; she would ruin the dinner. Besides, I told you we can’t have another woman.

CÆSAR. What about Cinna?

CALPURNIA. Cornelia’s got him. She always gives a dinner the same night as I do, so as to take away the people I want from me.

CÆSAR. I can’t think of anybody.

CALPURNIA. You will see some one at the Forum; but mind you are careful, and don’t ask some one nobody else knows, or some one whom they all hate.

CÆSAR. There’s nobody in Rome just now.

_Enter a_ SLAVE, _with a letter for_ CALPURNIA

THE SLAVE. They are waiting for a verbal answer.

[CALPURNIA _takes the letter and reads it._

CALPURNIA. It is from Lucullus; he wants us to dine with him to-night--quite a tiny dinner, he says--he wants us to taste some oysters from Britain.

CÆSAR. I suppose we can’t put off our guests?

CALPURNIA. Certainly not. It _is_ unlucky. (_She sits down at a table and writes an answer._) It is the sort of thing that’s sure to happen. I wish you hadn’t asked all these people.

CÆSAR. I didn’t ask a soul.

CALPURNIA (_to the_ SLAVE). There’s the answer.

[_The_ SLAVE _bows and retires. He returns again immediately with
another letter, which he gives to_ CALPURNIA.

CALPURNIA. Is there an answer?

THE SLAVE. The slave is waiting.

CALPURNIA (_reading out_). “MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND CELESTIALLY FAVOURED CALPURNIA”--it is from the Persian Ambassador--“Pity me. The gods are most cruel and unpropitious. Owing to the extraordinary carelessness of my private secretary I find that I have been engaged for several weeks to dine with Lucullus to-night. As I only know him slightly, I am sure you will understand that in this case I must sacrifice pleasure to duty, and miss a brilliant and charming evening. Alas, alas, pity me!--Your slave, ZOROASTER SORHAB JEMSHID.” (_To the_ SLAVE) Say I quite understand. (_Exit_ SLAVE.) Jemshid always, always throws one over.

_Enter the_ SLAVE _with two letters. He gives
one to_ CÆSAR _and one to_ CALPURNIA

THE SLAVE. Both waiting for an answer.

CALPURNIA. Who is yours from?

CÆSAR. Mark Antony. (_He reads_) “DEAR OLD BOY--I am frightfully sorry, but I can’t dine with you to-night. I have had a tooth pulled out this morning, and the doctor says I mustn’t go out, worse luck. My respects to Calpurnia. I will look in to-morrow if I am well enough. Don’t bother to come and see me, as I can’t talk.--M. A.”

CALPURNIA. He’s dining with Lucullus, of course. If you had only let me engage that cook from Gaul, nobody would ever throw us over.

CÆSAR. Who is yours from?

CALPURNIA. Lucilius. (_She reads_) “MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND EXQUISITE CALPURNIA--I have got into the most frightful muddle. Last Monday, Lucullus asked me to dinner to-night, and I accepted. Then the next day I wrote to him and said I could not dine with him after all, as I had to go into Court the day after, and I should have to work all night. The day after I wrote this letter my case was put off, and then you kindly asked me to dinner, and of course I accepted; and now Lucullus has found out that I am dining with you, and thinks I threw him over for you. He says he’s a man short, and that as I was engaged to him first, I simply must come to his dinner. So I am writing to know whether you could possibly let me off? And as I have already been obliged to throw Lucullus over twice lately, I am sure you will understand that I cannot very well come to you to-night. I am too sorry for words.--LUCILIUS.”

CÆSAR. I suppose the answer is “Very well” in both cases.

CALPURNIA. Yes. (_Exit_ SLAVE.) Of course they will all throw us over now.

CÆSAR. Well, in that case, the matter would be solved, and we could dine with Lucullus.

CALPURNIA. But they won’t _all_ throw us over. Portia’s certain to come.

_Enter the_ SLAVE _with two letters. He gives
them to_ CALPURNIA

THE SLAVE. No answer.

