Caligula – Albert Camus (1944)

Caligula, written by Albert Camus and first performed in 1945 (published 1944), is one of the seminal theatrical works of the 20th century. It is part of Camus’ exploration of the “cycle of the absurd,” alongside works such as The Stranger and The Myth of Sisyphus. Set during the Roman Empire, the four-act play dramatizes the descent of the emperor Caligula into tyranny and madness after the death of his beloved sister Drusilla. With stark philosophical overtones, Camus uses this historical figure to explore themes of absurdity, power, and existential despair in a world devoid of meaning.

Plot Summary

Beneath the marble arches of the Roman palace, whispers slithered like snakes, rumors thickening with each echo of silence. The emperor, Caïus Caligula, had vanished. For three days and three nights, the patricians waited, their faces drawn with anxiety. His sister Drusilla was dead, and with her, something had unraveled in him. When Caligula finally returned, soaked from the storm, eyes haunted and mouth twitching with a thought unspeakable, it was clear that something fundamental had shifted.

He told Hélicon, his loyal servant, that he had searched for the moon. Not metaphorically, not poetically – he had gone to find it. It was something he did not possess, and therefore, he desired it. What began as grief grew into a realization that gnawed at him: men die and they are not happy. With that truth burning like fever beneath his skin, Caligula resolved to live in absolute logic, to stretch reason until it broke the world. The empire, he declared, would be dragged into truth. And that truth, he decided, was unbearable.

From that moment, the emperor ceased to govern in the name of Rome. He ruled as a man who had pierced through the veil of illusion and found only emptiness behind it. The palace grew darker, its corridors filled not with ceremony, but dread. He declared that since wealth corrupted, the wealthy would bequeath their fortunes to the state – then die. With eerie calm, he spoke of justice. Not a balance, not virtue, but justice as eradication. He promised to kill without discrimination, not from madness, but from fairness. No crime needed to be committed. Guilt was guaranteed by birth.

Caesonia, his former lover, tried to touch the wound in him with tenderness. She saw the boy still inside the emperor – the one who once adored poetry and believed in beauty. She begged him to rest, to sleep, to forgive the world for not being perfect. But Caligula refused to close his eyes. If he slept, who would bring him the moon?

The court was reshaped into a theatre of humiliation. Senators were made to serve as slaves, to cook and pour wine, to race beside the emperor’s litter like dogs. They dared not rebel, for they had seen what rebellion invited. Caligula struck without warning, laughed in the face of death, and justified each cruelty with philosophy. When challenged, he spoke of how men dressed up the absurdity of life with customs and lies. He would peel it all away. There would be no masks. No illusions. Only naked truth.

Scipion, a young poet whose father had been executed, stood caught between despair and fascination. He remembered how the emperor had once encouraged him to write, to believe in the sanctity of words. Now, that same man spoke of extermination with the cadence of a poem. Scipion’s hatred festered, but he still listened, wondering if there might be a meaning hidden beneath the horror.

Among the patricians, Cherea remained quiet. He did not curse or cry, but watched, measuring every word, every action. While others flailed in their outrage or trembled into obedience, Cherea understood something deeper: Caligula was not a tyrant of whims, but a man possessed by a terrifying clarity. He did not kill for pleasure – he killed because logic demanded it. And logic, taken to its end, was an executioner.

Caligula unveiled more of his designs. Citizens would be rewarded for frequenting his newly established public brothel. Those who failed to participate would be exiled or executed. He called it an experiment in civic virtue. A satire, yes, but also an instrument of control. The line between mockery and mandate dissolved until no one could tell one from the other.

The court began to drown in blood. Caligula poisoned Mereia, an old man whose only crime was preparing a remedy for asthma – interpreted as a preemptive defense against poison. The emperor argued with chilling precision. If Mereia carried a counterpoison, it meant he suspected the emperor. And to suspect was to rebel. Thus, he was guilty.

The senators, now puppets, played their roles in grotesque parodies of dinner parties where Caligula feigned jest, then lashed out with unrestrained ferocity. Lepidus was forced to laugh at a joke about his murdered son. Mucius watched, powerless, as Caligula slept with his wife, then emerged to mock his jealousy. These were not mere humiliations – they were sermons, lessons in the futility of human dignity.

Yet through the madness, a pattern emerged. Caligula was orchestrating a kingdom where all things were flattened, where life and death, beauty and ugliness, truth and falsehood held the same weight – none. He wanted to remake the world in the image of his despair, where suffering became comedy and horror a game.

