Behind the Emperor’s box at the Coliseum, where the performers assemble
before entering the arena. In the middle a wide passage leading to the
arena descends from the floor level under the imperial box. On both
sides of this passage steps ascend to a landing at the back entrance to
the box. The landing forms a bridge across the passage. At the entrance
to the passage are two bronze mirrors, one on each side.
On the west side of this passage, on the right hand of any one coming
from the box and standing on the bridge, the martyrs are sitting on the
steps. Lavinia is seated half-way up, thoughtful, trying to look death
in the face. On her left Androcles consoles himself by nursing a cat.
Ferrovius stands behind them, his eyes blazing, his figure stiff with
intense resolution. At the foot of the steps crouches Spintho, with his
head clutched in his hands, full of horror at the approach of
martyrdom.
On the east side of the passage the gladiators are standing and sitting
at ease, waiting, like the Christians, for their turn in the arena. One
(_Retiarius_) is a nearly naked man with a net and a trident. Another
(_Secutor_) is in armor with a sword. He carries a helmet with a barred
visor. The editor of the gladiators sits on a chair a little apart from
them.
_The Call Boy enters from the passage._
THE CALL BOY.
Number six. Retiarius versus Secutor.
_The gladiator with the net picks it up. The gladiator with the helmet
puts it on; and the two go into the arena, the net thrower taking out a
little brush and arranging his hair as he goes, the other tightening
his straps and shaking his shoulders loose. Both look at themselves in
the mirrors before they enter the passage._
LAVINIA.
Will they really kill one another?
SPINTHO.
Yes, if the people turn down their thumbs.
THE EDITOR.
You know nothing about it. The people indeed! Do you suppose we would
kill a man worth perhaps fifty talents to please the riffraff? I should
like to catch any of my men at it.
SPINTHO.
I thought—
THE EDITOR.
(_contemptuously_) You thought! Who cares what you think? You’ll be
killed all right enough.
SPINTHO.
(_groans and again hides his face_)!!! Then is nobody ever killed
except us poor—
LAVINIA.
Christians?
THE EDITOR.
If the vestal virgins turn down their thumbs, that’s another matter.
They’re ladies of rank.
LAVINIA.
Does the Emperor ever interfere?
THE EDITOR.
Oh, yes: he turns his thumbs up fast enough if the vestal virgins want
to have one of his pet fighting men killed.
ANDROCLES.
But don’t they ever just only pretend to kill one another? Why
shouldn’t you pretend to die, and get dragged out as if you were dead;
and then get up and go home, like an actor?
THE EDITOR.
See here: you want to know too much. There will be no pretending about
the new lion: let that be enough for you. He’s hungry.
SPINTHO.
(_groaning with horror_) Oh, Lord! Can’t you stop talking about it?
Isn’t it bad enough for us without that?
ANDROCLES.
I’m glad he’s hungry. Not that I want him to suffer, poor chap! but
then he’ll enjoy eating me so much more. There’s a cheerful side to
everything.
THE EDITOR.
(_rising and striding over to Androcles_) Here: don’t you be obstinate.
Come with me and drop the pinch of incense on the altar. That’s all you
need do to be let off.
ANDROCLES.
No: thank you very much indeed; but I really mustn’t.
THE EDITOR.
What! Not to save your life?
ANDROCLES.
I’d rather not. I couldn’t sacrifice to Diana: she’s a huntress, you
know, and kills things.
THE EDITOR.
That don’t matter. You can choose your own altar. Sacrifice to Jupiter:
he likes animals: he turns himself into an animal when he goes off
duty.
ANDROCLES.
No: it’s very kind of you; but I feel I can’t save myself that way.
THE EDITOR.
But I don’t ask you to do it to save yourself: I ask you to do it to
oblige me personally.
ANDROCLES.
(_scrambling up in the greatest agitation_) Oh, please don’t say that.
That is dreadful. You mean so kindly by me that it seems quite horrible
to disoblige you. If you could arrange for me to sacrifice when there’s
nobody looking, I shouldn’t mind. But I must go into the arena with the
rest. My honor, you know.
THE EDITOR.
Honor! The honor of a tailor?
ANDROCLES.
(_apologetically_) Well, perhaps honor is too strong an expression.
Still, you know, I couldn’t allow the tailors to get a bad name through
me.
THE EDITOR.
How much will you remember of all that when you smell the beast’s
breath and see his jaws opening to tear out your throat?
SPINTHO.
(_rising with a yell of terror_) I can’t bear it. Where’s the altar?
I’ll sacrifice.
FERROVIUS.
Dog of an apostate. Iscariot!
SPINTHO.
I’ll repent afterwards. I fully mean to die in the arena I’ll die a
martyr and go to heaven; but not this time, not now, not until my
nerves are better. Besides, I’m too young: I want to have just one more
good time. (_The gladiators laugh at him_). Oh, will no one tell me
where the altar is? (_He dashes into the passage and vanishes_).
ANDROCLES.
(_to the Editor, pointing after Spintho_) Brother: I can’t do that, not
even to oblige you. Don’t ask me.
THE EDITOR.
Well, if you’re determined to die, I can’t help you. But I wouldn’t be
put off by a swine like that.
FERROVIUS.
Peace, peace: tempt him not. Get thee behind him, Satan.
THE EDITOR.
(_flushing with rage_) For two pins I’d take a turn in the arena myself
to-day, and pay you out for daring to talk to me like that.
_Ferrovius springs forward._
LAVINIA.
(_rising quickly and interposing_) Brother, brother: you forget.
FERROVIUS.
(_curbing himself by a mighty effort_) Oh, my temper, my wicked temper!
(_To the Editor, as Lavinia sits down again, reassured_). Forgive me,
brother. My heart was full of wrath: I should have been thinking of
your dear precious soul.
THE EDITOR.
Yah! (_He turns his back on Ferrovius contemptuously, and goes back to
his seat_).
FERROVIUS.
(_continuing_) And I forgot it all: I thought of nothing but offering
to fight you with one hand tied behind me.
