Gleva: Listen to me!--Calpurnius.
[_He laughs affectionately at her pronunciation of his name._]
Calpurnius: Let me hear this wise plan!
Gleva: I will go with you.
Calpurnius (_rising_): What?
[_Gleva pulls him down._]
Gleva: Yes, I'll give up my kingdom here, sacrifice it all, and go to
Rome with you. Calpurnius (_in a whisper_), I'll be your Lydia. Oh, to
drive with you on such a night as this, all crowned with roses, from
Rome to Baiae on the sea.
Calpurnius: These are dreams.
Gleva (_passionately_): Why? Why? Are these women in Rome more
beautiful than I? Look! (_She rises._) I can dress, too, as the Roman
women do. I wear the combs you gave me. I don't think they are pretty,
but I wear them. See, I wear, too, the sandals, the bracelets.
Calpurnius: No. There are no women in Rome more beautiful than
you--but--but----
Gleva (_all her passion dying away_): You would be ashamed of me.
[_Calpurnius is uncomfortable._]
Calpurnius: You would be--unusual. People would turn and stare. Other
women would laugh. Some scribbler would write a lampoon. Oh, you are
beautiful, but this is your place, not Rome. Each to his own in the
end, Gleva. I to Rome--you to your people.
Gleva: My people! Oh, you did right to laugh at the thought of
reigning here. What are my people? Slaves for your pleasure. It can't
be! You to Rome, the lights, the women--oh, how I hate them! You would
not reproach me because my knife hangs idle, had I your Roman women
here! Calpurnius, be kind. From the first morning when I saw you in
the forest, shining in brass, a god, there has been no kingdom, no
people for me but you. I have watched you, learnt from you. Oh! I am
of the Romans--I'll----
Calpurnius: Each to his own in the end. That's the law.
Gleva: A bitter, cruel one.
Calpurnius: Very likely. But it can't be changed. So long as the world
lasts, centuries hence, wherever soldiers are, still it will be the
law.
Gleva: Soldiers! Say soldiers, and all must be forgiven!
Calpurnius: Much, at all events, by those with understanding. Hear
what a soldier is. You see him strong, browned by the sun, flashing in
armour, tramping the earth, a conqueror--a god, yes, a god! Ask his
centurion who drills him in the barrack square.