_Enter a_ SLAVE
SLAVE. Lucius, Annæus Seneca, and Annæus Serenus wish to see you.
BURRUS. Show them in.
_Enter_ LUCIUS, A. SENECA, _and_ A. SERENUS
[_Exit_ SLAVE.
SENECA. I’ve only just heard the news, or else I would have come
sooner.
SERENUS. And I had no idea until Seneca told me.
BURRUS. I suppose it’s all over Rome by now.
SENECA. You mustn’t take these things to heart.
ÆMILIA. It’s all very well for you to talk, Seneca; you haven’t got a
son.
SENECA. I would esteem it a privilege to be visited by troubles of
this nature. It is only the noblest souls that the gods plague with
such disasters in order that, tempered by affliction, the true
steel, emerging triumphant from the trial, may serve as an example to
mankind.
SERENUS. Not being a stoic, Burrus, I take a different view of the
incident. I consider that man is born to enjoy himself, and that
the opportunities of enjoyment are rare and far between. Life is
monotonous. If your son finds a relaxation from the tediousness of
existence in fighting as a gladiator, by all means let him continue
to do so. It is a profession which calls forth many of the noblest
qualities of man.
ÆMILIA. But think of the family, Serenus. Think of us, of my sisters,
my sisters-in-law, my cousins; think of my husband and the harm that
it may do him professionally.
SENECA. Vain thoughts, I assure you, Æmilia. A man’s merit depends
on the aspirations of his soul and not on the idle gossip of his
relations.
SERENUS. All one’s relations are liars. It is much better that they
should say your son is a gladiator who fights in public--which is
true--than that they should say he is a drunkard who drinks in
secret, which would be untrue. They would no doubt say that, had they
no other food for gossip.
ÆMILIA. But Lucius never drinks. He had never given us a day’s
anxiety until this.
BURRUS. He got all the prizes at school.
ÆMILIA. He was working so hard to become an officer.
SERENUS. Ah! Over-education, I see. I assure you the whole matter
does not signify.
ÆMILIA. It is breaking his father’s heart.
BURRUS. I shall never hold up my head in public.
SENECA. Come, Burrus, think of Brutus, and what he had to endure from
his son.
SERENUS. Yes, and think of the many Roman sons who have killed their
fathers.
SENECA. In every evil, in every misfortune there is always a seed of
consolation. You must, of course, deal kindly with him, but firmly,
and I am convinced he will listen to reason.
ÆMILIA. He wouldn’t listen to us at all. We all tried our best to
dissuade him--except his cousin Lesbia. Heartless woman! It was
entirely her fault.
BURRUS. He shall never cross this threshold again as long as I live.
SENECA. Set a noble example of forgiveness, Burrus, and the world
will be grateful to you.
BURRUS. I will never set eyes upon him again. He has disgraced
himself and his family for ever. There are certain stains of
dishonour which can never be effaced.
_Enter a_ SLAVE
SLAVE. Paulina, the wife of Seneca, is here. She wishes to speak to
you.
SENECA. My wife! What can she want?
BURRUS. Show her in.
[_Exit_ SLAVE.
_Enter_ PAULINA
PAULINA. Forgive me, Burrus, for forcing my way in--they said you
were not at home to any visitors--but it is a matter of life and
death--and I must speak to Seneca. (_To_ SENECA) I have been hunting
for you the whole morning, and it’s by the merest chance I found out
you had come here.
SENECA. What is it?
PAULINA. A terrible catastrophe has befallen us.
SENECA. My Greek vases?
PAULINA. No, it’s nothing to do with your horrible collections.
SENECA. Then don’t you think we had better go home and discuss the
matter in private?
PAULINA. No, I want Burrus’s help.
SENECA. What can have happened?
PAULINA. It’s Julia.
SENECA. I suppose she’s run away with some one.
PAULINA. Oh no; it’s far worse than that.
SENECA. You mean----
PAULINA. I don’t mean anything. I mean she has disgraced us all.
SERENUS. These little affairs blow over so quickly.
PAULINA. But you don’t understand--you will never believe it. The
girl has become a Christian.
SENECA. A Christian!
BURRUS. No!
