CHAPTER VI

THE DISASTERS OF CORIOLANUS AND THEIR CAUSES

Feeling for his country, feeling for his caste, feeling for his family thus form the triple groundwork of Coriolanus’ nobleness, but they fail to uphold it in the storm of temptation. As furnishing the foundations of conduct they have dangers and defects, inherent in themselves, or incident to their combination, and these it is to which the guilt and ruin of Coriolanus are due.

These drawbacks may be illustrated under three heads. They are unfit completely to transfigure egoism, for they have all an egoistic aspect, and are indeed merely extended forms of selfishness. They are primarily the products of nature, instinct, passion; and may exist without being raised to the rank of rational principles and without having their just scope delimited and defined. And, lastly, for that reason their relative importance may be mistaken, and one that is the stronger natural impulse may usurp the place of one that is of more binding moral authority.

It has often been pointed out, and sometimes as a matter of complaint, that family affection is very restricted in its range and may conflict with the larger interests of mankind. It produces an intense unity within the one household, but it is apt to be jealous, repellent, aggressive as regards other households and their members. Further, in so far as it is _my_ parents, _my_ brothers, _my_ children, whose welfare I promote, the ground of preference has nothing to do with impartial equity: it is determined by the nearness of the persons to _me_, by _my_ fondness for them, by my looking on them as appurtenances of _mine_; in short it is selfish. And those who maintain the sacredness of the family give this no absolute denial, but reply, first, that in the long run the true interests of one family, rightly understood, do not conflict with the true interests of other families, of the state, or the rest of mankind; and, second, that even before the true interests are rightly grasped, the family relation forms at least a stage in the process by which the individual learns to enlarge his self-interest, a preliminary stage but an inevitable stage, and still for the vast majority of men the stage of most practical importance. Many a one is ready to give up his personal pleasure or advantage for those of his own house, who would be deaf to all more general appeals. Thus the family so widens self-love as to include in it some other people, but in one of its aspects it nevertheless depends on self-love.

And the same thing holds good of the enlarged kindred that we call an aristocracy. The nobility of blood forms a sort of family on a large scale, a family of caste, an amplified household united by common pursuits, privileges, education and ideals, and often further blended by frequent intermarriage. The aristocrat finds himself born into this artificial, which is in some respects almost like a natural fraternity; and his ethos to his order, ethos though it be, is largely the ethos of the individual who recognises his own reflection in his fellow nobles.

Nor is it otherwise with the state, especially, we may say, the antique city state, where often the aristocracy really was the native nucleus, and which in the greatest expansion of which it was capable, did not exceed the dimensions of a modern municipality. The patriotism of the citizens had the fervour of domestic piety, their disputes had the bitterness of family quarrels. In the community its sons exulted and lived and moved and had their being: it was theirs and they were its, in opposition to the alien states, the states of other people, to which they were apt to be indifferent or hostile.

Now it is evident that all these principles in the case of a man with a strong consciousness of his own worth and superlative self-respect, might give substance and validity to his egoism, but would rather encourage than counteract it. And so with Coriolanus. His independent, individual, isolated sufficiency passes all bounds. He derives sustenance for it from the three layers of atmosphere that envelope him, but he thinks he can if necessary dispense with these external aids. In so far as he can separate the people in his mind from the whole body politic of Rome, he excludes them from his sympathy, or even his tolerance, and glories in his ostentation of antagonism. Take his speech about the popular demonstration:

They said they were an-hungry, sigh’d forth proverbs, That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only: with these shreds They vented their complainings. (I. i. 209.)

In reference to this Archbishop Trench has a very true remark. He points out that where there is a marked and conscious division of ranks,

[proverbs] may go nearly or quite out of use among the so-called upper classes. No gentleman, says Lord Chesterfield, “ever uses a proverb.” And with how true a touch of nature, Shakespeare makes Coriolanus, the man who with all his greatness, is entirely devoid of all sympathy with the people, to utter his scorn of them in scorn of their proverbs and of their frequent employment of them.

He has indeed no sense of their homely wisdom or their homely virtues. He has no common charity for them, and his attitude to them if they venture to assert themselves, is that of a less human slaveholder to refractory slaves.

Would the nobility lay aside their ruth, And let me use my sword, I’ld make a quarry With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high As I could pick my lance. (I. i. 201.)

After such counsel, we feel that the exclamation of Sicinius is not without its warrant:

Where is this viper That would depopulate the city, and Be every man himself? (III. i. 263.)

His self-centred confidence and egotism culminates in his retort to his sentence:

You common cry of curs? whose breath I hate As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you. (III. iii. 120.)

But it is characteristic of this spirit which really makes a man a law to himself and the measure of things, that though by all his training and prejudices inclined to the traditional and conservative in politics, yet, if use-and-wont presses hard against his own pride, he shows himself an innovator of the most uncompromising kind. He objects once and again to the prescriptive forms of election, and at last breaks out:

Custom calls me to ’t! What custom wills, in all things should we do ’t, The dust on antique time would lie unswept And mountainous error be too highly heapt For truth to o’er-peer. (II. iii. 124.)

Here he blossoms out as the reddest of radicals, though a radical of the Napoleonic type.

But, further, his feeling for family, class and country is pre-eminently feeling. It belongs to those natural tendencies that almost seem to come to us by heredity and environment, and have analogies with the instincts of animals. It is, at least in the form it assumes with him, not to be ranked among the moral convictions which can stand the examination of conscience and reason, and in the production of which conscience and reason have co-operated. It is rather an innate impulse, a headlong passion, and resembles a blind physical force of which he can give no account. His understanding is without right of entry into this part of his life. We have seen, no doubt, that his presuppositions once granted he can form a very acute estimate of the situation. But he never uses his judgment either in examining his presuppositions or in discovering the treatment that the situation requires. He has not the width of outlook or the self-criticism that enable Menenius and Cominius, and even the ordinary senators, to see the relative importance of the principles for which they contend, and prefer any compromise to laying the city flat and sacking great Rome with Romans. He has not the astuteness of Volumnia, who perceives that strategy is to be used in government as in war and bids him stoop to conquer:

I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage. (III. ii. 29.)

If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour, as in war, since that to both It stands in like request? (III. ii. 46.)

Both in regard to end and means, he listens to the counsels not of his reason but of his passion and hot blood. As how could he do otherwise? It is passion not reason that oversways his nature, determining everything in him from these first fundamental principles to the most transitory mood. More particularly, that tyrannous self-respect of his, the personal flame in which all his interests, domestic, aristocratic, national, are fused, is his central passion, and one that gives more heat than light. Sometimes, indeed, it kindles him to great things. When the Volscian army abandons the shelter of Corioli he feels it an insult to his country, therefore to himself; and the outrage to his _amour propre_ incites him to do wonders.

They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus: _They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath_. (I. iv. 23.)