CALPURNIA (_eagerly_). This is from Clodia. I wonder what lie she will tell. (_Reads_) “DARLING CALPURNIA--I am _too_, _too_ miserable. Everything has gone stupidly wrong. When you asked me to dinner and said Friday, I thought Friday was the 10th, and now I see it is the 11th, and I have been engaged for ages to that tiresome old Lucullus. Of course I would throw him over _at once_, but Metellus won’t hear of it, and he says it will serve me right if you never ask us again. So like a husband! It is _too_ unlucky, darling, isn’t it? You will feel for me, I am sure.--Your loving CLODIA.” Well, Catullus won’t come now.

CÆSAR. Is the other letter from him?

CALPURNIA. No. Of course they wouldn’t send them together. It is from Cicero; if he can’t come, our dinner’s ruined. (_She reads_) “MOST HONOURED AND EXCELLENT CALPURNIA--Owing to a quite unusual press of business I much regret to say that I will be compelled to forgo the pleasure of enjoying your kind hospitality to-night. The misfortune is all the more heavy since I shall not only miss the pleasure of enjoying your charming society, but also the opportunity of discussing several matters of importance with Cæsar, which I was particularly anxious to do. Believe me, I am consumed with regret, but I will not waste your time in vain excuses and apologies, which seem only to increase my vexation without diminishing the inconvenience I fear I may be causing you. Hail and farewell.--M. T. CICERO.”

_Enter the_ SLAVE _with a letter for_ CÆSAR

THE SLAVE. No answer. (_He goes out._)

CÆSAR (_opening the letter_). It is from Catullus. (_Reading_) “A terrible catastrophe has happened. Going home last night from the Esquiline I got my feet wet, and this has affected my style; my hexameters are beginning to limp and my elegiacs are gouty. The doctor says the only thing which can cure me is a quiet night’s rest and some oysters from Britain. But it is unlikely that I shall find any in Rome. In view of these distressing circumstances I fear I must put off coming to-night to your dinner-party. Quite seriously, I am unwell. With a thousand compliments to Calpurnia.--Wretched CATULLUS.” “_P.S._--I was half engaged to Lucullus to-night, so if you see him later, tell him I _was_ going to dine with you.”

CALPURNIA. How silly he is! I shall never ask him again.

CÆSAR. Who is there left?

CALPURNIA. Now, there are only Brutus and Portia, Cassius and Cynthia.

_Enter the_ SLAVE _with a letter for_ CALPURNIA.
_She takes it_

THE SLAVE. No answer. (_He goes out._)

CALPURNIA. It is from Cynthia. I thought she would throw us over too. (_Reads_) “DEAREST CALPURNIA--Lucullus says you and Cæsar and Catullus and Clodia are all dining with him. Is that right? Am I dining with him or with you? Please arrange it with him. I will do exactly what you like.--Your loving CYNTHIA.” Now we have only got the bores left, Cassius, Brutus and Portia. I don’t suppose we can very well put them off.

CÆSAR. I think we might in this case. You see, it is perfectly true that our guests have all thrown us over, and it is much too late now to get any one else.

CALPURNIA. Very well. You must write to Cassius and I will write to Portia.

CÆSAR. And then we can dine with Lucullus.

CALPURNIA. Just as you think best; but if Brutus and Portia find it out they will never forgive us.

CÆSAR. What nonsense! Besides, perhaps Lucullus will ask them.

CALPURNIA. Never. (_Reading out as she writes_) DEAREST PORTIA--It is too unlucky, we are obliged to put off our dinner-party after all, because everybody has thrown us over; we are dreadfully disappointed, as we had so looked forward to seeing you. We shall have our little dinner on the 19th instead--Friday week. We do so hope you and Brutus are free.--Yours, CALPURNIA.

CÆSAR. That’s all right. I will write to Lucullus and say we will come, if he has still got room for us.

CALPURNIA. Just as you like; but remember that Brutus is touchy and that Portia never forgives.

CURTAIN.

XIV

LUCULLUS’S DINNER-PARTY

SCENE.--_A room in_ LUCULLUS’S _house. Discovered:_ LUCULLUS _(an
old man) and his_ COOK.

LUCULLUS. Of course, I don’t say that it wasn’t a good dish; but it was not Neapolitan peacock.

THE COOK. They were straight from Naples; the same as we’ve always had, sir.