THE EDITOR.
(_turning pugnaciously_) What!
FERROVIUS.
(_on the border line between zeal and ferocity_) Oh, don’t give way to
pride and wrath, brother. I could do it so easily. I could—
_They are separated by the Menagerie Keeper, who rushes in from the
passage, furious._
THE KEEPER.
Here’s a nice business! Who let that Christian out of here down to the
dens when we were changing the lion into the cage next the arena?
THE EDITOR.
Nobody let him. He let himself.
THE KEEPER.
Well, the lion’s ate him.
_Consternation. The Christians rise, greatly agitated. The gladiators
sit callously, but are highly amused. All speak or cry out or laugh at
once. Tumult._
LAVINIA. Oh, poor wretch! FERROVIUS. The apostate has perished. Praise
be to God’s justice! ANDROCLES. The poor beast was starving. It
couldn’t help itself. THE CHRISTIANS. What! Ate him! How frightful! How
terrible! Without a moment to repent! God be merciful to him, a sinner!
Oh, I can’t bear to think of it! In the midst of his sin! Horrible,
horrible! THE EDITOR. Serve the rotter right! THE GLADIATORS. Just
walked into it, he did. He’s martyred all right enough. Good old lion!
Old Jock doesn’t like that: look at his face. Devil a better! The
Emperor will laugh when he hears of it. I can’t help smiling. Ha ha
ha!!!!!
THE KEEPER.
Now his appetite’s taken off, he won’t as much as look at another
Christian for a week.
ANDROCLES.
Couldn’t you have saved him brother?
THE KEEPER.
Saved him! Saved him from a lion that I’d just got mad with hunger! a
wild one that came out of the forest not four weeks ago! He bolted him
before you could say Balbus.
LAVINIA.
(_sitting down again_) Poor Spintho! And it won’t even count as
martyrdom!
THE KEEPER.
Serve him right! What call had he to walk down the throat of one of my
lions before he was asked?
ANDROCLES.
Perhaps the lion won’t eat me now.
THE KEEPER.
Yes: that’s just like a Christian: think only of yourself! What am I to
do? What am I to say to the Emperor when he sees one of my lions coming
into the arena half asleep?
THE EDITOR.
Say nothing. Give your old lion some bitters and a morsel of fried fish
to wake up his appetite. (_Laughter_).
THE KEEPER.
Yes: it’s easy for you to talk; but—
THE EDITOR.
(_scrambling to his feet_) Sh! Attention there! The Emperor. (_The
Keeper bolts precipitately into the passage. The gladiators rise
smartly and form into line_).
The Emperor enters on the Christians’ side, conversing with Metellus,
and followed by his suite.
THE GLADIATORS.
Hail, Caesar! those about to die salute thee.
CAESAR.
Good morrow, friends.
_Metellus shakes hands with the Editor, who accepts his condescension
with bluff respect._
LAVINIA.
Blessing, Caesar, and forgiveness!
CAESAR.
(_turning in some surprise at the salutation_) There is no forgiveness
for Christianity.
LAVINIA.
I did not mean that, Caesar. I mean that we forgive you.
METELLUS.
An inconceivable liberty! Do you not know, woman, that the Emperor can
do no wrong and therefore cannot be forgiven?
LAVINIA.
I expect the Emperor knows better. Anyhow, we forgive him.
THE CHRISTIANS. Amen!
CAESAR.
Metellus: you see now the disadvantage of too much severity. These
people have no hope; therefore they have nothing to restrain them from
saying what they like to me. They are almost as impertinent as the
gladiators. Which is the Greek sorcerer?
ANDROCLES.
(_humbly touching his forelock_) Me, your Worship.
CAESAR.
My Worship! Good! A new title. Well, what miracles can you perform?
ANDROCLES.
I can cure warts by rubbing them with my tailor’s chalk; and I can live
with my wife without beating her.
CAESAR.
Is that all?
ANDROCLES.
You don’t know her, Caesar, or you wouldn’t say that.
CAESAR.
Ah, well, my friend, we shall no doubt contrive a happy release for
you. Which is Ferrovius?
FERROVIUS.
I am he.
CAESAR.
They tell me you can fight.
FERROVIUS.
It is easy to fight. I can die, Caesar.
CAESAR.
That is still easier, is it not?
FERROVIUS.
Not to me, Caesar. Death comes hard to my flesh; and fighting comes
very easily to my spirit (_beating his breast and lamenting_) O sinner
that I am! (_He throws himself down on the steps, deeply discouraged_).
CAESAR.
Metellus: I should like to have this man in the Pretorian Guard.
METELLUS.
I should not, Caesar. He looks a spoilsport. There are men in whose
presence it is impossible to have any fun: men who are a sort of
walking conscience. He would make us all uncomfortable.
CAESAR.
For that reason, perhaps, it might be well to have him. An Emperor can
hardly have too many consciences. (_To Ferrovius_) Listen, Ferrovius.
(_Ferrovius shakes his head and will not look up_). You and your
friends shall not be outnumbered to-day in the arena. You shall have
arms; and there will be no more than one gladiator to each Christian.
If you come out of the arena alive, I will consider favorably any
request of yours, and give you a place in the Pretorian Guard. Even if
the request be that no questions be asked about your faith I shall
perhaps not refuse it.
FERROVIUS.
I will not fight. I will die. Better stand with the archangels than
with the Pretorian Guard.
CAESAR.
I cannot believe that the archangels—whoever they may be—would not
prefer to be recruited from the Pretorian Guard. However, as you
please. Come: let us see the show.
_As the Court ascends the steps, Secutor and the Retiarius return from
the arena through the passage; Secutor covered with dust and very
angry: Retiarius grinning._
SECUTOR.
Ha, the Emperor. Now we shall see. Caesar: I ask you whether it is fair
for the Retiarius, instead of making a fair throw of his net at me, to
swish it along the ground and throw the dust in my eyes, and then catch
me when I’m blinded. If the vestals had not turned up their thumbs I
should have been a dead man.