But again, it may make it impossible for him to take the right path. When asked to show some outward submission to the people, he answers:

To the market place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to the life. (III. ii. 104.)

He was justified in objecting to methods of dissimulation and flattery, but, if only he had been reasonable, a middle course would not have been hard to find, which should safeguard his self-respect while pacifying the populace. It is because his self-respect is of passion not of reason, that he is so unconciliatory, and therefore almost as culpable as if he were guilty of the opposite fault. Plutarch, indeed, thinks he is more so. In his comparison between him and Alcibiades, he is in this matter more lenient to the latter:

He is lesse to be blamed, that seeketh to please and gratifie his common people; then he that despiseth and disdaineth them, and therefore offereth them wrong and injurie, bicause he would not seeme to flatter them, to winne the more authoritie. For as it is an evill thing to flatter the common people to winne credit; even so it is besides dishonesty, and injustice also, to atteine to credit and authoritie, for one to make him selfe terrible to the people, by offering them wrong and violence.

This passage has inspired the criticism of the officer of the Capitol; who, however, impartially holds the scales.

If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm: but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him; and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love. (II. ii. 18.)

With this temper it is natural that the arrogance of success, lack of nous, and want of adaptability—which is often merely another form of self-will—should bring about his ruin; and it is these three characteristics, or a modicum of them, to which Aufidius in point of fact attributes his banishment.

First he was A noble servant to them; but he could not Carry his honours even: whether ’twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgement, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controll’d the war; but one of these— As he hath spices of them all, not all, For I dare so far free him—made him fear’d, So hated, and so banish’d. (IV. vii. 35.)

But, lastly, not only are the three objective ethical principles that give Coriolanus his moral equipment, inadequate in so far as their range is largely selfish and their origin largely natural; he misplaces the order in which they should come. In the case of Volumnia, despite all her maternal preference and patrician prejudice, Rome is the grand consideration, as her deeds unequivocally prove. Nor is she singular; she is only the most conspicuous example among others of her caste. Cominius, too, postpones the family to the state:

I do love My country’s good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase, And treasure of my loins. (III. iii. 111.)

And this is more or less the attitude of the rest. But Coriolanus reverses the sequence, and gives his chief homage precisely to the most restricted and elementary, the most primitive and instinctive principle of the three. He loves Rome indeed, fights for her, grieves for her shames, and glories in her triumphs; but he loves the nobility more, and would by wholesale massacre secure their supremacy. He loves the nobility indeed, but when they, no doubt for the common good, suffer him to be expelled from Rome, they become to him the “dastard nobles”; and he makes hardly any account of his old henchman and intimate Menenius, and none at all of his old comrade and general Cominius. But he loves his family as himself, and though he strives to root out its claims from his heart, the attempt is vain. He may exclaim:

Out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! (V. iii. 24.)

I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand, As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. (V. iii. 34.)

But it is mere histrionic make-believe and pretence: at the first words of Virgilia he cries:

Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. (V. iii. 40.)

How could this man, whose personal pride and family pride are so interwoven, whose self-love and whose virtues are so much an inheritance of his line, ever hope to sever himself from what makes up his very being? The home instincts must triumph.

It is well that they should, and this is the redeeming touch that cancels much of the guilt of apostasy which brands the close of his career. But all the same we feel that his self-surrender to the obligations of the family is a less noble thing than his mother’s self-surrender to the obligations of the state. Of course, in a way, family and class must with all come before the whole community. Men, that is, are bound to be more interested in those of their own circle and their own set than in their fellow-citizens with whom they have less relation. That gives a very good ground for a man’s constant unremitting occupation with his nearest and dearest. But, nevertheless, when the call comes, it is the wider community that has the more imperative claim.

And it is easy to see that Volumnia, though at the supreme moment she shows that she herself has the right feeling for the relation, is responsible for the inverted order in the conception of her son. Her contempt for the masses, her exaltation of the patricians, her high-handed insistence on the family authority were almost bound to be exaggerated in a child growing up under her influence and subjected to no corrective views. And she must have added to the dangers of her tuition by dangling before his eyes the ideal personal honour as the grand prize of life. He wins it and lets it slip again and again, and when he grasps it at last, it is rent and mangled in his hands. There is something typical in the episode of his son and the butterfly, as Valeria narrates it:

I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught it, he let it go again; and after it again; and over and over he comes, and up again; catched it again; or whether his fall enraged him, or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it: Ο, I warrant, how he mammocked it! (I. iii. 65.)

Young Marcius is described as the facsimile and “epitome” of his father, and Volumnia is well pleased with this example of the family bent. She must not disclaim her share in the preparation, when the father enacts the apologue in the larger theatre of life.

And she is even responsible for some of the mistaken courses that directly lead to the disaster.

For Coriolanus, with all his blind sides and rough corners, might still be the faithful and honoured champion of Rome if he were left to follow his own predestined and congenial path as military leader. In the field he can rouse the courage of the citizens and fire their enthusiasm, while on his part, when he wins their recognition and devotion, he lays aside some of his asperity to them, and is even gracious in his awkward, convincing way. They forget their hatred, he forgets his scorn. And to him as warrior the whole population, not only the portion of it that has the franchise, is ready to do honour. The description which the chagrined tribune gives of his triumphal progress through the streets shows with what cordial pride all ranks were eager to pay him homage. There is no reason why he should not continue to discharge in this his proper sphere the functions that none could discharge so well. His political weight is from the first small. Despite his urgent dissuasion he has been powerless to prevent the distribution of corn or the concession of the tribunate. And when he does not intrude into this outlying domain, where he effects nothing, he seems to go his own way peaceably enough, occupied mainly in watching for the common good the movements of Aufidius and the Volscians; so that, so far as his antipathy to the people is concerned, his bark is worse than his bite. That is the point of the similes that Brutus and Menenius exchange about him when Menenius has compared the plebs to a wolf and Coriolanus to a lamb. Says the tribune:

He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear.

And the senator answers:

He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. (II. i. 12.)

But thrust him into a position that involves political authority, and all will be changed. It will be impossible for him to confine himself to harmless growls; the bear will have the people in his hug, and they are not to blame if they take to their weapons. In short the antagonism, which before was, so to speak, academic and led to nothing, must become a matter of life and death. Now it must not be overlooked that it is in obedience to his mother’s ambitions and in opposition to his own better judgment that Coriolanus stands for the consulship. Of course, in a way, it is the natural goal of his career. Even Menenius is so blinded by the glamour of the situation that he interposes no prudent warning. Nevertheless, if he had only exercised his accustomed shrewdness he would have seen the mischievousness of such a course; for in a remark to the tribune he sums up admirably the perils it involves:

He loves your people; But tie him not to be their bedfellow; (II. ii. 68.)

yet for all that, Menenius is the candidate’s most active electioneering agent. When his sagacity so neglects its own suggestions, it is perhaps not wonderful that Volumnia’s narrower intellect should ignore everything but her visions of glory for herself and her son. And yet she might have laid to heart his sincere remonstrance:

Know, good mother, I had rather been their servant in my way, Than sway with them in theirs. (II. i. 218.)