LUCULLUS (_irritated_). I’m not talking about the bird, but about the dish. You know as well as I do that Neapolitan peacock without anemone seed is not Neapolitan peacock. And then the nightingales’ tongues were over-roasted. They ought to be roasted for twenty-three minutes and not one second longer.

THE COOK. They were only twenty-four minutes on the roast.

LUCULLUS. There, you see, it was that extra minute that spoilt them. You might just as well not roast them at all as roast them for twenty-four minutes. And then there were too many butterflies’ wings round the sturgeon.

THE COOK. The chief slave----

LUCULLUS. I’ve told you over and over again, till I’m tired of saying it, that the chief slave has nothing to do with the arrangement of the dishes. That is your affair. The chief slave can arrange the table, but he must not touch the dishes. The look of a dish is just as important as the taste of it. And then there was a pinch too much salt in the wild boar sauce.

THE COOK. The first sauceman has just lost his wife.

LUCULLUS. That’s not my affair. Please make it clear that this must not happen again. The fact is, Æmilius, you’re falling off--last night’s dinner wasn’t fit to eat; it was filthy; the kind of food one gets at Cæsar’s--sent for from round the corner.

THE COOK. If I may be so bold as to say so, we were saying in the kitchen that these rehearsals of dinners the night before the real dinner make us nervous--

LUCULLUS. All I can say is, if you can’t cook a good dinner twice running you’d better get another place. The dinner wasn’t fit to eat, and if it’s anything like that to-night I advise you to give up trying to cook and to take to wrestling. That’s all; you can go.

[_The_ COOK _blushes scarlet and goes out._

_Enter a_ SLAVE

THE SLAVE. Can you see Portia, the wife of Brutus?

LUCULLUS. Yes; show her in.

_Enter_ PORTIA

PORTIA. It’s such a beautiful morning that I thought a nice brisk walk would do me good, and as I was passing your door I couldn’t help just looking in.

LUCULLUS. I’m delighted.

PORTIA (_sitting down_). I wanted to ask you whether you would mind giving your patronage to the Old Slaves’ Pensions Fund? Cicero has helped us a great deal, and Cæsar has promised. By the way, is Cæsar dining with you to-night?

LUCULLUS. Yes, I believe he is.

PORTIA. Well, he particularly wants to see Brutus, and he said something about meeting us here to-night, and as I had heard nothing from you I thought I would just ask. The slaves are so stupid about letters--not that I want very much to dine out. You see I’m very busy just at this moment, and there’s a Committee Meeting to-night for the O.S.P.F. (_She sighs._) But one can’t always think of oneself, and Brutus has been so depressed lately. He sleeps badly, and we’ve tried everything. The new Greek doctor has done him no good, and we’ve tried fomented eucalyptus and poppy soup, and the cold-water cure; but it all seems to make him worse, and the doctors say that what he wants is _society_, and we so seldom see any one.

LUCULLUS. I shall be quite delighted if you both could come to-night. (_He calls out_) Lucius. (_Enter_ SLAVE.) Tell Æmilius at once we shall be two extra to dinner to-night; and tell him to get some more hoopoe’s eggs.

PORTIA. Of course, I didn’t mean to propose myself (_she laughs nervously_)--you mustn’t think that; and have you really got room for us?

LUCULLUS. Oh, there’s plenty of room. (_Pensively_) Do you like hoopoe’s eggs?

PORTIA (_simpering_). Well, they’re dreadfully indigestible, but I must say I never can resist a good hoopoe’s egg. (_Getting up_) Then I can count on your patronage?

LUCULLUS. Certainly; is there a subscription?

PORTIA. Not for the patrons. You see----

LUCULLUS. Yes, I see.

PORTIA. Good-bye. Thank you so much.

[_Exit_ PORTIA. LUCULLUS _sees her to the door and returns._

LUCULLUS (_pensively_). Brutus never drinks wine.

_Enter_ SLAVE

SLAVE. The Queen of Egypt is here. Æmilius says it’s too late to cook dinner for twelve now without spoiling it; he says we’re one too many as it is, and that he can’t get any more hoopoe’s eggs, and that there won’t be enough to go round.

LUCULLUS. Show the Queen in.

[_Exit_ SLAVE.

