ANDROCLES AND THE LION

by Bernard Shaw

1912


Contents

 PROLOGUE
 ACT I
 ACT II




PROLOGUE


Overture; forest sounds, roaring of lions, Christian hymn faintly.

A jungle path. A lion’s roar, a melancholy suffering roar, comes from
the jungle. It is repeated nearer. The lion limps from the jungle on
three legs, holding up his right forepaw, in which a huge thorn sticks.
He sits down and contemplates it. He licks it. He shakes it. He tries
to extract it by scraping it along the ground, and hurts himself worse.
He roars piteously. He licks it again. Tears drop from his eyes. He
limps painfully off the path and lies down under the trees, exhausted
with pain. Heaving a long sigh, like wind in a trombone, he goes to
sleep.

Androcles and his wife Megæra come along the path. He is a small, thin,
ridiculous little man who might be any age from thirty to fifty-five.
He has sandy hair, watery compassionate blue eyes, sensitive nostrils,
and a very presentable forehead; but his good points go no further; his
arms and legs and back, though wiry of their kind, look shrivelled and
starved. He carries a big bundle, is very poorly clad, and seems tired
and hungry.

His wife is a rather handsome pampered slattern, well fed and in the
prime of life. She has nothing to carry, and has a stout stick to help
her along.

MEGAERA.
(_suddenly throwing down her stick_) I won’t go another step.

ANDROCLES.
(_pleading wearily_) Oh, not again, dear. What’s the good of stopping
every two miles and saying you won’t go another step? We must get on to
the next village before night. There are wild beasts in this wood:
lions, they say.

MEGAERA.
I don’t believe a word of it. You are always threatening me with wild
beasts to make me walk the very soul out of my body when I can hardly
drag one foot before another. We haven’t seen a single lion yet.

ANDROCLES.
Well, dear, do you want to see one?

MEGAERA.
(_tearing the bundle from his back_) You cruel beast, you don’t care
how tired I am, or what becomes of me (_she throws the bundle on the
ground_): always thinking of yourself. Self! self! self! always
yourself! (_She sits down on the bundle_).

ANDROCLES.
(_sitting down sadly on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his
head in his hands_) We all have to think of ourselves occasionally,
dear.

MEGAERA.
A man ought to think of his wife sometimes.

ANDROCLES.
He can’t always help it, dear. You make me think of you a good deal.
Not that I blame you.

MEGAERA.
Blame me! I should think not indeed. Is it my fault that I’m married to
you?

ANDROCLES.
No, dear: that is my fault.

MEGAERA.
That’s a nice thing to say to me. Aren’t you happy with me?

ANDROCLES.
I don’t complain, my love.

MEGAERA.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

ANDROCLES.
I am, my dear.

MEGAERA.
You’re not: you glory in it.

ANDROCLES.
In what, darling?

MEGAERA.
In everything. In making me a slave, and making yourself a
laughing-stock. Its not fair. You get me the name of being a shrew with
your meek ways, always talking as if butter wouldn’t melt in your
mouth. And just because I look a big strong woman, and because I’m
good-hearted and a bit hasty, and because you’re always driving me to
do things I’m sorry for afterwards, people say “Poor man: what a life
his wife leads him!” Oh, if they only knew! And you think I don’t know.
But I do, I do, (_screaming_) I do.

ANDROCLES.
Yes, my dear: I know you do.

MEGAERA.
Then why don’t you treat me properly and be a good husband to me?

ANDROCLES.
What can I do, my dear?

MEGAERA.
What can you do! You can return to your duty, and come back to your
home and your friends, and sacrifice to the gods as all respectable
people do, instead of having us hunted out of house and home for being
dirty, disreputable, blaspheming atheists.

ANDROCLES.
I’m not an atheist, dear: I am a Christian.

MEGAERA.
Well, isn’t that the same thing, only ten times worse? Everybody knows
that the Christians are the very lowest of the low.

ANDROCLES.
Just like us, dear.

MEGAERA.
Speak for yourself. Don’t you dare to compare me to common people. My
father owned his own public-house; and sorrowful was the day for me
when you first came drinking in our bar.

ANDROCLES.
I confess I was addicted to it, dear. But I gave it up when I became a
Christian.

MEGAERA.
You’d much better have remained a drunkard. I can forgive a man being
addicted to drink: its only natural; and I don’t deny I like a drop
myself sometimes. What I can’t stand is your being addicted to
Christianity. And what’s worse again, your being addicted to animals.
How is any woman to keep her house clean when you bring in every stray
cat and lost cur and lame duck in the whole countryside? You took the
bread out of my mouth to feed them: you know you did: don’t attempt to
deny it.

ANDROCLES.
Only when they were hungry and you were getting too stout, dearie.

MEGAERA.
Yes, insult me, do. (_Rising_) Oh! I won’t bear it another moment. You
used to sit and talk to those dumb brute beasts for hours, when you
hadn’t a word for me.

ANDROCLES.
They never answered back, darling. (_He rises and again shoulders the
bundle_).

MEGAERA.
Well, if you’re fonder of animals than of your own wife, you can live
with them here in the jungle. I’ve had enough of them and enough of
you. I’m going back. I’m going home.