She cannot be acquitted of driving him into the false position.

And she is equally responsible for the fiasco and disaster in which his attempted submission ends. Observe that this is not the only course he might have adopted. Cominius, entering in the middle of the discussion, suggests two others:

I have been i’ the market-place; and, sir, ’tis fit You make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence. (III. ii. 93.)

The first expedient of making strong party and resorting to force is out of the question, both because, as Cominius has already pointed out, it is practically hopeless in face of the odds, and because, as he and others have also pointed out, even if successful it would ruin the state. The second expedient of calmness and conciliation is the one that Volumnia and Menenius in their pertinacious craving to see Coriolanus consul, strongly advocate; and in the abstract it is the right one. But it suffers from a drawback which makes it worse than hopeless, and which Cominius has the foresight to recognise. “Only fair speech,” says Menenius, and Cominius rejoins very doubtfully:

I _think_ ’t will serve, _if_ he Can thereto frame his spirit. (III. ii. 95.)

That is just the point; and one wonders how anyone who knew Coriolanus could expect of him so impossible a feat. There remains the expedient of absence, which Cominius, from the third place he assigns to it, himself seems to prefer. And in the circumstances it is obviously the best. If only the accused had withdrawn for a time, he would soon have been recalled. It is inconceivable that when the new expedition of the Volscians, which he alone foresaw, broke into Roman territory, the state would not at once have had recourse to the great commander. Nor would there have been much difficulty in doing so, since he would merely have betaken himself to voluntary retirement; and even had he been exiled in default, the mutual exasperation on both sides, which the last collision was to produce, would have been avoided. But again it is Volumnia’s overbearing self-will that imposes on him the pernicious choice. And though, as I have said, this proposal is ideally the best, for in such cases management and compromise are legitimate enough and may be laudable, it is not only the worst in the present instance, but she gives it a turn that must have made it peculiarly revolting to her son. In her covetousness for the consular dignity she recommends such hypocrisy, trickery and base cringing as the self-respect of no honest man, much less of a Coriolanus, could tolerate:

I prithee now, my son, Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch’d it—here be with them— Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant More learned than the ears—waving thy head, Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry that will not hold the handling: or say to them, Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee to use as they to claim, In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. (III. ii. 72.)

The amicable policy need not have been painted in such colours as these. It is inevitable that Coriolanus, already inclined to regard it as a degradation, should after these words construe it in the most humiliating-sense:

Well, I must do’t: Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turn’d, Which quired with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smile of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up The glasses of my sight! a beggar’s tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm’d knees, Who bow’d but in the stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms. (III. ii. 110.)

What wonder that his conclusion is to reject such tactics lest they should dishonour his integrity and degrade his soul? His mother’s anger indeed makes him abandon this decision, but his instincts are right. It is a part that of course he could not play under any circumstances, but she has done nothing to show it in its more honourable aspect, and everything to confirm and increase his feeling of its vileness. His sourness and recalcitrance at being false to himself makes him boil over the more fiercely at the first provocation, and all is lost.

It is sometimes said that defeat and the desire for vengeance teach him the lessons which his mother had inculcated in vain, and that henceforth he shows himself a master of dissimulation, flattery, and deception. In proof of this it is usual to cite, in the first place, the farewell scene, when he breathes no word to Cominius, Menenius, Virgilia, or Volumnia of his intention to join the Volscians and return to overthrow Rome. But was any such intention as yet in his mind? In Plutarch he has adopted no definite plan before he sets out. After telling how he comforts his family, the biography proceeds:

He went immediatly to the gate of the cittie, accompanied with a great number of Patricians that brought him thither, from whence he went on his waye with three or foure of his friendes only, taking nothing with him, nor requesting any thing of any man. So he remained a fewe dayes in the countrie at his houses, turmoyled with sundry sortes and kynde of thoughtes, suche as the fyer of his choller dyd sturre up. In the ende, seeing he could resolve no waye, to take a profitable or honorable course, but only was pricked forward still to be revenged of the Romaines, he thought to raise up some great warres against them, by their neerest neighbours.

Of course it is quite true, and it has been one purpose of this essay to show, that Shakespeare often completely recasts Plutarch. But it is also true that, when he does not expressly do so, he often keeps Plutarch’s statements in his mind, even when, as in the case of the voting by tribes, he does not cite them. It counts for something then, that in the _Life_, Coriolanus on leaving Rome has no fixed purpose of seeking foreign help. And if we turn to the parting scene in the tragedy, and let it make its own impression, without reading into it suggestions from subsequent occurrences, I think we feel not so much that he is still undecided as that the idea has not yet entered into his head. We seem to hear the very accent of sincerity in his repetition of the maxims that erewhile he learned from his mother’s own lips, and that he clinches with the reminder:

You were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conn’d them. (IV. i. 9.)

Surely it is a real attempt at consolation, when he interrupts her maledictions on the plebeians who have banished him:

What, what, what! I shall be loved, when I am lack’d. (IV. i. 14.)

He seems to hint at seeking out new adventures and a new career in new regions beyond the reach of Rome, when he says:

My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace: and Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen—your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice. (IV. i. 27.)

It was not cautelous baits and practice that he would have to fear, but the open violence of Aufidius if he already thought of going to Antium, and the simile of the lonely dragon more talked of than seen would be abundantly inappropriate if it referred to his reappearance at the head of the Volscian forces: but the expressions would be quite apt if he meant to make his name redoubtable by his single prowess in strange places amidst the risks of an errant life. It is in professed anticipation of this that he rejects the companionship which Cominius offers:

Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one That’s yet unbruised. (IV. i. 45.)

Are these utterances mere pretence? And have not his last farewells the genuine note of cordiality and good will? If we could imagine that he would bring himself to address those whom he afterwards called the “dastard nobles” as “my friends of noble touch,” it would still be impossible to believe him guilty of cold-hearted deceit to Virgilia and Volumnia.

Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch, when I am forth Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. While I remain above the ground, you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly. (IV. i. 48.)

It would not be like the former champion of Rome to return as its assailant; but we may take it that at this moment he is expecting to carve his way to glory in a different world and perhaps eventually be recalled to his country, but in any case to proceed merely on the old lines in so far as that is possible, and meanwhile to be reported of, as Menenius continues, “worthily as any ear can hear.”

If, then, he is speaking honestly in this scene, how are we to account for his change of purpose when we next meet him a renegade in Antium? No explanation was needed in Plutarch, for the circumstances were not quite the same. There he had only not resolved to join the enemy; here he apparently has resolved to do something else. In the _Life_ after leaving the city he merely comes to a decision, in the play he reverses the decision he has formed. So some statement is needed of the cause for the alteration of his plans, and at first sight there seems to be none. Yet there is a hint and a fairly emphatic one, though it has not been worked out; a hint, moreover, which is the more significant that it is one of Shakespeare’s interpolations.