ÆMILIA. My poor Paulina!
SERENUS. Curious!
BURRUS. She must have been got hold of by the Jews.
ÆMILIA. They are terribly cunning; and people say they’re everywhere,
and yet one doesn’t see them.
SERENUS. But surely there is nothing irretrievable about this. As
long as nobody knows about it, what does it signify?
SENECA. You don’t understand. It’s a matter of principle; I could not
possibly harbour a daughter under my roof whom I knew to be a traitor
to the State.
SERENUS. It is annoying.
PAULINA. But you don’t know the worst: she has gone to prison.
SENECA (_very angry_). Well, I hope you will let her know that she
shall never come back to our home as long as she lives. Her conduct
is not only immoral, but it is immodest. It is inspired solely and
simply by a passion for self-advertisement. It is this modern craze
for publicity which is the ruin of our children; she is bitten by
this same passion for notoriety which--you will excuse me saying so,
Burrus--led your son to be a gladiator. I call it vulgar, tawdry,
Byzantine, hysterical, and essentially un-Roman.
SERENUS. But surely, my dear Seneca, nobody can think it amusing to
go to prison? Think of the risk.
SENECA. I beg your pardon. People of her class risk nothing. They
have got a morbid craze for new sensations.
SERENUS. Rather disagreeable sensations, aren’t they? To be eaten by
a tiger, for instance?
SENECA. There’s no question of that. It’s only the worst criminals
who are treated like that. Am I not right, Burrus?
BURRUS. Perfectly. A purely religious offender is immediately
released on making the mere outward sign of allegiance to the State.
An oath is not even required.
PAULINA. Well, that’s just what I’ve come about. The child is in
prison, and it appears--it is very foolish and obstinate of her,
but Julia always was an obstinate child--that she refuses to fulfil
the necessary formality, sacrifice, or whatever it is. So I thought
I would come to you, Burrus, and ask you just to say a word to the
prison authorities, and then she could be let out--quite quietly, of
course. Nobody need know about it.
BURRUS. My dear lady, you know how gladly I would do anything in the
world to be of use to you. But in this case--and I am sure you will
understand--I cannot see my way; indeed it is quite impossible for me
to take any action. You see, Petronius’s cousin was released three
weeks ago, and smuggled out of the country, and the demagogues got
hold of it and complained to the Emperor, who--courting popularity as
usual--said it was not to occur again. So you see in what an awkward
position we are placed. We can’t make these distinctions simply
between people of position and others----
PAULINA. But it’s always done.
BURRUS. That’s just why it can’t be done this time. The Emperor is
extremely annoyed at people of good family having anything to do with
those horrible Christians, and he’s determined to stamp this mania
out. But all she has got to do is to sacrifice----
PAULINA. But you don’t realise how obstinate the girl is.
_Enter_ LESBIA, _a lovely gay woman, about 25_
LESBIA. Good morning, good morning. I’ve got some places for the
Games, and Lucius comes on at three. You _must_ see him fight. He’s
too wonderful. And it’s horrible of you not to go and see him,
and then they’re going to throw _all_ the Christians to the lions
directly afterwards, so you must come.
CURTAIN.
XVI
AFTER EURIPIDES’ “ELECTRA”
SCENE.--_A room in the house of_ CINYRAS, _at Athens_.
[_Reclining on couches round the tables are_ SOCRATES, ALCANDER
(_a man about Athens,_) DEMETRIUS (_a critic,_) XENOCLES (_a
playwright,_) ANTAGORAS (_an important official,_) NAUCYDES (_a
soldier,_) HELIODORE (_wife of_ CINYRAS), _and her friends,_
LYCORIS, TIMARETA, NICYLLA, _and_ HEGESO.
HELIODORE. Euripides has promised to come; but we won’t wait for him.
I don’t know what you feel, but I’m very hungry.
NAUCYDES. So am I. Makes one hungry, don’t you know--that kind of
thing. Splendid show.
LYCORIS. What I say is, it’s too long. It lasted nearly all day. If
he had made it about half as long, it would be just as beautiful,
and much more enjoyable for us. Of course, I don’t pretend to be a
judge, but I do say it’s too long.