ANDROCLES.
(_barring the way back_) No, dearie: don’t take on like that. We can’t
go back. We’ve sold everything: we should starve; and I should be sent
to Rome and thrown to the lions—

MEGAERA.
Serve you right! I wish the lions joy of you. (_Screaming_) Are you
going to get out of my way and let me go home?

ANDROCLES.
No, dear—

MEGAERA.
Then I’ll make my way through the forest; and when I’m eaten by the
wild beasts you’ll know what a wife you’ve lost. (_She dashes into the
jungle and nearly falls over the sleeping lion_). Oh! Oh! Andy! Andy!
(_She totters back and collapses into the arms of Androcles, who,
crushed by her weight, falls on his bundle_).

ANDROCLES.
(_extracting himself from beneath her and slapping her hands in great
anxiety_) What is it, my precious, my pet? What’s the matter? (_He
raises her head. Speechless with terror, she points in the direction of
the sleeping lion. He steals cautiously towards the spot indicated by
Megæra. She rises with an effort and totters after him_).

MEGAERA.
No, Andy: you’ll be killed. Come back.

_The lion utters a long snoring sigh. Androcles sees the lion and
recoils fainting into the arms of Megæra, who falls back on the bundle.
They roll apart and lie staring in terror at one another. The lion is
heard groaning heavily in the jungle._

ANDROCLES.
(_whispering_) Did you see? A lion.

MEGAERA.
(_despairing_) The gods have sent him to punish us because you’re a
Christian. Take me away, Andy. Save me.

ANDROCLES.
(_rising_) Meggy: there’s one chance for you. It’ll take him pretty
nigh twenty minutes to eat me (_I’m rather stringy and tough_) and you
can escape in less time than that.

MEGAERA.
Oh, don’t talk about eating. (_The lion rises with a great groan and
limps towards them_). Oh! (_She faints_).

ANDROCLES.
(_quaking, but keeping between the lion and Megæra_) Don’t you come
near my wife, do you hear? (_The lion groans. Androcles can hardly
stand for trembling_). Meggy: run. Run for your life. If I take my eye
off him, its all up. (_The lion holds up his wounded paw and flaps it
piteously before Androcles_). Oh, he’s lame, poor old chap! He’s got a
thorn in his paw. A frightfully big thorn. (_Full of sympathy_) Oh,
poor old man! Did um get an awful thorn into um’s tootsums wootsums?
Has it made um too sick to eat a nice little Christian man for um’s
breakfast? Oh, a nice little Christian man will get um’s thorn out for
um; and then um shall eat the nice Christian man and the nice Christian
man’s nice big tender wifey pifey. (_The lion responds by moans of
self-pity_). Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Now, now (_taking the paw in his
hand_) um is not to bite and not to scratch, not even if it hurts a
very, very little. Now make velvet paws. That’s right. (_He pulls
gingerly at the thorn. The lion, with an angry yell of pain, jerks back
his paw so abruptly that Androcles is thrown on his back_). Steadeee!
Oh, did the nasty cruel little Christian man hurt the sore paw? (_The
lion moans assentingly but apologetically_). Well, one more little pull
and it will be all over. Just one little, little, leetle pull; and then
um will live happily ever after. (_He gives the thorn another pull. The
lion roars and snaps his jaws with a terrifying clash_). Oh, mustn’t
frighten um’s good kind doctor, um’s affectionate nursey. That didn’t
hurt at all: not a bit. Just one more. Just to show how the brave big
lion can bear pain, not like the little crybaby Christian man. Oopsh!
(_The thorn comes out. The lion yells with pain, and shakes his paw
wildly_). That’s it! (_Holding up the thorn_). Now it’s out. Now lick
um’s paw to take away the nasty inflammation. See? (_He licks his own
hand. The lion nods intelligently and licks his paw industriously_).
Clever little liony-piony! Understands um’s dear old friend Andy Wandy.
(_The lion licks his face_). Yes, kissums Andy Wandy. (_The lion,
wagging his tail violently, rises on his hind legs and embraces
Androcles, who makes a wry face and cries_) Velvet paws! Velvet paws!
(_The lion draws in his claws_). That’s right. (_He embraces the lion,
who finally takes the end of his tail in one paw, places that tight
around Androcles’ waist, resting it on his hip. Androcles takes the
other paw in his hand, stretches out his arm, and the two waltz
rapturously round and round and finally away through the jungle_).

MEGAERA.
(_who has revived during the waltz_) Oh, you coward, you haven’t danced
with me for years; and now you go off dancing with a great brute beast
that you haven’t known for ten minutes and that wants to eat your own
wife. Coward! Coward! Coward! (_She rushes off after them into the
jungle_).