When the sentence of banishment is pronounced and Coriolanus has retired to his house, there follows a passage which has no parallel or foundation in Plutarch. It is the one already referred to in another connection in which Sicinius gives his mean and malicious order to the people:

Go, see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow’d you, with all despite: Give him deserved vexation. (III. iii. 138.)

And the citizens promptly agree:

Come, come; let’s see him out at gates; come. (III. iii. 141.)

This is at the very close of the Third Act, and the Fourth Act begins in “Rome, before a gate of the city” with the scene of leave-taking discussed above. We naturally expect that it will be interrupted by the popular demonstrations which the tribunes have contrived, especially as these exist only in Shakespeare’s imagination; but it passes off without any hint of them. Only patrician persons appear by whom Coriolanus is beloved and who are beloved by him: and no hostile murmur jars on the solemnity of their grief. But that does not mean that it may not do so even now. He is not yet beyond the walls, and towards the close bids his friends: “Bring me out at gate”; which, we assume, they do forthwith. There is still time for the plebeians to execute their masters’ orders, and though we witness nothing of the kind, there is no reason to believe that they failed to do so. It is easy to conjecture why Shakespeare thought it unnecessary to present this incident to eye and ear. It would have disturbed the quiet dignity of the parting interview; it would have repeated at a lower pitch, without the accompaniment of suspense, and therefore with the risk of monotony and flatness, the tumultuary _motif_ of preceding scenes. But Shakespeare’s variations from his authority are not idle, and we cannot suppose that the tribune’s direction, though we do not actually see it carried out, was a meaningless tag. There is room enough in the economy of the play for its fulfilment beyond the stage. We may imagine that just as Coriolanus’ friends proceed to “bring him out at gate” the insulting irruption takes place; and in the next scene, “a street near the gate,” we find the tribunes, the work done, dismissing their agents:

Bid them all home; he’s gone, and we’ll no further. (IV. ii. i.)

It seems probable that this last indignity, a hurt to his pride more galling than any refusal of office or sentence of banishment, drives Coriolanus to his fury of vindictiveness; and that the failure of the nobles to protect him from the outrage has in his eyes confounded them with his more ignoble enemies. Indeed, he almost says as much in his speech to Aufidius. In that speech, as we have seen, Shakespeare adheres more closely to North than in any other continuous passage in the play, and the greatest variation occurs in a line that would apply with peculiar aptness to the purely Shakespearian episode of the last affront, and that sets forth the main cause of the exile’s resentment. In Plutarch, after saying that only the surname of Coriolanus remains to him, he continues:

The rest the envie and crueltie of the people of Rome have taken from me, by the sufferance of the dastardly nobilitie and magistrates, who have forsaken me, and let me be banished by the people.

This becomes:

The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest: _And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be Whoop’d out of Rome_. (IV. v. 80.)

Considering all these things there seems to be no evidence in Marcius’ parting professions of acquired duplicity.

But, again, it is said that for his revenge he condescends to fawn upon Aufidius and the Volscians. This is not very plausible. His speech of greeting certainly shows no servile propitiation, and according to Tullus it is conspicuously absent in his subsequent behaviour:

He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him: yet his nature In that’s no changeling; and I must excuse What cannot be amended. (IV. vii. 8.)

And elsewhere Tullus complains that his guest has “waged him with his countenance.” The only ground for saying that he paid court to the Volsces is alleged in Tullus’ speech that just precedes this accusation of haughtiness to himself:

He water’d his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and, to this end, He bow’d his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable and free. (V. vi. 23.)

But the speaker is an enemy, and an enemy who has to account for the disagreeable circumstance that his own adherents have gone over to his rival, and who, moreover, at the time is looking for a plea that “admits of good construction.” There is nothing that we see or hear of Coriolanus elsewhere that supports the charge. We are told, indeed, that the Volscians throng to him and do him homage. The very magnates of Antium, Aufidius included, treat him like a demi-god:

Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ the table: no question asked by any of the senators, but they stand bald before him: our general himself makes a mistress of him; sanctifies himself with ’s hand and turns up the white o’ the eye to his discourse. (IV. v. 203.)

Recruits throng to his standard and the army worships him. The Lieutenant tells Aufidius:

I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end. (IV. vii. 2.)

Doubtless this enthusiasm would have its effect on Marcius. Eagerness of service, coupled with confidence in himself, has before now warmed him to graciousness, and in his own despite wrung from him inspiring compliments. When at Cominius’ camp before Corioli the volunteers crowded round him, waved their swords, and took him up in their arms, he was almost hyperbolical in his praises:

O, me alone! make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? none of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. (I. vi. 76.)

So we may well believe that his soldierly spirit would respond promptly and lavishly when the Volscians rallied round him. But such appreciation, however his outstripped competitor might interpret it, would have nothing in common with the arts of the sycophant and the time-server; nor is there anything else in Coriolanus’ conduct that explains or confirms ever so slightly the charge of the interested and envious Aufidius.

On the contrary he remains true, and even too true, to his original nature. It is the outrage on his self-respect that drives him to the Volscians, and his self-respect still gives the law to his life, and would forbid all petty vices, though it enjoins heroic crime. A man like this could not be expected to palliate or overlook the profanation of his cherished dignity. The passion of pride at his ear, he sets himself to rupture all weaker ties of passion or instinct. And yet he himself is half aware of his mistake, and he has to fortify himself in his obstinate perversity. This is shown in two ways: first, he has a smothered sense of the inadequacy of his justification; and, second, he cannot with all his efforts be quite consistent in his revenge.

Of his repressed feeling that the offence does not excuse the retaliation, we have repeated confessions on his part, all the more striking that they are involuntary and perhaps unconscious. Thus, just after he has sought out the enemy of his country, he soliloquises:

O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise, Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birth-place hate I, and my love’s upon This enemy town. (IV. iv. 12.)

Here he acknowledges that his change of sides has the most trivial occasion. Friends fall out on a dissension of a doit while foes are reconciled for some trick not worth an egg; and he applies this principle to his own case: “So with me.” After all he has infinitely more in common with the Romans than he can ever have in common with the Volscians, infinitely more reason for hating this enemy town than he can ever have for hating his own birth-place.

Or again, when on the point of dismissing Menenius, he says:

That we have been familiar Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather Than pity note how much. (V. ii. 91.)

He admits, then, that his wilful oblivion is “ingrate,” and realises that pity would consider the old relations.

Or, once more, almost at the close, when he feels himself in danger of yielding to the voice of nature, he utters the truculent prayer:

Let it be virtuous to be obstinate; (V. iii. 26.)

which implies that he knew it was not.