But even a god, self-made or otherwise, cannot suppress consequence forever. In secret, the conspirators assembled. Not out of bravery, but out of necessity. Even Cherea, whose soul abhorred violence, took his place among them. He did not move for vengeance or justice. He moved to prevent the annihilation of meaning itself. If Caligula succeeded in proving that nothing mattered, then all civilization was a lie.

One evening, as the palace glimmered under torchlight, Caligula danced among his victims. He summoned Caesonia to join his pageant. She followed, exhausted by love, unable to stop the man she once adored. The laughter was louder than ever, the games more perverse. But among the applause, steel moved silently beneath togas.

Cherea struck first. The emperor, astonished not by betrayal but by the fulfillment of fate, crumpled. Blood smeared the marble. As he fell, he smiled, as if in that final instant, he had reached the edge of logic – and found, perhaps, the thing beyond it.

The silence that followed was not peace. It was the breath before mourning, the hush that follows when the truth has spoken its last word.

Main Characters

• Caligula (Caïus): The central figure, Emperor of Rome, begins the play shattered by grief over the death of Drusilla. His pursuit of absolute freedom and the impossible (like possessing the moon) gradually mutates into a regime of cruelty and absurd logic. He becomes both a philosopher and executioner, testing the limits of power, morality, and reason. His transformation is the core of the play, from a melancholic seeker to a calculated tyrant who weaponizes logic to annihilate meaning.

• Hélicon: Caligula’s loyal servant and confidant. Sarcastic and cynical, Hélicon functions as a dark mirror to Caligula’s philosophical inquiries. Though not supportive of his master’s actions, he follows him with detached amusement, offering pragmatic support while refusing to challenge his madness.

• Caesonia: A former lover of Caligula, she stands by him through his descent into madness. Caesonia is a voice of emotional appeal and earthly wisdom, contrasting Caligula’s increasingly abstract cruelty. Her loyalty is unwavering, but her inability to dissuade him adds to the tragedy.

• Cherea: A Roman patrician and philosopher who ultimately becomes the architect of Caligula’s assassination. He represents stoic reason and classical virtue, gradually turning from passive observer to active conspirator. Cherea’s eventual rebellion is rooted not in personal grievance, but in moral repulsion at the emperor’s philosophical perversion.

• Scipion: A young poet and idealist whose father is executed by Caligula. Torn between admiration and horror, Scipion’s journey reflects a clash between youthful idealism and the brutal reality of tyranny. His hatred becomes a quiet but significant thread in the resistance.

Theme

• The Absurd and the Impossible: Camus uses Caligula’s demand for the moon as a symbol of the human craving for the unattainable – immortality, meaning, and happiness. The emperor’s realization that “men die and are not happy” catalyzes his rebellion against the absurdity of existence, echoing the existential tension present in Camus’ philosophical works.

• Freedom and Tyranny: Caligula’s claim to pursue “absolute freedom” exposes the paradox of liberty when divorced from morality. He uses his imperial power to test philosophical boundaries, but his freedom ultimately becomes oppression, showing how unbounded liberty can devolve into despotism.

• Death and the Nature of Power: The play constantly circles around death – not as an end, but as an instrument. Caligula uses executions to explore and demonstrate philosophical truths. Power, in his hands, becomes an engine for annihilation rather than creation, questioning the legitimacy and ethics of authority.

• Truth and Deception: Caligula’s reign is a war against illusion. He declares himself the only honest man because he strips away the comforting lies of society – love, justice, even sanity. Yet this radical honesty becomes its own kind of delusion, leaving the audience to wonder whether the truth, pursued to its extreme, becomes indistinguishable from madness.

Writing Style and Tone

Camus’ writing in Caligula is marked by austere clarity and dramatic sharpness. His dialogue is philosophical yet visceral, often echoing the rhythm of Greek tragedy while engaging in existential argumentation. The language is spare, but dense with meaning, allowing the characters to voice deep, sometimes disturbing truths through crisp exchanges. Camus avoids elaborate descriptions or ornate flourishes, instead relying on rhythm, contrast, and stark imagery to evoke dread, irony, and contemplation.

The tone of the play evolves from elegiac to harrowing. It begins in a shadow of grief, with Caligula mourning Drusilla, but swiftly turns toward a chilling blend of satire and horror. Camus masterfully balances dark comedy with dread – Caligula’s cruel logic often sounds reasonable, even humorous, before its consequences unfold in brutality. The tone forces the audience to confront uncomfortable truths with intellectual engagement and emotional unease, staying true to Camus’ vision of “the absurd man” navigating a godless world.