The Ides of March

by Thornton Wilder

  But what would I not do for the great Queen of Egypt? I have not only become a thief; I have become an idiot. I can think only of her. I blunder in my work. I forget names; I mislay papers. My secretaries are in a consternation; I can hear them whispering behind my back. I make visitors wait; I postpone tasks—all this that I may hold long conversations with the everliving Isis, with the Goddess, with the witch who has stolen my mind away. There is no drunkenness equal to that of remembering whispered words in the night. There is nothing in the world that can compare with the great Queen of Egypt.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  [In Latin.]

  Where is my wise Deedja, my good Deedja, my most intelligent Deedja?—Why is she so unwise, so obstinate, so cruel to herself and to me?

  My pearl, my lotus, if our Roman wheat paste disagrees with you why will you eat it?

  It disagrees with all Easterners. It disagreed with your father. It disagreed with Queen Anes’ta. We Romans are brutish. We can eat anything. I pray of you, I implore you: be wise. I pray that you are not suffering; but I am, I am. My messenger will wait until Charmian sends me back some report about you. Oh, star and phoenix, take good care of yourself; be wise.

  You turned my doctor away from your door. Could you not let him see you? Could you not talk to him for one moment? You tell me your Egyptian medical knowledge is ten thousand years old and that we Romans are children. Yes, yes, but—I must speak severely with you—your doctors are ten thousand years old in nonsense. Think, think for a moment about medicine. Doctors are mostly impostors. The older a doctor is and the more venerated he is, the more he must pretend to know everything. Of course, they grow worse with time. Always look for a doctor who is hated by the best doctors. Always seek out a bright young doctor before he comes down with nonsense. Deedja, tell me you will see my Sosthenes.

  I am helpless. Take care of yourself. I love you.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Oh, yes. I obey the Queen of Egypt. I do everything she tells me to do.

  The top of my head has been purple all day.

  Visitor after visitor has looked at me with horror, but no one has asked me what was the matter with me. That is what it is to be a Dictator: no one asks him a question about himself. I could hop on one foot from here to Ostia and back and no one would mention it—to me.

  At last a cleaning woman came in to wash the floor. She said: “Oh, divine Caesar, what is the matter with your head?”

  “Little mother,” I said, “the greatest woman in the world, the most beautiful woman in the world, the wisest woman in the world said that baldness is cured by rubbing the head with a salve made of honey, juniper berries, and wormwood. She ordered me to apply it and I obey her in everything.”

  “Divine Caesar,” she replied, “I am not great nor beautiful nor wise, but this one thing I know: a man can have either hair or brains, but he can’t have both. You’re quite beautiful enough as you are, sir; and since the Immortal Gods gave you good sense, I think they didn’t mean for you to have curls.”

  I am thinking of making that woman a Senator.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Never have I felt so helpless, great Queen. I would resign all my other powers in exchange for this one, but I cannot; I cannot control the weather. I rage at these cold rains as I have not raged at anything for many years. I am become a sort of farmer: my clerks glance at one another with raised eyebrows; they see me continually going to the door to examine the sky. During the night I rise and go to my balcony; I estimate the wind; I look for the stars. I send you herewith another blanket of fur; wrap yourself well. I am told that these cruel rains will last two days more. All through the winter we shall have occasional days of sunlight. A friend of mine has a villa at Salerno, shielded from the north. You will go there in January and I shall join you. Be patient; occupy yourself. Send me word.

  XXXVII Catullus to Clodia.

  [October 20.]

  Soul of my soul, when your word came this morning I wept.

  You have forgiven us. You understand that we meant no offense, no offense, Claudilla. I ask myself what I said that could have made you so angry. But we will think of it no longer. You have forgiven us and it is forgotten.

  But oh, great Claudilla, incomparable Claudilla, be ready to forgive us again. We do not know when we are about to stumble into your displeasure. Be assured now and forever that we never, oh NEVER, intend to cause you pain. Let this declaration stand for all time. What meaning or offense could you have found in—but there! it is forgotten.

  But Claudilla, I must add that you also must try not to wound me. When you said in front of him: “Valerius has never quite made a poem which is equally successful throughout.” Claudilla, don’t you know that just that is the terror of a poet? A few verses come right; the rest he must contrive. What, have I never made an entire poem? And in front of him!

  In the matter of the Queen’s reception, I shall, of course, obey you. I had no particular interest in going. Many members of our Club are going in a body and they have been urging me to write an Ode for it. I have a few strophes down; but it is not going very well and I shall be glad to give it up. All that I hear about her leads me to believe that she is insupportable—particularly, the immodesty of her dress.

  No, I have not been ill.

  Later.

  I was about to send this letter off when I heard by chance that you are going to the country for several months. Why? WHY? Is it true? Immortal Gods, it cannot be true. You would have told me. WHY? YOU have never been away in the winter. What does it mean? I do not know what to think. You have never been away in the winter.

  If it is true, Claudilla, Claudilla, you will send for me. We shall read. We shall walk by the sea. You will point out the stars to me. No one has ever talked about the stars as you talk about them. I worship you always, but then you are all Goddess. Yes, go to the country, my brightest star, my treasure, and let me join you there.