On the other hand, with all his doggedness, he cannot be quite consequent in his rancour. He may lead her foes against his “thankless country” as he calls it, but he has a lurking kindliness even for the Rome he thinks he detests. As we learn from Aufidius’ speech:

Although it seems, And so he thinks, and is no less apparent To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine, Whene’er we come to our account. (IV. vii. 19.)

This is no doubt suggested by the incident of the thirty days’ truce, of which Plutarch makes so much and which Shakespeare totally suppresses. But the vague reference becomes all the more pregnant, when we are to understand that Coriolanus has at unawares and against his purpose granted some little concessions to the victims of his wrath. That Aufidius’ statement has some foundation, is made probable by the words of the First Antium Lord, who is no enemy to Marcius, but reproaches Tullus with his murder and reverently bewails his death:

What faults he made before the last, I think, Might have found easy fines. (V. vi. 64.)

Faults, then, from the Volscian point of view he has committed in the opinion of a sympathetic and impartial onlooker: which means that as a Roman he has shown forbearance.

So much for the toll that he pays to his patriotism; but neither can he quite uproot the old associations with his class. He may denounce the “dastard nobles,” but he does concede something to Menenius, the patrician whose aristocratic prejudices are most akin to his own:

Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have, Though I show’d sourly to him, once more offer’d The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept: to grace him only That thought he could do more, _a very little_ _I have yielded to_. (V. iii. 11.)

And, coming to the chief in his trinity of interests, he may seek to break all bond and privilege of nature and refuse to be such a gosling to obey instinct, but the natural instinct of the family is too strong for him; before it his resolution crumbles to pieces, though he foresees the result.

O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son,—believe it, O, believe it, Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d, If not most mortal to him. (V. iii. 182.)

Still this collapse of Coriolanus’ purpose means nothing more than the victory of his strongest impulse. There is no acknowledgment of offence, there is no renovation of character, there is not even submission to the highest force within his experience. Our admiration of his surrender is not unmixed. It is a moving spectacle to see a man, despite all the solicitations of wrath and revenge, of interest and fear, obedient to what is on the whole so salutary an influence as domestic affection. But loyalty to this will not of itself avail to safeguard anyone from criminal entanglements, or to equip him for beneficent public action, or to change the current of his life. It may mean the triumph of a natural tendency that happens to be good over other natural tendencies that happen to be bad, but it does not mean acceptance of duty as duty, or anxiety to satisfy the claims that different duties impose. Hence Coriolanus, to the very end, leaves unredeemed his inherited obligations to Rome, while he leaves unfulfilled his voluntary pledges to his allies. Even in Plutarch’s narrative Shakespeare’s insight is not required to detect this underlying thought, but in the _Comparison_, which there is proof that Shakespeare had studied, it is set forth so clearly that he who runs may read.

He made the Volsces (of whome he was generall) to lose the oportunity of noble victory. Where in deede he should (if he had done as he ought) have withdrawen his armie with their counsaill and consent, that had reposed so great affiance in him, in making him their generall: if he had made that accompt of them, as their good will towards him did in duety binde him. Or else, if he did not care for the Volsces in the enterprise of this warre, but had only procured it of intent to be revenged, and afterwards to leave it of, when his anger was blowen over; yet he had no reason for the love of his mother to pardone his contrie; but rather he should in pardoning his contrie have spared his mother, bicause his mother and wife were members of the bodie of his contrie and cittie, which he did besiege. For in that he uncurteously rejected all publike petitions ... to gratifie only the request of his mother in his departure; that was no acte so much to honour his mother with, as to dishonour his contrie by, the which was preserved for the pitie and intercession of a woman, and not for the love of it selfe, as if it had not bene worthie of it. And so was this departure a grace, to say truly, very odious and cruell, and deserved no thanks of either partie, to him that did it. For he withdrew his army, not at the request of the Romaines, against whom he made warre: nor with their consent, at whose charge the warre was made.

That Shakespeare, with his patriotism and equity, perceived the double flaw in Coriolanus’ act of grace can hardly be doubted. He was the last man to put the household above the national gods, or to glorify breach of contract if only it were sanctioned by domestic tenderness. In point of fact, he does not acquit his hero on either count.

On the one hand, if Coriolanus remits the extreme penalty, he neither forgets nor forgives, and has no thought of return to the offending city or resumption of the old ties. Scarcely has he granted the ladies their boon, when he addresses Aufidius:

For my part I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you. (V. iii. 197.)

And his speech to the senators of Antium shows no revival of former loyalties:

Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier, No more infected with my country’s love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Do more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to the Romans. (V. vi. 71.)

The insolent announcement of the invasion carried to the gates of the capital, of the plunder that substantially exceeds the cost, of the humiliating terms imposed on his countrymen, is ample proof that in Coriolanus there is no recrudescence of patriotism.

Yet, despite his words, he has been false to the Volscians. However base were his motives, Aufidius speaks the truth when he says:

Perfidiously He has betray’d your business, and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome, I say “your city,” to his wife and mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk, never admitting Counsel o’ the war. (V. vi. 91.)

It is the opinion of the First Lord, despite his impartiality and his sympathy with Marcius:

There to end Where he was to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge; making a treaty where There was a yielding,—this admits no excuse, (V. vi. 65.)

Thus both his native and his adopted country have reason to complain. He remains a traitor to the one, while yet he breaks faith with the other.

Of course, in theory there was a middle course possible, which would have served the best interests of the two states equally. He might have used his influence to establish a lasting and intimate alliance; and this was the policy that Volumnia outlined in her plea:

If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous to your honour: no; our suit Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say, “This mercy we have show’d”; the Romans, “This we received”; and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry “Be blest For making up this peace!” (V. iii. 132.)

But such an all-hail was not for Coriolanus to win. It is one of the charges which Plutarch brings against him in the _Comparison_, that he neglected the opportunity.

By this dede of his he tooke not away the enmity that was betwene both people.

But how could he, when he had no special desire for the well-being of either, and when his heart was unchanged? His family affection has got the better of his narrower egoism, but even after sacrificing a portion of his revenge, he remains essentially the man he was, and is no more capable of pursuing a judicious and conciliatory policy now for the good of the whole and his own good, than of old in the market-place of Rome.

For to the end he is imprudent, headstrong, and violent as ever. He sees quite clearly that his compliance with his mother’s prayer must be dangerous, if not mortal, to him. Dangerous it is, mortal it need not be. With a little more self-restraint and circumspection, a little less aggressiveness and truculence, he might still preserve both his life and his authority. It is his unchastened spirit, not the questionable treaty, that is the direct cause of his death. Indeed, in a sense, the treaty had nothing to do with it. In Shakespeare, though not in Plutarch, Tullus, as we have seen, when he still anticipated the capture of Rome, determined to make away with his rival so soon as that should take place; and from what we know of Coriolanus’ character, and Tullus’ comprehension of it[263] and general astuteness in management, we feel sure that the scheme was bound to succeed, if Coriolanus persisted in his old ways. Even as things have turned out, Marcius has all the odds in his favour. His triumphal entry into Antium is a repetition of his triumphal entry into Rome. When, according to the stage direction, “Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the People,” the malcontents turn to Aufidius:

_First Conspirator._ Your native town you enter’d like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns, Splitting the air with noise. _Second Conspirator._ And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him the glory. (V. vi. 50.)