CINYRAS. Much the best thing is to do as I do and not go to the play
at all.
LYCORIS. No, I like a _good_ play. But I don’t care for Diophantus’
acting. It’s just the same with Tityus. What I say is, Diophantus is
always Diophantus and Tityus is always Tityus.
DEMETRIUS. But surely the business of the actor is never to let his
personality change?
NICYLLA. What did you think of the play, Demetrius?
DEMETRIUS. I am afraid I must not tell you that until my opinions are
published. It wouldn’t be fair on the author.
NICYLLA. And what did you think, Socrates?
SOCRATES. I admired it immensely.
HEGESO. I thought it wonderful. I loved the story. I loved
Clytæmnestra’s clothes, that wonderful, dirty, wine-stained dress,
and Electra’s pale, shivering, stone-cold mask; and Orestes was such
a darling. So mad, and distraught, and rebellious.
HELIODORE. I thought it was marvellous.
NICYLLA. I think it’s so much better than Sophocles’ _Electra_.
ALCANDER. It’s very clever, of course; brilliantly clever; but it’s
not a play. It’s really only a discussion.
HEGESO. But I was thrilled by the story and so frightened.
TIMARETA. You know, it’s not the story. It’s the acting. Apollodorus
told me it’s the acting. It’s wonderful. It’s felt. I felt it.
LYCORIS. I must say, I don’t like that sort of play. I think it
leaves a nasty taste in one’s mouth and one doesn’t quite know why. I
know it’s very clever.
NICYLLA. Oh, Lycoris, how old-fashioned of you! Now don’t you think
Electra was right, Socrates, to kill her mother?
SOCRATES. We’ll ask Euripides that when he comes. My business is to
ask questions----
NAUCYDES (_aside to_ HELIODORE). And a great nuisance he is, too,
with his questions.
SOCRATES. And not to answer them.
NAUCYDES (_aside to_ HELIODORE). I don’t believe he knows what the
answers are.
NICYLLA. But don’t you think, Demetrius, that a girl is justified in
taking the law into her hands in such very exceptional circumstances;
or do you think a girl’s first duty is to her mother?
ANTAGORAS. I think she deserved a good whipping, if you ask me.
However, it’s not the story I object to. I mean, we all know the
story, and we’re quite ready to see a new play on the subject, as
long as it’s treated reverently and decently; but one never knows
with Euripides when he’s serious, or whether he’s laughing in his
sleeve the whole time or not. Now I like Æschylus.
XENOCLES. Poor Euripides! He’s shot his bolt.
NICYLLA. Do you think he’s played out?
LYCORIS. What I say is this, that Clytæmnestra thoroughly deserved to
die, but Electra wasn’t the person to kill her, and that as she did
kill her mother she ought to have been punished.
TIMARETA. It was Fate, that’s what it was. Apollodorus told me it was
all Fate.
HEGESO. Yes, and she was so sad, so miserable; she couldn’t bear
doing it. She _loved_ her mother, although her mother had been so
unkind, and turned her out of that beautiful house into a cold cruel
hut, and only a herdsman to talk to. Don’t you agree, Naucydes, with
me, that Electra was cruelly treated? She couldn’t help it, could she?
NAUCYDES. Rather an awkward case, don’t you know. Sort of fix when
everything you do’s wrong. (_He laughs loudly._)
HEGESO. And wasn’t the music too heavenly?
ALCANDER. It’s like the play--clever; but it isn’t music, any more
than the play’s a play.
ANTAGORAS. I couldn’t make head or tail of it--but then I’m not
musical.
HEGESO. Didn’t you love those divine little screams, like a saw
cutting ice, and the noise the cymbals made, like slippery sandals
rushing down a marble mountain?
NICYLLA. What did you think of the music, Demetrius?
DEMETRIUS. There are no ideas in it, and it’s very thin; there’s no
colour in it either, but a certain amount of clever arabesque work.
NICYLLA. Don’t you think music acts on one’s sub-conscious superself
without one’s noticing it? When I hear certain kinds of music I go
quite mad, and sometimes when I hear music I feel as if I could
understand everything. I am sure you agree with me, Socrates. And
now, _do_ tell me: Does music have an Apolline or a Dionysic effect
on you? Sometimes it has a Dionysic effect on me and sometimes an
Apolline.