_Enter_ CLEOPATRA

CLEOPATRA. Don’t get up, Lucullus; I’m not going to keep you a minute. I want to know if you could possibly dine with me to-night. I’ve got some dancing; a little Persian girl--so clever--she does a parakeet dance with live birds.

LUCULLUS. There’s nothing I should like so much, dear Egypt; but I’ve got a dinner of my own. Do you want a man?

CLEOPATRA. I want _two_ men, dreadfully.

LUCULLUS. I’ll tell you who are coming--Mark Antony.

CLEOPATRA. I don’t know him.

LUCULLUS. Cicero.

CLEOPATRA. I’m afraid he wouldn’t do.

LUCULLUS. Brutus and his wife.

CLEOPATRA (_laughing_). They don’t know me.

LUCULLUS. Catullus. Oh, I forgot Cæsar and his wife.

CLEOPATRA. Of course Cæsar would do beautifully, but I suppose you couldn’t spare him.

LUCULLUS. To tell you the truth, I’ve got too many guests and not enough hoopoe’s eggs to go round, but----

CLEOPATRA. Well, I happened to meet Cæsar quite by chance this morning, and he said that poor Calpurnia had got one of her headaches and was dying not to dine out, but you know how dear and unselfish she is. So if you should put them off, I think it would be rather a relief to _her_, and then Cæsar could just run in for a moment to my dinner.

LUCULLUS. Certainly; I’ll say I’ve mistaken the date.

CLEOPATRA. That is charming of you; thank you so much. And you must come and dine quite quietly with me one night, and you might bring Mark Antony; I want to know him so much.

LUCULLUS. He’s not interesting; he bolts his food.

CLEOPATRA. How funny! Just like Cæsar. Good-bye; I must fly.

[_Exit_ CLEOPATRA.

_Enter_ SLAVE

SLAVE. Clodia, the wife of Metellus Celer, wishes to see you.

LUCULLUS. Show her in, and tell Æmilius we shan’t be two extra.

_Enter_ CLODIA

CLODIA. It’s too bad of me, Lucullus, to disturb you so early in the morning.

LUCULLUS. On the contrary----

CLODIA. What a charming room. (_Pointing to a statue of Hermes_) That’s a Praxiteles, isn’t it?

LUCULLUS. No; it’s only a copy I had made by a little man at Puteoli.

CLODIA. I think it’s wonderful.

LUCULLUS. It is clever.

CLODIA. You got my note?

LUCULLUS. Yes; I’m delighted you can come.

CLODIA. Well, that’s just what I wanted to explain. Metellus says you’ve asked Catullus, and last night we were all dining with Pollio, and Catullus was there. Of course, I don’t know him very well, but I’ve always been civil to him because of Metellus, who happens to like him. Well, last night he was so rude to my father-in-law that I don’t feel as if I could meet him again to-night. I mean I don’t think it would be right. Couldn’t you put him off and say he made you thirteen?--otherwise I don’t think I can come, and I wouldn’t miss your dinner for worlds.

LUCULLUS (_enchanted_). Quite delighted, I assure you, to render you the smallest service. I will write at once. (_He scribbles two notes._) Lucius! (_Enter a_ SLAVE.) Take this note to Caius Valerius Catullus at once, and this one to the Queen of Egypt, and tell Æmilius we shall only be nine. (_To_ CLODIA) I assure you it won’t matter to him, as Cleopatra is giving a dinner to-night and is looking out for a man. I have written to tell her.

CLODIA. Cleopatra! Oh!

LUCULLUS. Yes; don’t you like her?

CLODIA. Metellus hates Greeks; and I only just know her, but I do admire her. Metellus thinks she’s so second-rate. I don’t see it.

LUCULLUS. She’s cultivated.

CLODIA. Yes; Greeks always are.

_Enter a_ SLAVE _with a letter, which he gives to_
LUCULLUS

THE SLAVE. Waiting for an answer.

LUCULLUS. May I read this?

CLODIA. Please.

[LUCULLUS _opens the letter and looks at the signature._

LUCULLUS. It’s from one of my guests--Cynthia. I can’t read it; I’m so short-sighted and I left my emerald upstairs.

CLODIA. Shall I read it for you?

LUCULLUS. That would be very kind.