CAESAR.
(_halting on the stair_) There is nothing in the rules against it.
SECUTOR.
(_indignantly_) Caesar: is it a dirty trick or is it not?
CAESAR.
It is a dusty one, my friend. (_Obsequious laughter_). Be on your guard
next time.
SECUTOR.
Let HIM be on his guard. Next time I’ll throw my sword at his heels and
strangle him with his own net before he can hop off. (_To Retiarius_)
You see if I don’t. (_He goes out past the gladiators, sulky and
furious_).
CAESAR.
(_to the chuckling Retiarius_). These tricks are not wise, my friend.
The audience likes to see a dead man in all his beauty and splendor. If
you smudge his face and spoil his armor they will show their
displeasure by not letting you kill him. And when your turn comes, they
will remember it against you and turn their thumbs down.
THE RETIARIUS.
Perhaps that is why I did it, Caesar. He bet me ten sesterces that he
would vanquish me. If I had had to kill him I should not have had the
money.
CAESAR.
(_indulgent, laughing_) You rogues: there is no end to your tricks.
I’ll dismiss you all and have elephants to fight. They fight fairly.
(_He goes up to his box, and knocks at it. It is opened from within by
the Captain, who stands as on parade to let him pass_). The Call Boy
comes from the passage, followed by three attendants carrying
respectively a bundle of swords, some helmets, and some breastplates
and pieces of armor which they throw down in a heap.
THE CALL BOY.
By your leave, Caesar. Number eleven! Gladiators and Christians!
_Ferrovius springs up, ready for martyrdom. The other Christians take
the summons as best they can, some joyful and brave, some patient and
dignified, some tearful and helpless, some embracing one another with
emotion. The Call Boy goes back into the passage._
CAESAR.
(_turning at the door of the box_) The hour has come, Ferrovius. I
shall go into my box and see you killed, since you scorn the Pretorian
Guard. (_He goes into the box. The Captain shuts the door, remaining
inside with the Emperor. Metellus and the rest of the suite disperse to
their seats. The Christians, led by Ferrovius, move towards the
passage_).
LAVINIA.
(_to Ferrovius_) Farewell.
THE EDITOR.
Steady there. You Christians have got to fight. Here! arm yourselves.
FERROVIUS.
(_picking up a sword_) I’ll die sword in hand to show people that I
could fight if it were my Master’s will, and that I could kill the man
who kills me if I chose.
THE EDITOR.
Put on that armor.
FERROVIUS.
No armor.
THE EDITOR.
(_bullying him_) Do what you’re told. Put on that armor.
FERROVIUS.
(_gripping the sword and looking dangerous_) I said, No armor.
THE EDITOR.
And what am I to say when I am accused of sending a naked man in to
fight my men in armor?
FERROVIUS.
Say your prayers, brother; and have no fear of the princes of this
world.
THE EDITOR.
Tsha! You obstinate fool! (_He bites his lips irresolutely, not knowing
exactly what to do_).
ANDROCLES.
(_to Ferrovius_) Farewell, brother, till we meet in the sweet
by-and-by.
THE EDITOR.
(_to Androcles_) You are going too. Take a sword there; and put on any
armor you can find to fit you.
ANDROCLES.
No, really: I can’t fight: I never could. I can’t bring myself to
dislike anyone enough. I’m to be thrown to the lions with the lady.
THE EDITOR.
Then get out of the way and hold your noise. (_Androcles steps aside
with cheerful docility_). Now then! Are you all ready there?
_A trumpet is heard from the arena._
FERROVIUS.
(_starting convulsively_) Heaven give me strength!
THE EDITOR.
Aha! That frightens you, does it?
FERROVIUS.
Man: there is no terror like the terror of that sound to me. When I
hear a trumpet or a drum or the clash of steel or the hum of the
catapult as the great stone flies, fire runs through my veins: I feel
my blood surge up hot behind my eyes: I must charge: I must strike: I
must conquer: Caesar himself will not be safe in his imperial seat if
once that spirit gets loose in me. Oh, brothers, pray! exhort me!
remind me that if I raise my sword my honor falls and my Master is
crucified afresh.
ANDROCLES.
Just keep thinking how cruelly you might hurt the poor gladiators.
FERROVIUS.
It does not hurt a man to kill him.
LAVINIA.
Nothing but faith can save you.
FERROVIUS.
Faith! Which faith? There are two faiths. There is our faith. And there
is the warrior’s faith, the faith in fighting, the faith that sees God
in the sword. How if that faith should overwhelm me?
LAVINIA.
You will find your real faith in the hour of trial.
FERROVIUS.
That is what I fear. I know that I am a fighter. How can I feel sure
that I am a Christian?
ANDROCLES.
Throw away the sword, brother.
FERROVIUS.
I cannot. It cleaves to my hand. I could as easily throw a woman I
loved from my arms. (_Starting_) Who spoke that blasphemy? Not I.
LAVINIA.
I can’t help you, friend. I can’t tell you not to save your own life.
Something wilful in me wants to see you fight your way into heaven.
FERROVIUS.
Ha!
ANDROCLES.
But if you are going to give up our faith, brother, why not do it
without hurting anybody? Don’t fight them. Burn the incense.
FERROVIUS.
Burn the incense! Never.
LAVINIA.
That is only pride, Ferrovius.
FERROVIUS.
ONLY pride! What is nobler than pride? (_Conscience stricken_) Oh, I’m
steeped in sin. I’m proud of my pride.
LAVINIA.
They say we Christians are the proudest devils on earth—that only the
weak are meek. Oh, I am worse than you. I ought to send you to death;
and I am tempting you.
ANDROCLES.
Brother, brother: let them rage and kill: let us be brave and suffer.
You must go as a lamb to the slaughter.
FERROVIUS.
Aye, aye: that is right. Not as a lamb is slain by the butcher; but as
a butcher might let himself be slain by a (_looking at the Editor_) by
a silly ram whose head he could fetch off in one twist.