SOCRATES. What is music, Nicylla? If you can answer me that, I will
tell you the nature of its effect on me.
NICYLLA. Music is the language of the soul. It is to man what the
perfume is to the flower.
ANTAGORAS. Music’s a nuisance.
DEMETRIUS. Not necessarily; but it is often an interruption.
ALCANDER. And sometimes an accompaniment.
LYCORIS. Yes, as in the play to-day. What I say is, all this new
music isn’t music, but noise.
ANTAGORAS. I agree with you; it oughtn’t to be allowed.
DEMETRIUS. But isn’t all music noise?
HEGESO. Yes: delicious, heavenly noises, all caught like tame mice
and put in chains and made to be obedient.
HELIODORE. Don’t let’s discuss the music till we’ve finished talking
about the play. Now, Xenocles thinks that Euripides is played out.
XENOCLES. Euripides has talent, but he is essentially mediocre;
his verses are vulgar and facile. However, I’ve no doubt the
sausage-sellers enjoy his plays. It is the kind of thing which would
appeal to them. And they say the Barbarians find them extraordinarily
profound.
NICYLLA. Now, that’s one of your paradoxes, Xenocles. How brilliant
he is, isn’t he?
TIMARETA. Apollodorus says his characters are too natural. They are
just what one sees every day.
ANTAGORAS. Good gracious, I hope not.
NICYLLA. Now, Socrates, I know you admire Euripides, and I always
have admired him. I always said from the first that he was far the
greatest playwright we’d ever had. I want to know what Xenocles
admires.
XENOCLES. Well, there’s Agathon, but no one else.
NICYLLA. And I’m sure you don’t admire Sophocles?
XENOCLES. The gods forbid.
DEMETRIUS. His work is quite dead. I believe his plays are still
admired in Thrace.
NAUCYDES. I saw one the other day, and I’m afraid I liked it.
NICYLLA. Oh, Naucydes, how can you say such a thing? They’re so
empty. There’s no soul in them. No world-sympathy. No atmospheric
intuition. Nothing cosmic. And then they say his verses are all
wrong. Aren’t they, Xenocles?
XENOCLES. Sophocles undoubtedly wrote some good lines, but his
philosophy is childish. It is essentially Mid-Athenian.
HEGESO. Oh, I adore Mid-Athenian things. I’ve had a room furnished in
the Mid-Athenian style with archaic busts; you can’t think how quaint
and charming it looks.
HELIODORE. Won’t you have a little more partridge, Hegeso?
HEGESO. No, thank you, dear. I never touch food at this time in the
evening. I can only eat a little parsley and mint in the morning.
HELIODORE. I’m sure you must be hungry after all we’ve gone through.
I confess I cried like a child.
TIMARETA. That’s what it is--Euripides is so pathetic. He’s not great
and he’s not mystic, but he’s pathetic. He touches one just here.
(_She points to her throat._) Apollodorus told me he’s pathetic. He’s
got bathos.
HEGESO. I felt so sorry for Clytæmnestra. I was miserable when she
screamed. I jumped up in my seat and cried: “I can’t bear it, I can’t
bear it; they’re killing Clytæmnestra.” And Callias, who was sitting
next to me, was so cross. (_She helps herself to a quail._) It has
been a wonderful day.
HELIODORE. Wonderful! I’ve never been through anything like it before.
NICYLLA. I felt as if my soul had escaped and was just floating in
mid-ether between one world and another; between the two gates, don’t
you know.
TIMARETA. I was moved, that’s what it was--moved. I felt like--as if
I were at a funeral--a State funeral, with music and torches.
ALCANDER. Yes, it was certainly a fine performance.
NAUCYDES. By Zeus, yes!
DEMETRIUS. I don’t mind saying that I was interested.
HEGESO. I shall never get over it, never. I feel as if it had all
happened to me. (_She helps herself to another quail._)
_Enter a_ SLAVE
THE SLAVE. Euripides has sent to say he is very sorry he can’t come
to supper. He is too tired.