 ACT I


Evening. The end of three converging roads to Rome. Three triumphal
arches span them where they debouch on a square at the gate of the
city. Looking north through the arches one can see the campagna
threaded by the three long dusty tracks. On the east and west sides of
the square are long stone benches. An old beggar sits on the east side
of the square, his bowl at his feet. Through the eastern arch a squad
of Roman soldiers tramps along escorting a batch of Christian prisoners
of both sexes and all ages, among them one Lavinia, a goodlooking
resolute young woman, apparently of higher social standing than her
fellow-prisoners. A centurion, carrying his vinewood cudgel, trudges
alongside the squad, on its right, in command of it. All are tired and
dusty; but the soldiers are dogged and indifferent, the Christians
light-hearted and determined to treat their hardships as a joke and
encourage one another.

_A bugle is heard far behind on the road, where the rest of the cohort
is following._

CENTURION.
(_stopping_) Halt! Orders from the Captain. (_They halt and wait_). Now
then, you Christians, none of your larks. The captain’s coming. Mind
you behave yourselves. No singing. Look respectful. Look serious, if
you’re capable of it. See that big building over there? That’s the
Coliseum. That’s where you’ll be thrown to the lions or set to fight
the gladiators presently. Think of that; and it’ll help you to behave
properly before the captain. (_The Captain arrives_). Attention!
Salute! (_The soldiers salute_).

A CHRISTIAN.
(_cheerfully_) God bless you, Captain.

THE CENTURION.
(_scandalised_) Silence!

_The Captain, a patrician, handsome, about thirty-five, very cold and
distinguished, very superior and authoritative, steps up on a stone
seat at the west side of the square, behind the centurion, so as to
dominate the others more effectually._

THE CAPTAIN.
Centurion.

THE CENTURION.
(_standing at attention and saluting_) Sir?

THE CAPTAIN.
(_speaking stiffly and officially_) You will remind your men,
Centurion, that we are now entering Rome. You will instruct them that
once inside the gates of Rome they are in the presence of the Emperor.
You will make them understand that the lax discipline of the march
cannot be permitted here. You will instruct them to shave every day,
not every week. You will impress on them particularly that there must
be an end to the profanity and blasphemy of singing Christian hymns on
the march. I have to reprimand you, Centurion, for not only allowing
this, but actually doing it yourself.

THE CENTURION.
The men march better, Captain.

THE CAPTAIN.
No doubt. For that reason an exception is made in the case of the march
called Onward Christian Soldiers. This may be sung, except when
marching through the forum or within hearing of the Emperor’s palace;
but the words must be altered to “Throw them to the Lions.”

_The Christians burst into shrieks of uncontrollable laughter, to the
great scandal of the Centurion._

CENTURION.
Silence! Silen-n-n-n-nce! Where’s your behavior? Is that the way to
listen to an officer? (_To the Captain_) That’s what we have to put up
with from these Christians every day, sir. They’re always laughing and
joking something scandalous. They’ve no religion: that’s how it is.

LAVINIA.
But I think the Captain meant us to laugh, Centurion. It was so funny.

CENTURION.
You’ll find out how funny it is when you’re thrown to the lions
to-morrow. (_To the Captain, who looks displeased_) Beg pardon, Sir.
(_To the Christians_) Silennnnce!

THE CAPTAIN.
You are to instruct your men that all intimacy with Christian prisoners
must now cease. The men have fallen into habits of dependence upon the
prisoners, especially the female prisoners, for cooking, repairs to
uniforms, writing letters, and advice in their private affairs. In a
Roman soldier such dependence is inadmissible. Let me see no more of it
whilst we are in the city. Further, your orders are that in addressing
Christian prisoners, the manners and tone of your men must express
abhorrence and contempt. Any shortcoming in this respect will be
regarded as a breach of discipline. (_He turns to the prisoners_)
Prisoners.

CENTURION.
(_fiercely_) Prisonerrrrrs! Tention! Silence!

THE CAPTAIN.
I call your attention, prisoners, to the fact that you may be called on
to appear in the Imperial Circus at any time from tomorrow onwards
according to the requirements of the managers. I may inform you that as
there is a shortage of Christians just now, you may expect to be called
on very soon.

LAVINIA.
What will they do to us, Captain?

CENTURION.
Silence!

THE CAPTAIN.
The women will be conducted into the arena with the wild beasts of the
Imperial Menagerie, and will suffer the consequences. The men, if of an
age to bear arms, will be given weapons to defend themselves, if they
choose, against the Imperial Gladiators.

LAVINIA.
Captain: is there no hope that this cruel persecution—

CENTURION.
(_shocked_) Silence! Hold your tongue, there. Persecution, indeed!

THE CAPTAIN.
(_unmoved and somewhat sardonic_) Persecution is not a term applicable
to the acts of the Emperor. The Emperor is the Defender of the Faith.
In throwing you to the lions he will be upholding the interests of
religion in Rome. If you were to throw him to the lions, that would no
doubt be persecution.

_The Christians again laugh heartily._

CENTURION.
(_horrified_) Silence, I tell you! Keep silence there. Did anyone ever
hear the like of this?

LAVINIA.
Captain: there will be nobody to appreciate your jokes when we are
gone.