[263] See Appendix F.

That is, the admiration of the populace, constrained by his prowess, is the same sort of obstacle to these factionaries as it formerly was to the tribunes; and with that, and his great services as well, he commands the situation. He needs only a minimum of skill and moderation to carry all before him. So the problem of his antagonists is the same in both cases: namely, to neutralise these advantages by rousing his passion, and provoking him to show his pride, his recklessness, his uncompromising rigour. In both cases he falls into the trap, and converts the popular goodwill to hatred by defiantly harping on the injuries he has inflicted on his admirers. He is the unregenerate “superman” to the last. The suppression of his victorious surname, the taunts of “traitor” and “boy,” drive him mad. He lets himself be transported to a bravado that must shake from sleep all the latent hostility of the Volscians.

Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave! Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever I was forc’d to scold. Your judgements, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion— Who wears my stripes impress’d upon him; that Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join To thrust the lie unto him. _First Lord._ Peace, both, and hear me speak. _Coriolanus._ Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. Boy! false hound! If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli; Alone I did it. Boy!

The patient fools, whose children he had slain, are not patient now, and no longer tear their throats in acclaiming his glory. Their cries, “Tear him to pieces,” “He killed my son,” and the like, give the conspirators the cue, and Aufidius is presently standing on his body.

It is not, then, as a martyr to retrieved patriotism that Coriolanus perishes, but as the victim of his own passion. In truth, the victory he won over himself under the influence of his mother, though real, is very incomplete. His piety to the hearth saves him from the superlative infamy of destroying his country, which is something, and even a good deal; but it is not everything; and beyond that it has no result, public or personal. On the contrary, Coriolanus’ isolated and but partly justified act of clemency receives its comment from the motives that induced it, the troth-breach that accompanied it, and the rage in which he passed away. If, like his son with the butterfly, he did grasp honour at the close, it was disfigured by his rude handling. But at least he never belies his own great though mixed nature, and it is fitting that his death, needless but heroic, should have its cause in his nature and be such as his nature would select. Indeed, it is both his nemesis and his guerdon. For he would not be a Roman, he could not be a Volsce; what part could he have played in the years to come? Perhaps Shakespeare read in Philemon Holland’s rendering the alternative account that Livy gives of the final scene.

I find in Fabius, a most ancient writer, that he lived untill he was an old man: who repeateth this of him: that oftentimes in his latter daies he used to utter this speech: _A heavie case and most wretched, for an aged man to live banisht_.

At all events some such feeling as his regrets in this variant tradition suggest, makes us prefer the version that Plutarch followed and that Shakespeare adapted. Coriolanus deserves to be spared the woes that the future has in store. As it is, he falls in the fulness of his power, inspired by great memories to greater audacity, and, no doubt, elated at the thought of challenging and outbraving death, when death is sure to win.

APPENDIX A

NEAREST PARALLELS BETWEEN GARNIER’S _CORNELIE_, IN THE FRENCH AND ENGLISH VERSIONS, AND _JULIUS CAESAR_

It should be remembered that it is not on these particular equivalents, mostly very loose, that those who uphold the theory of connection between the two plays rely, but on the general drift of the corresponding scenes which in this respect strikingly resemble each other and in no way produce the same impression as the narrative of Plutarch.

_French. English._

_Cassie._ Miserable Cité, tu _Cassius._ Accursed Rome, armes contre toy that arm’st against thy selfe

La fureur d’un Tyran pour le A Tyrants rage, and mak’st a faire ton Roy: wretch thy King:

Tu armes tes enfans, injurieuse For one mans pleasure Romme, (O injurious Rome!)

Encontre tes enfans, pour le Thy chyldren gainst thy plaisir d’un homme: chyldren arm’d:

Et ne te souvient plus _And thinkst not of the_ _d’avoir faict autrefois_ _riuers of theyr bloode,_

_Tant ruisseler de sang four_ _That earst were shed to_ _n’avoir point de Rois,_ _ saue thy libertie,_

_Pour n’estre point esclave,_ _Because thou euer hatedst_ _et ne porter flechie_ _Monarchie_.[264]...

_Au sendee d’un seul, le joug de_ _Monarchie_.[265] (line 1065.)

[264] Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive when he was call’d a King. (II. i. 51.)

[265] Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive when he was call’d a King. (II. i. 51.)

... Quoy Brute? et nous faut-il But, Brutus, shall wee trop craignant le danger, dissolutelie sitte

Laisser si laschement sous un And see the tyrant line Prince ranger? to tyranize?

_Faut-il que tant de gens morts_ Or shall _theyr ghosts,_ _pour nostre franchise_ _that dide to doe us good_,

_Se plaignent aux tombeaux de_ _Plaine in their Tombes of_ _nostre couardise?_ _our base cowardise_.... Et que les _peres vieux voisent_ _disant de nous_,

“_Ceux-là ont mieux aimé, tant_ “_See where they goe that haue_ _ils ont le coeur mous,_ _theyr race forgot!_

_Honteusement servir en_ _And rather chuse, (unarm’d)_ _dementant leur race,_ _to serue with shame,_

_Qu’armez pour le païs mourir_ _Then, (arm’d), to saue their_ _dessus la place._”[266] _freedom and their fame!_”[267] (line 1101.)

[266] Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! (I. ii. 150.)

Our fathers’ minds are dead And we are govern’d by our mothers’ spirits, Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. (I. iii. 82.)

[267] Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! (I. ii. 150.)

Our fathers’ minds are dead And we are govern’d by our mothers’ spirits, Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. (I. iii. 82.)

_Brute._ Je jure par le Ciel, _Brutus._ I swear by heauen, thrône des Immortels, th’ Immortals highest throne.

Par leurs images saincts, leurs Their temples, Altars, and temples, leurs autels, theyr Images,

De ne souffrir, vray Brute, To see (for one) that Brutus aucun maistre entreprendre suffer not

Sur nostre liberte, si je la His ancient liberty to be puis defendre. represt.

J’ai Cesar en la guerre I freely marcht with Caesar ardentement suyvi, in hys warrs,

Pour maintenir son droit, Not to be subject, but to ayde non pour vivre asservi ... his right, ...

... Il verra que Decime But he shall see, that Brutus a jusques aujourdhuy thys day beares

Porté pour luy l’estoc qu’il The self-same Armes to be trouvera sur luy. aueng’d on hym....

... _Je l’aime cherement_, _I loue, I loue him deerely._ _je l’aime, mais le droit_ But the loue

_Qu’on doit à son païs_, _That men theyr Country and_ _qu’à sa naissance on doit,_ _theyr birth-right beare,_

_Tout autre amour surmonte._[268]... _Exceeds all loues._[269]... (line 1109.)