SOCRATES. I am afraid I must leave you. I have some pupils waiting
for me at home.
HELIODORE. Oh, don’t go, Socrates. I haven’t spoken to you at all,
and I have got so many things to say to you.
SOCRATES. I’m afraid I must go. Farewell, and a thousand thanks for
your kind hospitality.
DEMETRIUS. And I’m afraid I must go. I’ve got to write about the play.
[_Exeunt_ SOCRATES _and_ DEMETRIUS.
HELIODORE. I must say I do think it’s rather thoughtless of Euripides
to throw me over at the last minute. I do think he might have let me
know. You see, Socrates only came because of Euripides. And you see
what happens the moment he hears he’s not coming--he goes.
XENOCLES. He always does that. He’s spoilt. I told you he was
overrated.
HELIODORE. I don’t mind personally a bit. I don’t happen to care for
him; but I have asked thirty people to come in afterwards to meet
him, and I do think it’s selfish.
LYCORIS. I could tell from his play he was selfish.
TIMARETA. He’s no heart, that’s what it is. He’s heartless. Just like
Electra--heartless.
HELIODORE. But I do think Socrates might have stayed.
XENOCLES. Don’t you understand why he’s gone? He didn’t want to tell
Euripides how bad he thought the play was!
NICYLLA. Do you mean he really thinks it bad?
XENOCLES. I’m convinced of it.
ANTAGORAS. It’s much worse than bad; it’s undermining.
DEMETRIUS. I don’t mind telling you now what I think--it’s a poor
affair.
ALCANDER. Yes, I’m afraid it’s a failure.
HEGESO. Oh no, don’t say that, because I did so love it.
HELIODORE. I never liked Euripides.
NICYLLA. I told you he was finished. I’m never wrong. I knew it was
all a mistake.
XENOCLES. He means well.
ANTAGORAS. No, he doesn’t; that’s just it.
LYCORIS. What I say is, that those kinds of plays do harm.
ANTAGORAS. The man’s an atheist.
LYCORIS. He’s a scoffer.
ANTAGORAS. But Socrates is far worse than he is.
NICYLLA. Oh, he’s such a bore.
HEGESO. I love his little snub nose.
HELIODORE. I shall never ask them again.
ALCANDER. Tiresome people.
LYCORIS. What I say is, people like Socrates and Euripides ought to
be put in prison.
NICYLLA. Especially Socrates.
ANTAGORAS. So he will be, or else my name’s not Antagoras. He only
deserves one thing, and that’s capital punishment.
HEGESO. Poor little Socrates! But I hope you’ll let Euripides off.
ANTAGORAS. He doesn’t count; he’s only a playwright.
CURTAIN.
XVII
JASON AND MEDEA
SCENE.--_A room in the house of_ JASON, _looking on to garden, at
Corinth. Discovered:_ JASON _and_ GLAUCE.
JASON. I think you really had better go. She may be in any minute now.
GLAUCE. Very well; but you promise to tell her to-day?
JASON. I swear.
GLAUCE. It’s all very well, but you said that yesterday.
JASON. Yes, and I would have told her yesterday, only I was
interrupted----
GLAUCE. I know; the only thing I say is, you must tell her to-day and
do it nicely, because I shouldn’t like poor little Medea to be hurt.
JASON. No, of course not. Good-bye.
GLAUCE. Good-bye. Then to-morrow at eleven, at the Creon Institute.
JASON. Very well, at eleven.
GLAUCE. And then we might--no.
JASON. What?
GLAUCE. Nothing. I was only thinking we might have some food at the
“Golden Fleece,” _downstairs_.
JASON. The whole of Corinth would see us.
GLAUCE. There is never a soul downstairs, and I don’t see now that it
much matters.
JASON. It’s a pity to make oneself conspicuous; your father----
GLAUCE. You know best, but I should have thought----
JASON. That’s Medea coming through the garden.
GLAUCE. To-morrow, at eleven.
JASON. Yes--yes--to-morrow. (GLAUCE _goes out L._)
_Enter_ MEDEA _from the garden_
MEDEA. I can’t get any one for dinner to-morrow night. We want
somebody amusing.
JASON (_wearily_). Would Orpheus do?