THE CAPTAIN.
(_unshaken in his official delivery_) I call the attention of the
female prisoner Lavinia to the fact that as the Emperor is a divine
personage, her imputation of cruelty is not only treason, but
sacrilege. I point out to her further that there is no foundation for
the charge, as the Emperor does not desire that any prisoner should
suffer; nor can any Christian be harmed save through his or her own
obstinacy. All that is necessary is to sacrifice to the gods: a simple
and convenient ceremony effected by dropping a pinch of incense on the
altar, after which the prisoner is at once set free. Under such
circumstances you have only your own perverse folly to blame if you
suffer. I suggest to you that if you cannot burn a morsel of incense as
a matter of conviction, you might at least do so as a matter of good
taste, to avoid shocking the religious convictions of your fellow
citizens. I am aware that these considerations do not weigh with
Christians; but it is my duty to call your attention to them in order
that you may have no ground for complaining of your treatment, or of
accusing the Emperor of cruelty when he is showing you the most signal
clemency. Looked at from this point of view, every Christian who has
perished in the arena has really committed suicide.

LAVINIA.
Captain: your jokes are too grim. Do not think it is easy for us to
die. Our faith makes life far stronger and more wonderful in us than
when we walked in darkness and had nothing to live for. Death is harder
for us than for you: the martyr’s agony is as bitter as his triumph is
glorious.

THE CAPTAIN.
(_rather troubled, addressing her personally and gravely_) A martyr,
Lavinia, is a fool. Your death will prove nothing.

LAVINIA.
Then why kill me?

THE CAPTAIN.
I mean that truth, if there be any truth, needs no martyrs.

LAVINIA.
No; but my faith, like your sword, needs testing. Can you test your
sword except by staking your life on it?

THE CAPTAIN.
(_suddenly resuming his official tone_) I call the attention of the
female prisoner to the fact that Christians are not allowed to draw the
Emperor’s officers into arguments and put questions to them for which
the military regulations provide no answer. (_The Christians titter_).

LAVINIA.
Captain: how CAN you?

THE CAPTAIN.
I call the female prisoner’s attention specially to the fact that four
comfortable homes have been offered her by officers of this regiment,
of which she can have her choice the moment she chooses to sacrifice as
all well-bred Roman ladies do. I have no more to say to the prisoners.

CENTURION.
Dismiss! But stay where you are.

THE CAPTAIN.
Centurion: you will remain here with your men in charge of the
prisoners until the arrival of three Christian prisoners in the custody
of a cohort of the tenth legion. Among these prisoners you will
particularly identify an armorer named Ferrovius, of dangerous
character and great personal strength, and a Greek tailor reputed to be
a sorcerer, by name Androcles. You will add the three to your charge
here and march them all to the Coliseum, where you will deliver them
into the custody of the master of the gladiators and take his receipt,
countersigned by the keeper of the beasts and the acting manager. You
understand your instructions?

CENTURION.
Yes, Sir.

THE CAPTAIN.
Dismiss. (_He throws off his air of parade, and descends down from the
perch. The Centurion seats on it and prepares for a nap, whilst his men
stand at ease. The Christians sit down on the west side of the square,
glad to rest. Lavinia alone remains standing to speak to the Captain_).

LAVINIA.
Captain: is this man who is to join us the famous Ferrovius, who has
made such wonderful conversions in the northern cities?

THE CAPTAIN.
Yes. We are warned that he has the strength of an elephant and the
temper of a mad bull. Also that he is stark mad. Not a model Christian,
it would seem.

LAVINIA.
You need not fear him if he is a Christian, Captain.

THE CAPTAIN.
(_coldly_) I shall not fear him in any case, Lavinia.

LAVINIA.
(_her eyes dancing_) How brave of you, Captain!

THE CAPTAIN.
You are right: it was silly thing to say. (_In a lower tone, humane and
urgent_) Lavinia: do Christians know how to love?

LAVINIA.
(_composedly_) Yes, Captain: they love even their enemies.

THE CAPTAIN.
Is that easy?

LAVINIA.
Very easy, Captain, when their enemies are as handsome as you.

THE CAPTAIN.
Lavinia: you are laughing at me.

LAVINIA.
At you, Captain! Impossible.

THE CAPTAIN.
Then you are flirting with me, which is worse. Don’t be foolish.

LAVINIA.
But such a very handsome captain.

THE CAPTAIN.
Incorrigible! (_Urgently_) Listen to me. The men in that audience
tomorrow will be the vilest of voluptuaries: men in whom the only
passion excited by a beautiful woman is a lust to see her tortured and
torn shrieking limb from limb. It is a crime to dignify that passion.
It is offering yourself for violation by the whole rabble of the
streets and the riff-raff of the court at the same time. Why will you
not choose rather a kindly love and an honorable alliance?

LAVINIA.
They cannot violate my soul. I alone can do that by sacrificing to
false gods.

THE CAPTAIN.
Sacrifice then to the true God. What does his name matter? We call him
Jupiter. The Greeks call him Zeus. Call him what you will as you drop
the incense on the altar flame: He will understand.