_Cassie._ Tandisque Cassie aura _Cassius_.... Know, while goutte de sang Cassius hath one drop of blood

En son corps animeux, il voudra To feede this worthles body vivre franc, that you see,

_Il fuira le servage ostant_ What reck I death, to doe so _la tyrannie,_ many good?

[268] If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:—Not that I loved Caesar less but that I loved Rome more. (III. ii. 19.)

[269] If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer:—Not that I loved Caesar less but that I loved Rome more. (III. ii. 19.)

_Ou l’ame de son corps il_ _In spite of Caesar_, _chassera bannie._[270] _Cassius will be free._[271]

_Brute._ Toute ame genereuse _Brutus._ A generous or indocile a servir true enobled spirit

Deteste les Tyrans. Detests to learne what tasts of seruitude.

_Cassie._ Je ne puis m’asservir, _Cassius._ Brutus, I cannot serue nor see Rome yok’d:

Ny voir que Rome serve, et plustost No, let me rather die a la mort dure thousand deaths....

M’enferre mille fois, que vivant je l’endure....

O chose trop indigne! O base indignitie! _Un homme effeminé_ ... _A beardles youth_[272] ...

_Commande a l’Univers, la terre_ _Commaunds the world, and_ _tient en bride_,[273] _brideleth all the earth_,[274]

Et maistre donne loy au And like a prince controls peuple Romulide, the Romulists;

Aux enfants du dieu Mars.... Braue Roman Souldiers, sterne-borne sons of Mars....

O Brute, O Servilie, O Brutus, speake! Qu’ores vous nous laissez O say, Servilius! une race avilie! Why cry you aime,[275] and see us used thus?

Brute est vivant, il sçait, But Brutus liues, and sees, il voit, il est present, and knowes, and feeles,

Que sa chere patrie on va That there is one that curbs tyrannisant: their Countries weale.

Et comme s’il n’estoit Yet (as he were the semblance, qu’une vaine semblance not the sonne, De Brut son ayeul, non Of noble Brutus, his sa vraye semence, great Grandfather);

S’il n’avoit bras ny mains, As if he wanted hands, sens ny coeur, pour oser, sence, sight or hart,

Simulacre inutile, aux Tyrans He doth, deuiseth, sees, s’opposer: nor dareth ought,

Il ne fait rien de Brute, et That may extirpe or raze et d’heure en heure augmente these tyrannies:

Par trop de lascheté la force Nor ought doth Brutus that to violente. (line 1201.) Brute belongs, But still increaseth by his negligence His owne disgrace and Caesars violence.

[270] Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius ... Life being weary of these worldly bars Never lacks power to dismiss itself. (I. iii. 90.)

[271] Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius ... Life being weary of these worldly bars Never lacks power to dismiss itself. (I. iii. 90.)

[272] Notice the inept rendering.

[273] It doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. (I. ii. 128.)

[274] It doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone. (I. ii. 128.)

[275] Approve or agree.

APPENDIX B

THE VERBAL RELATIONS OF THE VARIOUS VERSIONS OF PLUTARCH ILLUSTRATED BY MEANS OF VOLUMNIA’S SPEECH

This passage, though it does not show the successive modifications of the text quite so fully and strikingly as some others, is the most interesting in so far as it is the longest in which Shakespeare closely follows the lead of the original.

The Latin version of the Renaissance is placed first, both because in definite form it is chronologically the earliest, and because for the reasons already given it cannot be held to have had much influence on Amyot, North and Shakespeare.

It is of course impossible to reconstruct the Greek text that Amyot put together for himself. I have taken that of the edition of 1599, published half a dozen years after his death, as a fair approximation. The chief variations from the Latin are given in spaced type.

In the extract from Amyot the chief variations from the Greek are printed in Italics; the few phrases or words in which the influence of the Latin may be suspected are underlined.

In the extract from North the chief variations from the French are printed in Italics.

In the extract from Shakespeare, it is, as we might expect, more convenient to reverse the process and italicise what he has taken over.

THE VERSION[276] OF THE ELDER GUARINI, STYLED GUARINUS VERONENSIS, IN THE EDITION OF THE _Vitae Parallelae_ ISSUED BY UDALRICUS GALLUS IN 1470 (?)

Tum pueros ac Vergiliam unacum reliquis secum mulieribus ducens castra Volscorum adiit. Earum miseranda facies hosti reverentiam injecit atque silentium. Hic Martius in suggesto inter Volscorum proceres sedens, ubi eas adventare mulieres vidit, admiratione confectus est, imprimis venientem uxorem noscitans immoto et obstinato persistere animo[277] voluit: verum consternatus affectu et ad ipsarum confusus intuitum haud tulit ut se sedentem adirent,[278] ac pernici devotas gradu obviam prodiit. Et matre primo diutissimeque salutata, inde uxore ac filiis, nullo jam pacto frenare lacrimas poterat. Ut vero dulces incepti sunt amplexus, virum parentis amore perinde ac secundo fluminis cursu deferri cerneres.[279] Caeterum cum inchoantem jam verba matrem intelligeret, acceptis Volscorum primoribus Volumniam talia orantem audivit. “Etsi fili taceamus, ipse, tum veste, tum miseri corporis apparatu, cernis qualem domesticae rei conditionem tuum nobis confecerit exilium. Existima vero quam caeteris longe mulieribus infeliciores accessimus, quibus dulcissimum aspectum fecit fortuna terribilem: te mihi filium, huic vero maritum, patriae muros obsidentem aspicimus. Et quod caeteris calamitatis et malorum solet esse solacium, deos orare, quam procul nobis ablatum est: non enim et patriae victoriam et tibi salutem implorare fas est: quaeque atrociora quispiam nobis impraecaretur hostis, ea nostris insunt[280] praecibus. Uxorem enim ac liberos aut patria aut te orbari necesse est. Ego vero, dum haec viventi mihi bellum dijudicet, haud morabor, teque nisi positis inimicitiis ad pacem atque concordiam conciliavero; ita ut utrique[281] potius beneficum quam alteri perniciosum te reddas. Hoc tibi persuade sicque conformatus et paratus accede, ut non ante hostiles patriae manus conferas quam caesam calcaveris parentem. Nec enim ea mihi expectanda dies est qua filium aut in triumpho tractum a civibus aut de patria triumphantem aspiciam. Quod si pro conservanda patria profligari a te Volscos exorarem, grave fili iniquumque tibi fateor imminere consilium; namque necque cives perdere bonum est, necque tuos commissos fidei perdere justum. Nunc malorum finem imploramus simulque populis utrisque salutem. Quae res maximam Volscis gloriam comparabit: quod cum ingentia nobis bona et victores quidem tribuerint, non minus jocundam ipsi pacem et amicitiam sint consecuturi: quae si effecta fuerint, tu tantorum profecto dux eris et causa bonorum: sin ea infecta permanserint, utrique noxam in te solum crimenque rejicient. Cumque incertus belli sit eventus, hoc certi secum affert: ut siquidem vincas immanissimus patriae vastator appellandus sis, sin victus succumbas, ob tuam videberis iracundiam benefactoribus et amicis ingentium origo malorum extitisse.” Haec dum oraret Volumnia, nullum respondens verbum Martius intentis excipiebat auribus. Ut vero desierat, cum is diuturnum teneret silentium, rursus Volumnia; “Quid siles,” inquit. “Nate, num irae receptarumque injuriarum memoriae omnia concedere satius arbitraris an depraecanti talia matri largiri pulcherrimum munificentiae genus non est? Magnine interesse viri putas acceptorum meminisse malorum? Suscepta autem a parentibus beneficia eorum cultui ac venerationi reddere num excelso potius ac bono dignissimum viro munus censes? Caeterum gratiam habere tuerique magisquam tu debuit nemo, cum tamen per acerbissimam adeo ingratitudinem eas. Et cum permagnas jam patriae paenas exegeris acceperisque, nullas adhuc matri grates retulisti. Erat vero aequissimum atque sanctissimum ut abs te vel nulla ingruenti necessitate tam honesta tamque justa postulans impetrarem. Quid cum in meam te verbis sententiam deflectere nequeam, extremae jam parco spei?” Haec affata cum uxore simul ac liberis pedibus advoluta procumbit. Tum conclamans Martius, “Qualia mihi” ait “factitasti mater”; et jacentem sustulit: et pressa dextera inquit; “Vicisti patriae quidem prosperam, nimis atque nimis perniciosam autem[282] mihi victoriam. Abs te tantum superatus abscedam.”

