Caesar as great. Having virtue, he has no need of goodness. He is neither forgiving, frank, nor generous, because a man who is too great to resent has nothing to forgive; a man who says things that other people are afraid to say need be no more frank than Bismarck was; and there is no generosity in giving things you do not want to people of whom you intend to make use. This distinction between virtue and goodness is not understood in England: hence the poverty of our drama in heroes. Our stage attempts at them are mere goody-goodies. Goodness, in its popular British sense of self-denial, implies that man is vicious by nature, and that supreme goodness is supreme martyrdom. Not sharing that pious opinion, I have not given countenance to it in any of my plays. In this I follow the precedent of the ancient myths, which represent the hero as vanquishing his enemies, not in fair fight, but with enchanted sword, superequine horse and magical invulnerability, the possession of which, from the vulgar moralistic point of view, robs his exploits of any merit whatever.
As to Caesar’s sense of humor, there is no more reason to assume that he lacked it than to assume that he was deaf or blind. It is said that on the occasion of his assassination by a conspiracy of moralists (it is always your moralist who makes assassination a duty, on the scaffold or off it), he defended himself until the good Brutes struck him, when he exclaimed “What! you too, Brutes!” and disdained further fight. If this be true, he must have been an incorrigible comedian. But even if we waive this story, or accept the traditional sentimental interpretation of it, there is still abundant evidence of his lightheartedness and adventurousness. Indeed it is clear from his whole history that what has been called his ambition was an instinct for exploration. He had much more of Columbus and Franklin in him than of Henry V.
However, nobody need deny Caesar a share, at least, of the qualities I have attributed to him. All men, much more Julius Caesars, possess all qualities in some degree. The really interesting question is whether I am right in assuming that the way to produce an impression of greatness is by exhibiting a man, not as mortifying his nature by doing his duty, in the manner which our system of putting little men into great positions (not having enough great men in our influential families to go round) forces us to inculcate, but by simply doing what he naturally wants to do. For this raises the question whether our world has not been wrong in its moral theory for the last 2,500 years or so. It must be a constant puzzle to many of us that the Christian era, so excellent in its intentions, should have been practically such a very discreditable episode in the history of the race. I doubt if this is altogether due to the vulgar and sanguinary sensationalism of our religious legends, with their substitution of gross physical torments and public executions for the passion of humanity. Islam, substituting voluptuousness for torment (a merely superficial difference, it is true) has done no better. It may have been the failure of Christianity to emancipate itself from expiatory theories of moral responsibility, guilt, innocence, reward, punishment, and the rest of it, that baffled its intention of changing the world. But these are bound up in all philosophies of creation as opposed to cosmism. They may therefore be regarded as the price we pay for popular religion.
The Gadfly Or The Son of the Cardinal (1898)
SCENE I
SCENE II
Period — 1846. Italy
ACT I. The Conversazione at Grassini’s.
Florence, a night in July
ACT II The Steps of the Cathedral.
Brisighella, sunset
ACT III A Room in the Cardinal’s Palace.
Brisighella
ACT IV Scene I: The condemned cell.
Brisighella, night Scene 2: The Courtyard of the Prison
ACT I.
SIGNORA GRASSINI. Our friend Martini doubts whether it is safe to plot anything here.
GRASSINI. Quite safe, Martini, provided you plot at the top of your voice. Have you brought the Gadfly?
SIGNORA GRASSINI. The Gadfly! What’s that? A newspaper?
MARTINI. No, Signora: a man. A comrade.
SIGNORA GRASSINI. A young man?
MARTINI [taking out a paper] Here is a description of him — a police description [offering it].
SIGNORA GRASSINI. No: we mustn’t pass papers about. Read it.
GRASSINI. At the top of your voice, please.
MARTINI [reads] “Felice Rivarez, called ‘the Gadfly.’
Age about 30, birthplace and parentage unknown, probably South American; profession, journalist.
Short in stature with black hair, black beard and dark skin. Eyes blue; forehead broad and square; nose, mouth, chin” — but I am preventing this lady [indicating Gemma, who has come forward from the balustrade and is listening] from speaking to her hostess.
GRASSINI. Don’t be afraid — a fellow conspirator [introduces them] the Signora Bolla: Doctor Martini.
MARTINI. Your husband, Signora, was an old friend of mine.
SIGNORA GRASSINI. Yes; but go on about the Gadfly.
What else does it say?
MARTINI [reads] “Special marks: right foot lame; left arm twisted; two fingers missing on left hand; recent sabre cut across face; stammers.” Then there’s a note put: [reads] “Very expert shot; care should be taken in arresting.”
SIGNORA GRASSINI. How horrid! I hope he’ll come.
GEMMA [gravely] I hope he will not.
A manservant whispers to Grassini.
GRASSINI [excitedly] My love, the new tenor has come.
SIGNORA GRASSINI. The tenor! Stop the band. Clear everything off the piano. Has he brought an accompanist?
She rushes into the house.
GRASSINI [following] Shut all the windows tight. Put screens before all the doors. Light a fire in the cloak room.
He follows her — The Guests crowd into the house after them, and the windows are shut.
Martini remains behind with Gemma.
MARTINI. Signora Bolla: why do you hope that the Gadfly may not come?
GEMMA. He belongs to a society called the Occoltellatori — the Knifers. We are revolutionists, not assassins.
MARTINI. The knife is sometimes the only remedy.
GEMMA. You say that very glibly. Did you ever kill a man?
MARTINI. [starting] Heaven forbid!
GEMMA. Ah! I thought so. I did.
MARTINI. You!
GEMMA. Yes, I. It was the man