_Before the Editor can retort, the Call Boy rushes up through the
passage; and the Captain comes from the Emperor’s box and descends the
steps._
THE CALL BOY.
In with you: into the arena. The stage is waiting.
THE CAPTAIN.
The Emperor is waiting. (_To the Editor_) What are you dreaming of,
man? Send your men in at once.
THE EDITOR.
Yes, Sir: it’s these Christians hanging back.
FERROVIUS.
(_in a voice of thunder_) Liar!
THE EDITOR.
(_not heeding him_) March. (_The gladiators told off to fight with the
Christians march down the passage_) Follow up there, you.
THE CHRISTIAN MEN AND WOMEN.
(_as they part_) Be steadfast, brother. Farewell. Hold up the faith,
brother. Farewell. Go to glory, dearest. Farewell. Remember: we are
praying for you. Farewell. Be strong, brother. Farewell. Don’t forget
that the divine love and our love surround you. Farewell. Nothing can
hurt you: remember that, brother. Farewell. Eternal glory, dearest.
Farewell.
THE EDITOR.
(_out of patience_) Shove them in, there.
_The remaining gladiators and the Call Boy make a movement towards
them._
FERROVIUS.
(_interposing_) Touch them, dogs; and we die here, and cheat the
heathen of their spectacle. (_To his fellow Christians_) Brothers: the
great moment has come. That passage is your hill to Calvary. Mount it
bravely, but meekly; and remember! not a word of reproach, not a blow
nor a struggle. Go. (_They go out through the passage. He turns to
Lavinia_) Farewell.
LAVINIA.
You forget: I must follow before you are cold.
FERROVIUS.
It is true. Do not envy me because I pass before you to glory. (_He
goes through the passage_).
THE EDITOR.
(_to the Call Boy_) Sickening work, this. Why can’t they all be thrown
to the lions? It’s not a man’s job. (_He throws himself moodily into
his chair_).
_The remaining gladiators go back to their former places indifferently.
The Call Boy shrugs his shoulders and squats down at the entrance to
the passage, near the Editor._
_Lavinia and the Christian women sit down again, wrung with grief, some
weeping silently, some praying, some calm and steadfast. Androcles sits
down at Lavinia’s feet. The Captain stands on the stairs, watching her
curiously._
ANDROCLES.
I’m glad I haven’t to fight. That would really be an awful martyrdom. I
am lucky.
LAVINIA.
(_looking at him with a pang of remorse_). Androcles: burn the incense:
you’ll be forgiven. Let my death atone for both. I feel as if I were
killing you.
ANDROCLES.
Don’t think of me, sister. Think of yourself. That will keep your heart
up.
_The Captain laughs sardonically._
LAVINIA.
(_startled: she had forgotten his presence_) Are you there, handsome
Captain? Have you come to see me die?
THE CAPTAIN.
(_coming to her side_) I am on duty with the Emperor, Lavinia.
LAVINIA.
Is it part of your duty to laugh at us?
THE CAPTAIN.
No: that is part of my private pleasure. Your friend here is a
humorist. I laughed at his telling you to think of yourself to keep up
your heart. I say, think of yourself and burn the incense.
LAVINIA.
He is not a humorist: he was right. You ought to know that, Captain:
you have been face to face with death.
THE CAPTAIN.
Not with certain death, Lavinia. Only death in battle, which spares
more men than death in bed. What you are facing is certain death. You
have nothing left now but your faith in this craze of yours: this
Christianity. Are your Christian fairy stories any truer than our
stories about Jupiter and Diana, in which, I may tell you, I believe no
more than the Emperor does, or any educated man in Rome?
LAVINIA.
Captain: all that seems nothing to me now. I’ll not say that death is a
terrible thing; but I will say that it is so real a thing that when it
comes close, all the imaginary things—all the stories, as you call
them—fade into mere dreams beside that inexorable reality. I know now
that I am not dying for stories or dreams. Did you hear of the dreadful
thing that happened here while we were waiting?
THE CAPTAIN.
I heard that one of your fellows bolted, and ran right into the jaws of
the lion. I laughed. I still laugh.
LAVINIA.
Then you don’t understand what that meant?
THE CAPTAIN.
It meant that the lion had a cur for his breakfast.
LAVINIA.
It meant more than that, Captain. It meant that a man cannot die for a
story and a dream. None of us believed the stories and the dreams more
devoutly than poor Spintho; but he could not face the great reality.
What he would have called my faith has been oozing away minute by
minute whilst I’ve been sitting here, with death coming nearer and
nearer, with reality becoming realler and realler, with stories and
dreams fading away into nothing.
THE CAPTAIN.
Are you then going to die for nothing?
LAVINIA.
Yes: that is the wonderful thing. It is since all the stories and
dreams have gone that I have now no doubt at all that I must die for
something greater than dreams or stories.
THE CAPTAIN.
But for what?
LAVINIA.
I don’t know. If it were for anything small enough to know, it would be
too small to die for. I think I’m going to die for God. Nothing else is
real enough to die for.
THE CAPTAIN.
What is God?
LAVINIA.
When we know that, Captain, we shall be gods ourselves.
THE CAPTAIN.
Lavinia; come down to earth. Burn the incense and marry me.
LAVINIA.
Handsome Captain: would you marry me if I hauled down the flag in the
day of battle and burnt the incense? Sons take after their mothers, you
know. Do you want your son to be a coward?
THE CAPTAIN.
(_strongly moved_). By great Diana, I think I would strangle you if you
gave in now.
LAVINIA.
(_putting her hand on the head of Androcles_) The hand of God is on us
three, Captain.
THE CAPTAIN.
What nonsense it all is! And what a monstrous thing that you should die
for such nonsense, and that I should look on helplessly when my whole
soul cries out against it! Die then if you must; but at least I can cut
the Emperor’s throat and then my own when I see your blood.