LAVINIA.
No. I couldn’t. That is the strange thing, Captain, that a little pinch
of incense should make all that difference. Religion is such a great
thing that when I meet really religious people we are friends at once,
no matter what name we give to the divine will that made us and moves
us. Oh, do you think that I, a woman, would quarrel with you for
sacrificing to a woman god like Diana, if Diana meant to you what
Christ means to me? No: we should kneel side by side before her altar
like two children. But when men who believe neither in my god nor in
their own—men who do not know the meaning of the word religion—when
these men drag me to the foot of an iron statue that has become the
symbol of the terror and darkness through which they walk, of their
cruelty and greed, of their hatred of God and their oppression of
man—when they ask me to pledge my soul before the people that this
hideous idol is God, and that all this wickedness and falsehood is
divine truth, I cannot do it, not if they could put a thousand cruel
deaths on me. I tell you, it is physically impossible. Listen, Captain:
did you ever try to catch a mouse in your hand? Once there was a dear
little mouse that used to come out and play on my table as I was
reading. I wanted to take him in my hand and caress him; and sometimes
he got among my books so that he could not escape me when I stretched
out my hand. And I did stretch out my hand; but it always came back in
spite of me. I was not afraid of him in my heart; but my hand refused:
it is not in the nature of my hand to touch a mouse. Well, Captain, if
I took a pinch of incense in my hand and stretched it out over the
altar fire, my hand would come back. My body would be true to my faith
even if you could corrupt my mind. And all the time I should believe
more in Diana than my persecutors have ever believed in anything. Can
you understand that?

THE CAPTAIN.
(_simply_) Yes: I understand that. But my hand would not come back. The
hand that holds the sword has been trained not to come back from
anything but victory.

LAVINIA.
Not even from death?

THE CAPTAIN.
Least of all from death.

LAVINIA.
Then I must not come back either. A woman has to be braver than a
soldier.

THE CAPTAIN.
Prouder, you mean.

LAVINIA.
(_startled_) Prouder! You call our courage pride!

THE CAPTAIN.
There is no such thing as courage: there is only pride. You Christians
are the proudest devils on earth.

LAVINIA.
(_hurt_) Pray God then my pride may never become a false pride. (_She
turns away as if she did not wish to continue the conversation, but
softens and says to him with a smile_) Thank you for trying to save me
from death.

THE CAPTAIN.
I knew it was no use; but one tries in spite of one’s knowledge.

LAVINIA.
Something stirs, even in the iron breast of a Roman soldier!

THE CAPTAIN.
It will soon be iron again. I have seen many women die, and forgotten
them in a week.

LAVINIA.
Remember me for a fortnight, handsome Captain. I shall be watching you,
perhaps.

THE CAPTAIN.
From the skies? Do not deceive yourself, Lavinia. There is no future
for you beyond the grave.

LAVINIA.
What does that matter? Do you think I am only running away from the
terrors of life into the comfort of heaven? If there were no future, or
if the future were one of torment, I should have to go just the same.
The hand of God is upon me.

THE CAPTAIN.
Yes: when all is said, we are both patricians, Lavinia, and must die
for our beliefs. Farewell. (_He offers her his hand. She takes it and
presses it. He walks away, trim and calm. She looks after him for a
moment, and cries a little as he disappears through the eastern arch. A
trumpet-call is heard from the road through the western arch_).

CENTURION.
(_waking up and rising_) Cohort of the tenth with prisoners. Two file
out with me to receive them. (_He goes out through the western arch,
followed by four soldiers in two files_).

_Lentulus and Metellus come into the square from the west side with a
little retinue of servants. Both are young courtiers, dressed in the
extremity of fashion. Lentulus is slender, fair-haired, epicene.
Metellus is manly, compactly built, olive skinned, not a talker._

LENTULUS.
Christians, by Jove! Let’s chaff them.

METELLUS.
Awful brutes. If you knew as much about them as I do you wouldn’t want
to chaff them. Leave them to the lions.

LENTULUS.
(_indicating Lavinia, who is still looking towards the arches after the
captain_). That woman’s got a figure. (_He walks past her, staring at
her invitingly, but she is preoccupied and is not conscious of him_).
Do you turn the other cheek when they kiss you?

LAVINIA.
(_starting_) What?

LENTULUS.
Do you turn the other cheek when they kiss you, fascinating Christian?

LAVINIA.
Don’t be foolish. (_To Metellus, who has remained on her right, so that
she is between them_) Please don’t let your friend behave like a cad
before the soldiers. How are they to respect and obey patricians if
they see them behaving like street boys? (_Sharply to Lentulus_) Pull
yourself together, man. Hold your head up. Keep the corners of your
mouth firm; and treat me respectfully. What do you take me for?

LENTULUS.
(_irresolutely_) Look here, you know: I—you—I—

LAVINIA.
Stuff! Go about your business. (_She turns decisively away and sits
down with her comrades, leaving him disconcerted_).

METELLUS.
You didn’t get much out of that. I told you they were brutes.

LENTULUS.
Plucky little filly! I suppose she thinks I care. (_With an air of
indifference he strolls with Metellus to the east side of the square,
where they stand watching the return of the Centurion through the
western arch with his men, escorting three prisoners: Ferrovius,
Androcles, and Spintho. Ferrovius is a powerful, choleric man in the
prime of life, with large nostrils, staring eyes, and a thick neck: a
man whose sensibilities are keen and violent to the verge of madness.
Spintho is a debauchee, the wreck of a good-looking man gone hopelessly
to the bad. Androcles is overwhelmed with grief, and is restraining his
tears with great difficulty_).