  But the more I think of it, the more unhappy I become.

  What does it mean?

  I know that I must ask for nothing. I must make no claim. But a love like mine must speak; it must cry out a little. Great and terrible Claudia, listen to me this once. Do not go into the country—I mean: if you must go into the country, GO ALONE. I dare not ask again that it be with me; but, at least, alone.

  Yes, I will say it: I have been ill. Since love first came among men, despised lovers have pretended they were ill; but this was no pretense. Do you wish to kill me? Is that your aim? I do not wish to die. I swear to you I shall fight it to my last breath. I do not know how much longer I can endure. Something that is stronger than I is lying in wait for me. It is in the corner of my room all night, watching me while I sleep. I awake suddenly and seem to feel it above my bed.

  I tell you now that if you go into the country with him I shall surely die. You call me a weakling. I am not. I could hold your friend in the air for an hour and then hurl him against a wall, and remain untired. You know that I am not a weakling and that only a powerful force could kill me.

  I do not mean these words to sound angry. If it is true that you are going to your villa, promise me that you will be alone. And then if you do not wish me to join you there, I will do what you have so often urged: I shall go to my home in the north until you return to the city.

  Send me word about this. And oh, Claudia, Claudilla, ask me to do something—something that I can do. Do not ask me to forget you or to be indifferent to you. Do not ask me to have no interest in how you pass your time. But if we are separated, set me a task, something that will be a daily link with you. Great queen, greater than all the queens of Egypt, wise and good, learned and gracious, with one word you can make me well. With one smile, you can make me, make us, the happiest poet that ever praised the Immortal Gods.

  XXXVII-A Clodia to Catullus.

  [By return messenger.]

  Yes, it is true, dear Gaius. I am going into the country and alone, entirely alon
e. That is, only with Sosigenes the astronomer. The life of the city has become tiresome. I shall write you frequently. I shall think of you with affection. I am unhappy to hear that you have been ill. I think it would be wise for you to go to your home. I am sending presents for you to give to your mother and your sisters.

  You ask me to assign you a task. What task could I assign you that your genius has not already whispered in your ear? Forget all that I have ever said about your verses and remember only this: you and Lucretius alone have made Rome a new Greece. You once said that the writing of tragedies was not your work. At another time you said that you might be able to write a “Helena.” Any verses you write would give me happiness; if you also wrote a “Helena,” we could play it when I return from the country. I shall leave on the morning after the Queen’s reception and shall return a few days before the festival [of the Good Goddess].

  Take every care of your health. Do not forget your “Ox-eyed.”

  XXXVIII Caesar’s Journal—Letter to Lucius Mamilius Turrinus on the Island of Capri.

  1008. [Of Cleopatra’s admiration for the wine of Capri.]

  1009. [Apology for tardiness in sending off the packet.]

  1010. [Of love poetry.] We are all vulnerable to the songs of the country people and of the market place. There have been times when I have gone about tormented for days by some song heard over the garden wall or sung by my soldiers around their campfires. “Don’t say no, no, no, little Belgian,” or “Tell me, moon, where is Chloe now?” But when the verses are of a sovereign hand, it is no torment, but—Hercules!—an enlargement. My stride is doubled and I am twice my height.

  Today I can hardly refrain from blurting out to the faces of all my callers some lines—no need to cite the verses of Greece for, by the Immortal Gods, we now fashion our own songs in Rome.

  Ille mi par esse deo videtur,

  Ille, si fas est, superare divos,

  Qui sedens adversus itentidem te

  Spectat et audit

  Dulce ridentem. . . .

  [That man to me seems equal to a God,

  That man surpasses the Gods—if such

  a thought be allowed—

  Who sitting before you

  Gazes and hears you

  Sweetly laughing. . . .]

  Those are the words of Catullus, written in what were for him happier times. I have reason to suspect that he is now the unhappiest of men. He captured his noontime in song; I am now at high noon and he has heightened its blaze for me.

  XXXIX Notes from Clodia to Marc Antony.

  [Toward the end of October.]

  Court was very brilliant today. The oldest portions of the Roman wall have fallen before the invader: Servilia; Fulvia Manso; Sempronia Metella.

  Your absence was noted. Majesty deigned to speak graciously of you, but I know her now and that pinched expression about her mouth.

  Tell my dear Incomparable [Cytheris] that the Queen has been inquiring about her. She said that the Dictator has spoken of her, the Incomparable, with great admiration.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  After you left the Nile was overflowing its banks with ill-contained rage. She muttered to me that there was an Egyptian proverb that said: “All the braggart’s wounds are on his back.” I protested and was taken into the boudoir and given some pastries. I told of your bravery at Pharsalia; your bravery against Aristobulus. I have no doubt you were very brave in Spain, too, but I knew no details so I invented a towering exploit for you before Cordova. It is now history. She abruptly, too abruptly, changed the subject.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  [October 27.]

  All is ready.

  Egypt is certainly yours, if you do exactly what I tell you. And when I tell you. All depends on the when.