The Emperor throws open the door of his box angrily, and appears in
wrath on the threshold. The Editor, the Call Boy, and the gladiators
spring to their feet.
THE EMPEROR.
The Christians will not fight; and your curs cannot get their blood up
to attack them. It’s all that fellow with the blazing eyes. Send for
the whip. (_The Call Boy rushes out on the east side for the whip_). If
that will not move them, bring the hot irons. The man is like a
mountain. (_He returns angrily into the box and slams the door_).
_The Call Boy returns with a man in a hideous Etruscan mask, carrying a
whip. They both rush down the passage into the arena._
LAVINIA.
(_rising_) Oh, that is unworthy. Can they not kill him without
dishonoring him?
ANDROCLES.
(_scrambling to his feet and running into the middle of the space
between the staircases_) It’s dreadful. Now I want to fight. I can’t
bear the sight of a whip. The only time I ever hit a man was when he
lashed an old horse with a whip. It was terrible: I danced on his face
when he was on the ground. He mustn’t strike Ferrovius: I’ll go into
the arena and kill him first. (_He makes a wild dash into the passage.
As he does so a great clamor is heard from the arena, ending in wild
applause. The gladiators listen and look inquiringly at one another_).
THE EDITOR.
What’s up now?
LAVINIA.
(_to the Captain_) What has happened, do you think?
THE CAPTAIN.
What CAN happen? They are killing them, I suppose.
ANDROCLES.
(_running in through the passage, screaming with horror and hiding his
eyes_)!!!
LAVINIA.
Androcles, Androcles: what’s the matter?
ANDROCLES.
Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me. Something too dreadful. Oh! (_He
crouches by her and hides his face in her robe, sobbing_).
THE CALL BOY. (_rushing through from the passage as before_) Ropes and
hooks there! Ropes and hooks.
THE EDITOR.
Well, need you excite yourself about it? (_Another burst of applause_).
_Two slaves in Etruscan masks, with ropes and drag hooks, hurry in._
ONE OF THE SLAVES. How many dead?
THE CALL BOY.
Six. (_The slave blows a whistle twice; and four more masked slaves
rush through into the arena with the same apparatus_) And the basket.
Bring the baskets. (_The slave whistles three times, and runs through
the passage with his companion_).
THE CAPTAIN.
Who are the baskets for?
THE CALL BOY.
For the whip. He’s in pieces. They’re all in pieces, more or less.
(_Lavinia hides her face_).
(_Two more masked slaves come in with a basket and follow the others
into the arena, as the Call Boy turns to the gladiators and exclaims,
exhausted_)
Boys, he’s killed the lot.
THE EMPEROR.
(_again bursting from his box, this time in an ecstasy of delight_)
Where is he? Magnificent! He shall have a laurel crown.
_Ferrovius, madly waving his bloodstained sword, rushes through the
passage in despair, followed by his co-religionists, and by the
menagerie keeper, who goes to the gladiators. The gladiators draw their
swords nervously._
FERROVIUS.
Lost! lost forever! I have betrayed my Master. Cut off this right hand:
it has offended. Ye have swords, my brethren: strike.
LAVINIA.
No, no. What have you done, Ferrovius?
FERROVIUS.
I know not; but there was blood behind my eyes; and there’s blood on my
sword. What does that mean?
THE EMPEROR.
(_enthusiastically, on the landing outside his box_) What does it mean?
It means that you are the greatest man in Rome. It means that you shall
have a laurel crown of gold. Superb fighter, I could almost yield you
my throne. It is a record for my reign: I shall live in history. Once,
in Domitian’s time, a Gaul slew three men in the arena and gained his
freedom. But when before has one naked man slain six armed men of the
bravest and best? The persecution shall cease: if Christians can fight
like this, I shall have none but Christians to fight for me. (_To the
Gladiators_) You are ordered to become Christians, you there: do you
hear?
RETIARIUS. It is all one to us, Caesar. Had I been there with my net,
the story would have been different.
THE CAPTAIN.
(_suddenly seizing Lavinia by the wrist and dragging her up the steps
to the Emperor_) Caesar this woman is the sister of Ferrovius. If she
is thrown to the lions he will fret. He will lose weight; get out of
condition.
THE EMPEROR.
The lions? Nonsense! (_To Lavinia_) Madam: I am proud to have the honor
of making your acquaintance. Your brother is the glory of Rome.
LAVINIA.
But my friends here. Must they die?
THE EMPEROR.
Die! Certainly not. There has never been the slightest idea of harming
them. Ladies and gentlemen: you are all free. Pray go into the front of
the house and enjoy the spectacle to which your brother has so
splendidly contributed. Captain: oblige me by conducting them to the
seats reserved for my personal friends.
THE MENAGERIE KEEPER.
Caesar: I must have one Christian for the lion. The people have been
promised it; and they will tear the decorations to bits if they are
disappointed.
THE EMPEROR.
True, true: we must have somebody for the new lion.
FERROVIUS.
Throw me to him. Let the apostate perish.
THE EMPEROR.
No, no: you would tear him in pieces, my friend; and we cannot afford
to throw away lions as if they were mere slaves. But we must have
somebody. This is really extremely awkward.
THE MENAGERIE KEEPER.
Why not that little Greek chap? He’s not a Christian: he’s a sorcerer.
THE EMPEROR.
The very thing: he will do very well.
THE CALL BOY. (_issuing from the passage_) Number twelve. The Christian
for the new lion.
ANDROCLES.
(_rising, and pulling himself sadly together_) Well, it was to be,
after all.
LAVINIA.
I’ll go in his place, Caesar. Ask the Captain whether they do not like
best to see a woman torn to pieces. He told me so yesterday.
THE EMPEROR.
There is something in that: there is certainly something in that—if
only I could feel sure that your brother would not fret.
ANDROCLES.
No: I should never have another happy hour. No: on the faith of a
Christian and the honor of a tailor, I accept the lot that has fallen
on me. If my wife turns up, give her my love and say that my wish was
that she should be happy with her next, poor fellow! Caesar: go to your
box and see how a tailor can die. Make way for number twelve there.