THE CENTURION.
(_to Lavinia_) Here are some pals for you. This little bit is Ferrovius
that you talk so much about. (_Ferrovius turns on him threateningly.
The Centurion holds up his left forefinger in admonition_). Now
remember that you’re a Christian, and that you’ve got to return good
for evil. (_Ferrovius controls himself convulsively; moves away from
temptation to the east side near Lentulus; clasps his hands in silent
prayer; and throws himself on his knees_). That’s the way to manage
them, eh! This fine fellow (_indicating Androcles, who comes to his
left, and makes Lavinia a heartbroken salutation_) is a sorcerer. A
Greek tailor, he is. A real sorcerer, too: no mistake about it. The
tenth marches with a leopard at the head of the column. He made a pet
of the leopard; and now he’s crying at being parted from it.
(_Androcles sniffs lamentably_). Ain’t you, old chap? Well, cheer up,
we march with a Billy goat (_Androcles brightens up_) that’s killed two
leopards and ate a turkey-cock. You can have him for a pet if you like.
(_Androcles, quite consoled, goes past the Centurion to Lavinia, and
sits down contentedly on the ground on her left_). This dirty dog
(_collaring Spintho_) is a real Christian. He mobs the temples, he does
(_at each accusation he gives the neck of Spintho’s tunic a twist_); he
goes smashing things mad drunk, he does; he steals the gold vessels, he
does; he assaults the priestesses, he does pah! (_He flings Spintho
into the middle of the group of prisoners_). You’re the sort that makes
duty a pleasure, you are.

SPINTHO.
(_gasping_) That’s it: strangle me. Kick me. Beat me. Revile me. Our
Lord was beaten and reviled. That’s my way to heaven. Every martyr goes
to heaven, no matter what he’s done. That is so, isn’t it, brother?

CENTURION.
Well, if you’re going to heaven, _I_ don’t want to go there. I wouldn’t
be seen with you.

LENTULUS.
Haw! Good! (_Indicating the kneeling Ferrovius_). Is this one of the
turn-the-other-cheek gentlemen, Centurion?

CENTURION.
Yes, sir. Lucky for you too, sir, if you want to take any liberties
with him.

LENTULUS.
(_to Ferrovius_) You turn the other cheek when you’re struck, I’m told.

FERROVIUS.
(_slowly turning his great eyes on him_) Yes, by the grace of God, I
do, now.

LENTULUS.
Not that you’re a coward, of course; but out of pure piety.

FERROVIUS.
I fear God more than man; at least I try to.

LENTULUS.
Let’s see. (_He strikes him on the cheek. Androcles makes a wild
movement to rise and interfere; but Lavinia holds him down, watching
Ferrovius intently. Ferrovius, without flinching, turns the other
cheek. Lentulus, rather out of countenance, titters foolishly, and
strikes him again feebly_). You know, I should feel ashamed if I let
myself be struck like that, and took it lying down. But then I’m not a
Christian: I’m a man. (_Ferrovius rises impressively and towers over
him. Lentulus becomes white with terror; and a shade of green flickers
in his cheek for a moment_).

FERROVIUS.
(_with the calm of a steam hammer_) I have not always been faithful.
The first man who struck me as you have just struck me was a stronger
man than you: he hit me harder than I expected. I was tempted and fell;
and it was then that I first tasted bitter shame. I never had a happy
moment after that until I had knelt and asked his forgiveness by his
bedside in the hospital. (_Putting his hands on Lentulus’s shoulders
with paternal weight_). But now I have learnt to resist with a strength
that is not my own. I am not ashamed now, nor angry.

LENTULUS.
(_uneasily_) Er—good evening. (_He tries to move away_).

FERROVIUS.
(_gripping his shoulders_) Oh, do not harden your heart, young man.
Come: try for yourself whether our way is not better than yours. I will
now strike you on one cheek; and you will turn the other and learn how
much better you will feel than if you gave way to the promptings of
anger. (_He holds him with one hand and clenches the other fist_).

LENTULUS.
Centurion: I call on you to protect me.

CENTURION.
You asked for it, sir. It’s no business of ours. You’ve had two whacks
at him. Better pay him a trifle and square it that way.

LENTULUS.
Yes, of course. (_To Ferrovius_) It was only a bit of fun, I assure
you: I meant no harm. Here. (_He proffers a gold coin_).

FERROVIUS.
(_taking it and throwing it to the old beggar, who snatches it up
eagerly, and hobbles off to spend it_) Give all thou hast to the poor.
Come, friend: courage! I may hurt your body for a moment; but your soul
will rejoice in the victory of the spirit over the flesh. (_He prepares
to strike_).

ANDROCLES.
Easy, Ferrovius, easy: you broke the last man’s jaw.

_Lentulus, with a moan of terror, attempts to fly; but Ferrovius holds
him ruthlessly._

FERROVIUS.
Yes; but I saved his soul. What matters a broken jaw?