MEDEA. We’ve got too many heroes as it is. And then, if Orpheus
comes, we shall be obliged to ask him to play.
JASON. What about Castor and Pollux?
MEDEA. Heroes again--and I think it’s a mistake to ask brothers
together.
JASON. Heracles is staying at Corinth.
MEDEA. He would do beautifully.
JASON. I’m not sure he would do. He doesn’t get on with Admetus.
MEDEA. Why not? Admetus ought to be very grateful.
JASON. For bringing back his wife from the grave?
MEDEA. Yes, of course.
JASON. Of course. (JASON _looks pensive._)
MEDEA. Then we shall want another woman.
JASON. How would Ariadne do?
MEDEA. What are you thinking of? Theseus is coming.
JASON. I thought all that had entirely blown over.
MEDEA. We want an unmarried woman, if possible.
JASON. I don’t know any one.
MEDEA. Do you think we could get King Creon’s daughter by herself?
She’s so pretty. I mean Glauce.
JASON (_blushing scarlet_). I don’t think--er--no--you see--we can’t
very well.
MEDEA. Why not?
JASON. She’s a girl.
MEDEA. She goes everywhere. She doesn’t count as a girl.
JASON. Then we should have to ask King Creon.
MEDEA. No, Alcestis will bring her. That will do beautifully. I’ll
send a message at once.
JASON. For the sake of the gods, do nothing of the kind.
MEDEA. But she’ll do beautifully.
JASON. You don’t understand. You see, King Creon has--he’s--well, I
don’t quite know how to say it.
MEDEA. What _do_ you mean?
JASON. Well, it’s very awkward. The fact is, King Creon has
approached me politically--about something----
MEDEA. What has that got to do with asking Glauce?
JASON. No, nothing, of course, except that we should have to ask him.
MEDEA. I’ve already told you that it’s unnecessary.
JASON (_firmly_). I shouldn’t dream of asking her without her father,
and we can’t ask him.
MEDEA. Why not?
JASON. Oh, because he never does dine out.
MEDEA. I’m sure he would come here.
JASON. It’s impossible. You see, to tell you the truth--I’ve been
meaning to tell you this for some time, only I’ve never had the
opportunity--the King is rather severe about you.
MEDEA. Severe! How?
JASON. Well, you see, he’s old-fashioned, and he doesn’t consider our
marriage as a marriage.
MEDEA. We were married in the temple of Aphrodite. What more does he
want?
JASON. He doesn’t consider that a girl’s marriage is valid when it is
made without the consent of her parents; and your poor dear father,
you know, was most unreasonable.
MEDEA. Papa being silly has got nothing to do with it. When a man and
a woman are married in a temple, with the proper rites, they are man
and wife. Nothing can ever alter the fact.
JASON. Yes, but it’s not only that. Creon goes much farther than
that. He made me certain revelations concerning some family business
which, I must say, surprised me immensely.
MEDEA. What family business?
JASON. Well, it appears that soon after I started for Colchis my
father entered into secret negotiations with King Creon, and signed
an offensive and defensive alliance with him, the object of which was
to safeguard themselves against Pelias. The word-alliance remained
secret. But at a State banquet Creon laid great stress on the
friendship between himself and the Æolidæ, and brought in the words
“friendly understanding” several times. Now in the treaty, which was
drawn up and published, to mask the alliance, there were several
secret clauses, one of which concerned the Sardine Fisheries in the
Isthmus of Corinth, and the other--well--er, my marriage.
MEDEA. Your marriage.
JASON. Yes, it is extraordinary, isn’t it? It appears that during
my absence, and without my being consulted in any way whatsoever,
I was formally married, by proxy, of course, to Creon’s daughter
Glauce--who was at that time a mere child. It was further settled
that as soon as she was grown up, the marriage would be announced and
the King would publicly adopt me as his heir.
MEDEA. No wonder he was annoyed at your having married me.
JASON. Well, you see, he isn’t annoyed at that, because he says our
marriage wasn’t valid.
MEDEA. Not in the eyes of the law, perhaps; but I am sure Aphrodite
would not only be pained, but extremely angry if we cancelled vows
which were made in her temple.