  Arrive early at the reception and pay little attention to her.

  The Master of the Citadel will certainly be going home early with his wife and aunt.

  I shall arrive late. I shall tell her that you are going to propose to show her the greatest feat of daring ever exhibited in Rome and I shall urge her not, oh not, not to consent to see it. And is not that what it will be?—the greatest feat of daring ever seen in Rome?

  Do not forget your promise, however. You are not to fall in love with her. If there is any danger of that, I refuse to help you and all wagers are off.

  Destroy this note, or rather give it to my messenger so that I may destroy it.

  XL The Lady Julia Marcia to Lucius Mamilius Turrinus on the Island of Capri.

  [October 28.]

  With what joy, my dear boy, I received your letter and learned that I may write to you. And that I may visit you. Let me come soon after the new year. All my thoughts are bent now on the Ceremonies [of the Good Goddess]; then I must return to my farm, put the year’s accounts in order, and supervise the Saturnalia in our hill village. That done I shall come to the South—with what joy!

  You say that you have time to read long letters and I generally have all too much time to write them. This will not be a long letter, I trust; it is just a word to acknowledge yours and to tell you of the events of last night which I think will interest you. You assure me that you have channels whereby you learn the externals of what passes in Rome and I shall try to restrict my account to such matters as I observe personally and as are not likely to have reached you by other hands.

  Last night took place the reception at which the Queen of Egypt opened her palace to Rome. You will be told by others, no doubt, of the magnificence of the appointments, the lakes, the shows, the games, the tumult, the food, and the music.

  I have made a new friend where least I expected to acquire one. There are perhaps reasons why the Queen should go to considerable lengths to ingratiate herself with me, but I think I am not easily deceived and I can say that the interest we took in one another was not feigned. Each was an object of curiosity to the other, each of an extreme difference; such contrasts with a touch of distrust may turn to contempt and ridicule, with a touch of good will to delighted friendship.

  I arrived by boat with my nephew and his wife; we were greeted by the Queen at the gate which had been built as a reproduction of the Temple of Philae on the Nile. Our Tiber was all Egyptian and of new beauty; and such was the Queen. There are those who deny it; surely their eyes are askew with prejudice. Her skin is the color of the finest Greek marble and as smooth; her eyes are brown, large and most living. From them and from her low but ever-varying voice proceeds an unbroken message of happiness, well-being, amusement, intelligence, and assurance. Our Roman beauties were there in number and I became aware that Volumnia and Livia Dolabella and Clodia Pulcher were stiff, ill at ease, and as it were haunted by an imminent irritability.

  The Queen was dressed, I am told, as the Goddess Isis. The jewels she wore and the embroidery on her gown were of blue and green. She led us first through the gardens, directing her remarks chiefly to Pompeia who seemed struck with fright and could find no answers, I am sorry to say. The Queen’s manner is completely simple and should be able to banish constraint from all who address her; so it did with me. She led us to her throne and presented to us the nobles and ladies of her court. She then turned to greet the long lines of guests who had been waiting while her attention was given to the Dictator.

  I had intended to return early to bed, but lingered viewing the countless diversions with friends of my generation and tasting the extraordinary dainties (much to the fright of Sempronia Metella who assured me that they had been poisoned). Suddenly I felt a hand brush my arm. It was the Queen asking me if I would sit down with her. She led me to a sort of bower, warmed by braziers, and seating me beside her on a couch smiled at me for a moment in silence.

  “Noble Lady,” she said, “it is the custom in my country when one woman meets another to ask certain questions . . .”

  “I am delighted, great Queen,” I said, “to find myself in Egypt, and to observe the customs of that country.”

  “We ask one
another,” she replied, “how many children we have had and whether the confinements were difficult.”

  At this we both burst out laughing. “That is not a Roman custom,” I said, thinking of Sempronia Metella, “but I think it very sensible.” And I told her my history as a mother and she told me hers. She drew from a cabinet beside her some admirable paintings of her two children and showed them to me. “All else,” she whispered, “is like a mirage of our deserts. I adore my children. I could wish to have a hundred. What is there in the world to equal one of those darling heads, those darling fragrant heads? But I am a Queen,” she said, looking at me with tears in her eyes, “I must go on journeys. I must be busy with a hundred other things. Have you grandchildren?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “None.”

  “Do you understand what I mean?” she asked.

  “Yes, Majesty, I do.”

  And we sat silent. My dear boy, that is not the conversation I expected to have with the Witch of the Nile.

  We were interrupted by my nephew bringing forward Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris. They were indeed taken aback to see the two of us sitting in tears amid the loud orchestras and the high torches.

  “We were talking of life and death,” said the Queen, rising and passing her hand across her cheeks. “My party is the happier for it.”

  She appeared to ignore my great-nephew, but she addressed Cytheris: “Gracious lady,” she said, “I have been told—and by no mean judge—that no one speaks the Latin language, nor the Greek, more beautifully than you do.”

  This letter is already too long. I shall be writing you again before I see you. Your last request I shall indeed comply with explicitly. Your letter and the prospect of my visit have made me very happy.