LENTULUS.
Don’t touch me, do you hear? The law—

FERROVIUS.
The law will throw me to the lions tomorrow: what worse could it do
were I to slay you? Pray for strength; and it shall be given to you.

LENTULUS.
Let me go. Your religion forbids you to strike me.

FERROVIUS.
On the contrary, it commands me to strike you. How can you turn the
other cheek, if you are not first struck on the one cheek?

LENTULUS.
(_almost in tears_) But I’m convinced already that what you said is
quite right. I apologize for striking you.

FERROVIUS.
(_greatly pleased_) My son: have I softened your heart? Has the good
seed fallen in a fruitful place? Are your feet turning towards a better
path?

LENTULUS.
(_abjectly_) Yes, yes. There’s a great deal in what you say.

FERROVIUS.
(_radiant_) Join us. Come to the lions. Come to suffering and death.

LENTULUS.
(_falling on his knees and bursting into tears_) Oh, help me. Mother!
mother!

FERROVIUS.
These tears will water your soul and make it bring forth good fruit, my
son. God has greatly blessed my efforts at conversion. Shall I tell you
a miracle—yes, a miracle—wrought by me in Cappadocia? A young man—just
such a one as you, with golden hair like yours—scoffed at and struck me
as you scoffed at and struck me. I sat up all night with that youth
wrestling for his soul; and in the morning not only was he a Christian,
but his hair was as white as snow. (_Lentulus falls in a dead faint_).
There, there: take him away. The spirit has overwrought him, poor lad.
Carry him gently to his house; and leave the rest to heaven.

CENTURION.
Take him home. (_The servants, intimidated, hastily carry him out.
Metellus is about to follow when Ferrovius lays his hand on his
shoulder_).

FERROVIUS.
You are his friend, young man. You will see that he is taken safely
home.

METELLUS.
(_with awestruck civility_) Certainly, sir. I shall do whatever you
think best. Most happy to have made your acquaintance, I’m sure. You
may depend on me. Good evening, sir.

FERROVIUS.
(_with unction_) The blessing of heaven upon you and him.

_Metellus follows Lentulus. The Centurion returns to his seat to resume
his interrupted nap. The deepest awe has settled on the spectators.
Ferrovius, with a long sigh of happiness, goes to Lavinia, and offers
her his hand._

LAVINIA.
(_taking it_) So that is how you convert people, Ferrovius.

FERROVIUS.
Yes: there has been a blessing on my work in spite of my unworthiness
and my backslidings—all through my wicked, devilish temper. This man—

ANDROCLES.
(_hastily_) Don’t slap me on the back, brother. She knows you mean me.

FERROVIUS.
How I wish I were weak like our brother here! for then I should perhaps
be meek and gentle like him. And yet there seems to be a special
providence that makes my trials less than his. I hear tales of the
crowd scoffing and casting stones and reviling the brethren; but when I
come, all this stops: my influence calms the passions of the mob: they
listen to me in silence; and infidels are often converted by a straight
heart-to-heart talk with me. Every day I feel happier, more confident.
Every day lightens the load of the great terror.

LAVINIA.
The great terror? What is that?

_Ferrovius shakes his head and does not answer. He sits down beside her
on her left, and buries his face in his hands in gloomy meditation._

ANDROCLES.
Well, you see, sister, he’s never quite sure of himself. Suppose at the
last moment in the arena, with the gladiators there to fight him, one
of them was to say anything to annoy him, he might forget himself and
lay that gladiator out.

LAVINIA.
That would be splendid.

FERROVIUS.
(_springing up in horror_) What!

ANDROCLES.
Oh, sister!

FERROVIUS.
Splendid to betray my master, like Peter! Splendid to act like any
common blackguard in the day of my proving! Woman: you are no
Christian. (_He moves away from her to the middle of the square, as if
her neighborhood contaminated him_).

LAVINIA.
(_laughing_) You know, Ferrovius, I am not always a Christian. I don’t
think anybody is. There are moments when I forget all about it, and
something comes out quite naturally, as it did then.

SPINTHO.
What does it matter? If you die in the arena, you’ll be a martyr; and
all martyrs go to heaven, no matter what they have done. That’s so,
isn’t it, Ferrovius?

FERROVIUS.
Yes: that is so, if we are faithful to the end.

LAVINIA.
I’m not so sure.

SPINTHO.
Don’t say that. That’s blasphemy. Don’t say that, I tell you. We shall
be saved, no matter WHAT we do.

LAVINIA.
Perhaps you men will all go into heaven bravely and in triumph, with
your heads erect and golden trumpets sounding for you. But I am sure I
shall only be allowed to squeeze myself in through a little crack in
the gate after a great deal of begging. I am not good always: I have
moments only.

SPINTHO.
You’re talking nonsense, woman. I tell you, martyrdom pays all scores.

ANDROCLES.
Well, let us hope so, brother, for your sake. You’ve had a gay time,
haven’t you? with your raids on the temples. I can’t help thinking that
heaven will be very dull for a man of your temperament. (_Spintho
snarls_). Don’t be angry: I say it only to console you in case you
should die in your bed tonight in the natural way. There’s a lot of
plague about.