(_He marches out along the passage_).
_The vast audience in the amphitheatre now sees the Emperor re-enter
his box and take his place as Androcles, desperately frightened, but
still marching with piteous devotion, emerges from the other end of the
passage, and finds himself at the focus of thousands of eager eyes. The
lion’s cage, with a heavy portcullis grating, is on his left. The
Emperor gives a signal. A gong sounds. Androcles shivers at the sound;
then falls on his knees and prays._
_The grating rises with a clash. The lion bounds into the arena. He
rushes round frisking in his freedom. He sees Androcles. He stops;
rises stiffly by straightening his legs; stretches out his nose forward
and his tail in a horizontal line behind, like a pointer, and utters an
appalling roar. Androcles crouches and hides his face in his hands. The
lion gathers himself for a spring, swishing his tail to and fro through
the dust in an ecstasy of anticipation. Androcles throws up his hands
in supplication to heaven. The lion checks at the sight of Androcles’s
face. He then steals towards him; smells him; arches his back; purrs
like a motor car; finally rubs himself against Androcles, knocking him
over. Androcles, supporting himself on his wrist, looks affrightedly at
the lion. The lion limps on three paws, holding up the other as if it
was wounded. A flash of recognition lights up the face of Androcles. He
flaps his hand as if it had a thorn in it, and pretends to pull the
thorn out and to hurt himself. The lion nods repeatedly. Androcles
holds out his hands to the lion, who gives him both paws, which he
shakes with enthusiasm. They embrace rapturously, finally waltz round
the arena amid a sudden burst of deafening applause, and out through
the passage, the Emperor watching them in breathless astonishment until
they disappear, when he rushes from his box and descends the steps in
frantic excitement._
THE EMPEROR.
My friends, an incredible! an amazing thing! has happened. I can no
longer doubt the truth of Christianity. (_The Christians press to him
joyfully_) This Christian sorcerer—(_with a yell, he breaks off as he
sees Androcles and the lion emerge from the passage, waltzing. He bolts
wildly up the steps into his box, and slams the door. All, Christians
and gladiators’ alike, fly for their lives, the gladiators bolting into
the arena, the others in all directions. The place is emptied with
magical suddenness_).
ANDROCLES.
(_naively_) Now I wonder why they all run away from us like that. (_The
lion combining a series of yawns, purrs, and roars, achieves something
very like a laugh_).
THE EMPEROR.
(_standing on a chair inside his box and looking over the wall_)
Sorcerer: I command you to put that lion to death instantly. It is
guilty of high treason. Your conduct is most disgra— (_the lion charges
at him up the stairs_) help! (_He disappears. The lion rears against
the box; looks over the partition at him, and roars. The Emperor darts
out through the door and down to Androcles, pursued by the lion._)
ANDROCLES.
Don’t run away, sir: he can’t help springing if you run. (_He seizes
the Emperor and gets between him and the lion, who stops at once_).
Don’t be afraid of him.
THE EMPEROR.
I am NOT afraid of him. (_The lion crouches, growling. The Emperor
clutches Androcles_) Keep between us.
ANDROCLES.
Never be afraid of animals, your Worship: that’s the great secret.
He’ll be as gentle as a lamb when he knows that you are his friend.
Stand quite still; and smile; and let him smell you all over just to
reassure him; for, you see, he’s afraid of you; and he must examine you
thoroughly before he gives you his confidence. (_To the lion_) Come
now, Tommy; and speak nicely to the Emperor, the great, good Emperor
who has power to have all our heads cut off if we don’t behave very,
VERY respectfully to him.
_The lion utters a fearful roar. The Emperor dashes madly up the steps,
across the landing, and down again on the other side, with the lion in
hot pursuit. Androcles rushes after the lion; overtakes him as he is
descending; and throws himself on his back, trying to use his toes as a
brake. Before he can stop him the lion gets hold of the trailing end of
the Emperor’s robe._
ANDROCLES.
Oh bad wicked Tommy, to chase the Emperor like that! Let go the
Emperor’s robe at once, sir: where’s your manners? (_The lion growls
and worries the robe_). Don’t pull it away from him, your worship. He’s
only playing. Now I shall be really angry with you, Tommy, if you don’t
let go. (_The lion growls again_) I’ll tell you what it is, sir: he
thinks you and I are not friends.
THE EMPEROR.
(_trying to undo the clasp of his brooch_) Friends! You infernal
scoundrel (_the lion growls_) don’t let him go. Curse this brooch! I
can’t get it loose.
ANDROCLES.
We mustn’t let him lash himself into a rage. You must show him that you
are my particular friend—if you will have the condescension. (_He
seizes the Emperor’s hands, and shakes them cordially_), Look, Tommy:
the nice Emperor is the dearest friend Andy Wandy has in the whole
world: he loves him like a brother.
THE EMPEROR.
You little brute, you damned filthy little dog of a Greek tailor: I’ll
have you burnt alive for daring to touch the divine person of the
Emperor. (_The lion roars_).
ANDROCLES.
Oh don’t talk like that, sir. He understands every word you say: all
animals do: they take it from the tone of your voice. (_The lion growls
and lashes his tail_). I think he’s going to spring at your worship. If
you wouldn’t mind saying something affectionate. (_The lion roars_).
THE EMPEROR.
(_shaking Androcles’ hands frantically_) My dearest Mr. Androcles, my
sweetest friend, my long lost brother, come to my arms. (_He embraces
Androcles_). Oh, what an abominable smell of garlic!
_The lion lets go the robe and rolls over on his back, clasping his
forepaws over one another coquettishly above his nose._
ANDROCLES.
There! You see, your worship, a child might play with him now. See!
(_He tickles the lion’s belly. The lion wriggles ecstatically_). Come
and pet him.
THE EMPEROR.
I must conquer these unkingly terrors. Mind you don’t go away from him,
though. (_He pats the lion’s chest_).
ANDROCLES.