CLODIA (_reads_). “DEAR LUCULLUS--I find I can come to dinner after all. I have just found a letter which has been going all over Rome for me for the last week, from the King of Nubia, who had asked me to-night (and of course it was a command), saying that his dinner is put off. So I shall be delighted to come to-night if I may.--CYNTHIA.” That will just make you a woman over, won’t it; but it will be all right if I don’t come.

LUCULLUS. On the contrary----

CLODIA. Of course it will. You see I may just as well come another night, and Metellus will come without me--husbands are always so much nicer without their wives. As a matter of fact, Metellus didn’t much want me to come, because my throat’s been rather bad lately, and he thinks I oughtn’t to go out at night; so it all fits in. Good-bye, Lucullus.

LUCULLUS. Good-bye. (_Exit_ CLODIA.) She’ll go to Cleopatra’s--after all, food is wasted on women. Lucius!

_Enter the_ SLAVE

THE SLAVE. If you please, sir, Æmilius has killed himself!

LUCULLUS. Then who’s going to cook the dinner?

THE SLAVE. The head sauceman says he can manage the nightingales’ tongues and the fish, but he’s no experience of peacock.

LUCULLUS. Peacock! I should think not. He’s not to touch the peacock. (_He walks up and down in great agitation, thinking._) Tell the head sauceman--who is it--Balbus?

THE SLAVE. Yes, sir.

LUCULLUS. Tell Balbus I will have dinner in my room an hour and a half before the other dinner. He can give soup, fish, pheasant, nightingales’ tongues, the cold boar pie which was left from yesterday, and some hoopoe’s eggs--and as for the dinner, you can send out for it. Send now to Varro’s shop and order dinner for nine--eight courses--anything you like. Go at once. They may not be able to do it in time.

THE SLAVE. If you please, sir, one of the slaves was over at Varro’s this morning about the extra slaves to wait, and they said they had a dinner ordered and countermanded by Calpurnia on their hands.

LUCULLUS. That will do. But tell Balbus if my nightingales are not satisfactory he shall be impaled.

CURTAIN.

XV

THE STOIC’S DAUGHTER

SCENE.--_A room in the house of_ BURRUS, _Prefect of the
Prætorian Guards of Nero._ BURRUS _is discovered in an attitude
of despondency._

_Enter a_ SLAVE

BURRUS. Well?

SLAVE. Caius Petronius would like to speak to you.

BURRUS. I will see him.

_Enter_ C. PETRONIUS--PETRONIUS ARBITER,
_middle-aged, but very elegant_

PETRONIUS. Good morning. I’ve come about that dinner. The Emperor quite approves of the list of guests....

BURRUS. I don’t suppose you wish me to come now.

PETRONIUS. Why not?

BURRUS. Well, after Lucius’s--er--unfortunate escapade----

PETRONIUS. My dear fellow, I assure you that’s not of the slightest consequence. If we had to be responsible for our sons’ misdeeds life would become impossible. As it is, the Emperor, while sympathising with your feelings----

BURRUS. Please don’t talk about it. You can understand how inexpressibly painful it is to me.

PETRONIUS. It might have been worse. He might have gone on the stage.

BURRUS. The gods spared us that. That would have killed Æmilia.

PETRONIUS. I suppose she feels it dreadfully.

BURRUS. It’s not so much the thing she minds, but the family name being dragged into publicity--people making bets----

PETRONIUS. Yes, yes--but there’s nothing to be done. After all, when all’s said and done it is much less degrading to be a gladiator than an actor--or a charioteer. Piso’s nephew is a charioteer, and Tigellinus’s brother appeared on the stage for some charity.

BURRUS. I don’t know what the world is coming to.

PETRONIUS. I suppose he’ll drop it immediately. Then I should send him abroad for a little, and the world will forget all about it. These things are forgotten so quickly. After all, boys will be boys. Believe me, young men must sow their wild oats, and the sooner they get it over the better. Well, please give my respects to Æmilia, and I can count on you for certain for the fifteenth?

BURRUS. I shall come without fail.

[_Exit_ PETRONIUS.

_Enter_ ÆMILIA--BURRUS’S _wife_

ÆMILIA. Well? What did he say?

BURRUS. Nothing, practically. The Emperor doesn’t seem to have said anything.

ÆMILIA. But do you mean to say you haven’t arranged anything?