SPINTHO.
(_rising and running about in abject terror_) I never thought of that.
O Lord, spare me to be martyred. Oh, what a thought to put into the
mind of a brother! Oh, let me be martyred today, now. I shall die in
the night and go to hell. You’re a sorcerer: you’ve put death into my
mind. Oh, curse you, curse you! (_He tries to seize Androcles by the
throat_).

FERROVIUS.
(_holding him in a grip of iron_) What’s this, brother? Anger!
Violence! Raising your hand to a brother Christian!

SPINTHO.
It’s easy for you. You’re strong. Your nerves are all right. But I’m
full of disease. (_Ferrovius takes his hand from him with instinctive
disgust_). I’ve drunk all my nerves away. I shall have the horrors all
night.

ANDROCLES.
(_sympathetic_) Oh, don’t take on so, brother. We’re all sinners.

SPINTHO.
(_snivelling, trying to feel consoled_). Yes: I daresay if the truth
were known, you’re all as bad as I am.

LAVINIA.
(_contemptuously_) Does that comfort you?

FERROVIUS.
(_sternly_) Pray, man, pray.

SPINTHO.
What’s the good of praying? If we’re martyred we shall go to heaven,
shan’t we, whether we pray or not?

FERROVIUS.
What’s that? Not pray! (_Seizing him again_) Pray this instant, you
dog, you rotten hound, you slimy snake, you beastly goat, or—

SPINTHO.
Yes: beat me: kick me. I forgive you: mind that.

FERROVIUS.
(_spurning him with loathing_) Yah! (_Spintho reels away and falls in
front of Ferrovius_).

ANDROCLES.
(_reaching out and catching the skirt of Ferrovius’s tunic_) Dear
brother: if you wouldn’t mind—just for my sake—

FERROVIUS.
Well?

ANDROCLES.
Don’t call him by the names of the animals. We’ve no right to. I’ve had
such friends in dogs. A pet snake is the best of company. I was nursed
on goat’s milk. Is it fair to them to call the like of him a dog or a
snake or a goat?

FERROVIUS.
I only meant that they have no souls.

ANDROCLES.
(_anxiously protesting_) Oh, believe me, they have. Just the same as
you and me. I really don’t think I could consent to go to heaven if I
thought there were to be no animals there. Think of what they suffer
here.

FERROVIUS.
That’s true. Yes: that is just. They will have their share in heaven.

SPINTHO.
(_who has picked himself up and is sneaking past Ferrovius on his left,
sneers derisively_)!!

FERROVIUS.
(_turning on him fiercely_) What’s that you say?

SPINTHO.
(_cornering_). Nothing.

FERROVIUS.
(_clenching his fist_) Do animals go to heaven or not?

SPINTHO.
I never said they didn’t.

FERROVIUS.
(_implacable_) Do they or do they not?

SPINTHO.
They do: they do. (_Scrambling out of Ferrovius’s reach_). Oh, curse
you for frightening me!

_A bugle call is heard._

CENTURION.
(_waking up_) Tention! Form as before. Now then, prisoners, up with you
and trot along spry. (_The soldiers fall in. The Christians rise_).

A man with an ox goad comes running through the central arch.

THE OX DRIVER.
Here, you soldiers! clear out of the way for the Emperor.

THE CENTURION.
Emperor! Where’s the Emperor? You ain’t the Emperor, are you?

THE OX DRIVER.
It’s the menagerie service. My team of oxen is drawing the new lion to
the Coliseum. You clear the road.

CENTURION.
What! Go in after you in your dust, with half the town at the heels of
you and your lion! Not likely. We go first.

THE OX DRIVER.
The menagerie service is the Emperor’s personal retinue. You clear out,
I tell you.

CENTURION.
You tell me, do you? Well, I’ll tell you something. If the lion is
menagerie service, the lion’s dinner is menagerie service too. This
(_pointing to the Christians_) is the lion’s dinner. So back with you
to your bullocks double quick; and learn your place. March. (_The
soldiers start_). Now then, you Christians, step out there.

LAVINIA.
(_marching_) Come along, the rest of the dinner. I shall be the olives
and anchovies.

ANOTHER CHRISTIAN.
(_laughing_) I shall be the soup.

ANOTHER. I shall be the fish.

ANOTHER. Ferrovius shall be the roast boar.

FERROVIUS.
(_heavily_) I see the joke. Yes, yes: I shall be the roast boar. Ha!
ha! (_He laughs conscientiously and marches out with them_).

ANDROCLES.
I shall be the mince pie. (_Each announcement is received with a louder
laugh by all the rest as the joke catches on_).

CENTURION.
(_scandalised_) Silence! Have some sense of your situation. Is this the
way for martyrs to behave? (_To Spintho, who is quaking and loitering_)
I know what you’ll be at that dinner. You’ll be the emetic. (_He shoves
him rudely along_).

SPINTHO.
It’s too dreadful: I’m not fit to die.

CENTURION.
Fitter than you are to live, you swine.

_They pass from the square westward. The oxen, drawing a waggon with a
great wooden cage and the lion in it, arrive through the central arch._




 ACT II


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.