Oh, sir, how few men would have the courage to do that—
THE EMPEROR.
Yes: it takes a bit of nerve. Let us invite the Court in and frighten
them. Is he safe, do you think?
ANDROCLES.
Quite safe now, sir.
THE EMPEROR.
(_majestically_) What ho, there! All who are within hearing, return
without fear. Caesar has tamed the lion. (_All the fugitives steal
cautiously in. The menagerie keeper comes from the passage with other
keepers armed with iron bars and tridents_). Take those things away. I
have subdued the beast. (_He places his foot on it_).
FERROVIUS.
(_timidly approaching the Emperor and looking down with awe on the
lion_) It is strange that I, who fear no man, should fear a lion.
THE CAPTAIN.
Every man fears something, Ferrovius.
THE EMPEROR.
How about the Pretorian Guard now?
FERROVIUS.
In my youth I worshipped Mars, the God of War. I turned from him to
serve the Christian god; but today the Christian god forsook me; and
Mars overcame me and took back his own. The Christian god is not yet.
He will come when Mars and I are dust; but meanwhile I must serve the
gods that are, not the God that will be. Until then I accept service in
the Guard, Caesar.
THE EMPEROR.
Very wisely said. All really sensible men agree that the prudent course
is to be neither bigoted in our attachment to the old nor rash and
unpractical in keeping an open mind for the new, but to make the best
of both dispensations.
THE CAPTAIN.
What do you say, Lavinia? Will you too be prudent?
LAVINIA.
(_on the stair_) No: I’ll strive for the coming of the God who is not
yet.
THE CAPTAIN.
May I come and argue with you occasionally?
LAVINIA.
Yes, handsome Captain: you may. (_He kisses her hands_).
THE EMPEROR.
And now, my friends, though I do not, as you see, fear this lion, yet
the strain of his presence is considerable; for none of us can feel
quite sure what he will do next.
THE MENAGERIE KEEPER.
Caesar: give us this Greek sorcerer to be a slave in the menagerie. He
has a way with the beasts.
ANDROCLES.
(_distressed_). Not if they are in cages. They should not be kept in
cages. They must all be let out.
THE EMPEROR.
I give this sorcerer to be a slave to the first man who lays hands on
him. (_The menagerie keepers and the gladiators rush for Androcles. The
lion starts up and faces them. They surge back_). You see how
magnanimous we Romans are, Androcles. We suffer you to go in peace.
ANDROCLES.
I thank your worship. I thank you all, ladies and gentlemen. Come,
Tommy. Whilst we stand together, no cage for you: no slavery for me.
(_He goes out with the lion, everybody crowding away to give him as
wide a berth as possible_).
In this play I have represented one of the Roman persecutions of the
early Christians, not as the conflict of a false theology with a true,
but as what all such persecutions essentially are: an attempt to
suppress a propaganda that seemed to threaten the interests involved in
the established law and order, organized and maintained in the name of
religion and justice by politicians who are pure opportunist
Have-and-Holders. People who are shown by their inner light the
possibility of a better world based on the demand of the spirit for a
nobler and more abundant life, not for themselves at the expense of
others, but for everybody, are naturally dreaded and therefore hated by
the Have-and-Holders, who keep always in reserve two sure weapons
against them. The first is a persecution effected by the provocation,
organization, and arming of that herd instinct which makes men abhor
all departures from custom, and, by the most cruel punishments and the
wildest calumnies, force eccentric people to behave and profess exactly
as other people do. The second is by leading the herd to war, which
immediately and infallibly makes them forget everything, even their
most cherished and hardwon public liberties and private interests, in
the irresistible surge of their pugnacity and the tense pre-occupation
of their terror.
There is no reason to believe that there was anything more in the Roman
persecutions than this. The attitude of the Roman Emperor and the
officers of his staff towards the opinions at issue were much the same
as those of a modern British Home Secretary towards members of the
lower middle classes when some pious policeman charges them with Bad
Taste, technically called blasphemy: Bad Taste being a violation of
Good Taste, which in such matters practically means Hypocrisy. The Home
Secretary and the judges who try the case are usually far more
sceptical and blasphemous than the poor men whom they persecute; and
their professions of horror at the blunt utterance of their own
opinions are revolting to those behind the scenes who have any genuine
religious sensibility; but the thing is done because the governing
classes, provided only the law against blasphemy is not applied to
themselves, strongly approve of such persecution because it enables
them to represent their own privileges as part of the religion of the
country.
Therefore my martyrs are the martyrs of all time, and my persecutors
the persecutors of all time. My Emperor, who has no sense of the value
of common people’s lives, and amuses himself with killing as carelessly
as with sparing, is the sort of monster you can make of any
silly-clever gentleman by idolizing him. We are still so easily imposed
on by such idols that one of the leading pastors of the Free Churches
in London denounced my play on the ground that my persecuting Emperor
is a very fine fellow, and the persecuted Christians ridiculous. From
which I conclude that a popular pulpit may be as perilous to a man’s
soul as an imperial throne.
All my articulate Christians, the reader will notice, have different
enthusiasms, which they accept as the same religion only because it
involves them in a common opposition to the official religion and
consequently in a common doom. Androcles is a humanitarian naturalist,
whose views surprise everybody. Lavinia, a clever and fearless
freethinker, shocks the Pauline Ferrovius, who is comparatively stupid
and conscience ridden. Spintho, the blackguardly debauchee, is
presented as one of the typical Christians of that period on the
authority of St. Augustine, who seems to have come to the conclusion at
one period of his development that most Christians were what we call
wrong uns. No doubt he was to some extent right: I have had occasion
often to point out that revolutionary movements attract those who are
not good enough for established institutions as well as those who are
too good for them.
But the most striking aspect of the play at this moment is the terrible
topicality given it by the war. We were at peace when I pointed out, by
the mouth of Ferrovius, the path of an honest man who finds out, when
the trumpet sounds, that he cannot follow Jesus. Many years earlier, in
The Devil’s Disciple, I touched the same theme even more definitely,
and showed the minister throwing off his black coat for ever when he
discovered, amid the thunder of the captains and the shouting, that he
was a born fighter. Great numbers of our clergy have found themselves
of late in the position of Ferrovius and Anthony Anderson. They have
discovered that they hate not only their enemies but everyone who does
not share their hatred, and that they want to fight and to force other
people to fight. They have turned their churches into recruiting
stations and their vestries into munition workshops. But it has never
occurred to them to take off their black coats and say quite simply, “I
find in the hour of trial that the Sermon on the Mount is tosh, and
that I am not a Christian. I apologize for all the unpatriotic nonsense
I have been preaching all these years. Have the goodness to give me a
revolver and a commission in a regiment which has for its chaplain a
priest of the god Mars: my God.” Not a bit of it. They have stuck to
their livings and served Mars in the name of Christ, to the scandal of
all religious mankind. When the Archbishop of York behaved like a
gentleman and the Head Master of Eton preached a Christian sermon, and
were reviled by the rabble, the Martian parsons encouraged the rabble.
For this they made no apologies or excuses, good or bad. They simple
indulged their passions, just as they had always indulged their class
prejudices and commercial interests, without troubling themselves for a
moment as to whether they were Christians or not. They did not protest
even when a body calling itself the Anti-German League (_not having
noticed, apparently, that it had been anticipated by the British
Empire, the French Republic, and the Kingdoms of Italy, Japan, and
Serbia_) actually succeeded in closing a church at Forest Hill in which
God was worshipped in the German language. One would have supposed that
this grotesque outrage on the commonest decencies of religion would
have provoked a remonstrance from even the worldliest bench of bishops.
But no: apparently it seemed to the bishops as natural that the House
of God should be looted when He allowed German to be spoken in it as
that a baker’s shop with a German name over the door should be
pillaged. Their verdict was, in effect, “Serve God right, for creating
the Germans!” The incident would have been impossible in a country
where the Church was as powerful as the Church of England, had it had
at the same time a spark of catholic as distinguished from tribal
religion in it. As it is, the thing occurred; and as far as I have
observed, the only people who gasped were the Freethinkers. Thus we see
that even among men who make a profession of religion the great
majority are as Martian as the majority of their congregations. The
average clergyman is an official who makes his living by christening
babies, marrying adults, conducting a ritual, and making the best he
can (_when he has any conscience about it_) of a certain routine of
school superintendence, district visiting, and organization of
almsgiving, which does not necessarily touch Christianity at any point
except the point of the tongue. The exceptional or religious clergyman
may be an ardent Pauline salvationist, in which case his more
cultivated parishioners dislike him, and say that he ought to have
joined the Methodists. Or he may be an artist expressing religious
emotion without intellectual definition by means of poetry, music,
vestments and architecture, also producing religious ecstacy by
physical expedients, such as fasts and vigils, in which case he is
denounced as a Ritualist. Or he may be either a Unitarian Deist like
Voltaire or Tom Paine, or the more modern sort of Anglican Theosophist
to whom the Holy Ghost is the Elan Vital of Bergson, and the Father and
Son are an expression of the fact that our functions and aspects are
manifold, and that we are all sons and all either potential or actual
parents, in which case he is strongly suspected by the straiter
Salvationists of being little better than an Atheist. All these
varieties, you see, excite remark. They may be very popular with their
congregations; but they are regarded by the average man as the freaks
of the Church. The Church, like the society of which it is an organ, is
balanced and steadied by the great central Philistine mass above whom
theology looms as a highly spoken of and doubtless most important
thing, like Greek Tragedy, or classical music, or the higher
mathematics, but who are very glad when church is over and they can go
home to lunch or dinner, having in fact, for all practical purposes, no
reasoned convictions at all, and being equally ready to persecute a
poor Freethinker for saying that St. James was not infallible, and to
send one of the Peculiar People to prison for being so very peculiar as
to take St. James seriously.
In short, a Christian martyr was thrown to the lions not because he was
a Christian, but because he was a crank: that is, an unusual sort of
person. And multitudes of people, quite as civilized and amiable as we,
crowded to see the lions eat him just as they now crowd the lion-house
in the Zoo at feeding-time, not because they really cared two-pence
about Diana or Christ, or could have given you any intelligent or
correct account of the things Diana and Christ stood against one
another for, but simply because they wanted to see a curious and
exciting spectacle. You, dear reader, have probably run to see a fire;
and if somebody came in now and told you that a lion was chasing a man
down the street you would rush to the window. And if anyone were to say
that you were as cruel as the people who let the lion loose on the man,
you would be justly indignant. Now that we may no longer see a man
hanged, we assemble outside the jail to see the black flag run up. That
is our duller method of enjoying ourselves in the old Roman spirit. And
if the Government decided to throw persons of unpopular or eccentric
views to the lions in the Albert Hall or the Earl’s Court stadium
tomorrow, can you doubt that all the seats would be crammed, mostly by
people who could not give you the most superficial account of the views
in question. Much less unlikely things have happened. It is true that
if such a revival does take place soon, the martyrs will not be members
of heretical religious sects: they will be Peculiars,
Anti-Vivisectionists, Flat-Earth men, scoffers at the laboratories, or
infidels who refuse to kneel down when a procession of doctors goes by.
But the lions will hurt them just as much, and the spectators will
enjoy themselves just as much, as the Roman lions and spectators used
to do.
It was currently reported in the Berlin newspapers that when Androcles
was first performed in Berlin, the Crown Prince rose and left the
house, unable to endure the (_I hope_) very clear and fair exposition
of autocratic Imperialism given by the Roman captain to his Christian
prisoners. No English Imperialist was intelligent and earnest enough to
do the same in London. If the report is correct, I confirm the logic of
the Crown Prince, and am glad to find myself so well understood. But I
can assure him that the Empire which served for my model when I wrote
Androcles was, as he is now finding to his cost, much nearer my home
than the German one.