[276] I have modernised the punctuation, and extended the contractions throughout, but wherever there is any possibility of misinterpretation I have noted it.

[277] aīo.

[278] adiret.

[279] cernēs.

[280] Insinit.

[281] uterque.

[282] _aūt._

PLUTARCH’S GREEK IN THE EDITION OF 1599

Ἐκ τούτου, τά τε παιδία καὶ τὴν Οὐεργιλίαν ἀναστήσασα μετὰ τῶν ἄλλων γυναικῶν, ἐβάδιζεν εἰς τὸ στρατόπεδον τῶν Οὐολούσκων. ἡ δ’ ὄψις αὐτῶν τότε οἰκτρὰν καὶ τοῖς πολεμίοις ἐνεποίησεν αἰδὼ καὶ σιωπήν. ἔτυχε δ’ ὁ Μάρκιος ἐπὶ βήματος καθεζόμενος μετὰ τῶν ἡγεμονικῶν. ὡς οὖν εἶδε προσιούσας τὰς γυναῖκας, ἐθαύμασεν· ἐπιγνοὺς δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα πρώτην βαδίζουσαν, ἐβούλετο μὲν ἐμμένειν τοῖς ἀτρέπτοις ἐκείνοις καὶ ἀπαραιτήτοις λογισμοῖς· γενόμενος δὲ τοῦ πάθους ἐλάττων καὶ συνταραχθεὶς πρὸς τὴν ὄψιν, οὐκ ἔτλη καθεζομένῳ προσελθεῖν, ἀλλὰ =καταβὰς= θᾶττον ἢ βάδην, καὶ ἀπαντήσας, πρώτην μὲν ἠσπάσατο τὴν μητέρα, καὶ πλεῖστον χρόνον, ἔτι δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τὰ τέκνα, μήτε δακρύων ἔτι, =μήτε τοῦ φιλοφρονεῖσθαι= φειδόμενος, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ὑπὸ ῥεύματος φέρεσθαι τοῦ πάθους ἑαυτὸν ἐνδεδωκώς. =ἐπεὶ δὲ τούτων ἄδην εἶχε=, καὶ τὴν μητέρα βουλομένην ἤδη λόγων ἄρχειν ἤσθετο, τοὺς τῶν Οὐολούσκων προβούλους παραστησάμενος, ἤκουσε τῆς Οὐολουμνίας τοιαῦτα λεγούσης, “Ὁρᾶς μὲν, ὦ παῖ, κᾳν αὐταὶ μὴ λέγωμεν, ἐσθῆτι καὶ μορφῇ τῶν ἀθλίων σωμάτων τεκμαιρόμενος, οἵαν οἰκουρίαν ἡμῖν ἡ σὴ φυγὴ περιποίησε. λόγισαι δὲ νῦν ὡς ἀτυχέσταται πασῶν ἀφίγμεθα γυναικῶν, αἷς τὸ ἥδιστον θέαμα, φοβερώτατον ἡ τύχη πεποίηκεν, ἐμοὶ μὲν υἱὸν, ταύτῃ δ’ ἄνδρα τοῖς τῆς πατρίδος τείχεσιν ἰδεῖν ἀντικαθήμενον. ὃ δ’ ἔστι τοῖς ἄλλοις ἀτυχίας πάσης καὶ κακοπραγίας παραμύθιον, εὔχεσθαι θεοῖς, ἡμῖν ἀπορώτατον γέγονεν. οὐ γὰρ οἷόν τε καὶ τῇ πατρίδι νίκην ἅμα καὶ σοὶ σωτηρίαν αἰτεῖσθαι παρὰ τῶν θεῶν, ἀλλ’ ἅ τις ἄν ἡμῖν καταράσαιτο τῶν ἐχθρῶν, ταῦτα ταῖς ἡμετέραις ἔνεστιν εὐχαῖς. ἀνάγκη γὰρ ἢ τῆς πατρίδος ἢ σου στέρεσθαι γυναικὶ σῇ καὶ τέκνοις. ἐγὼ δ’ οὐ περιμένω ταύτην μοι διαιτῆσαι τὴν τύχην ζώσῃ τὸν πόλεμον· ἀλλ’ εἰ μή σε πείσαιμι φιλίαν καὶ ὁμόνοιαν διαφορὰς καὶ κακῶν θέμενον, ἀμφοτέρων γενέσθαι εὐεργέτην μᾶλλον, ἢ λυμεῶνα τῶν ἑτέρων, οὕτω διανοοῦ καὶ παρασκεύαζε σεαυτὸν, ὡς τῇ πατρίδι μὴ προσμίξαι δυνάμενος πρὶν ἢ νεκρὰν ὑπερβῆναι τὴν τεκούσαν. οὐ γὰρ ἐκείνην με δεῖ τὴν ἡμέραν ἀναμένειν ἐν ᾗ τὸν υἱὸν ἐπόψομαι θριαμβευόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν πολίτων, ἢ θριαμβεύοντα κατὰ τῆς πατρίδος. εἰ μὲν οὖν ἀξιῶ σε τὴν πατρίδα σῶσαι Οὐολούσκους ἀπολέσαντα, χαλεπή σοι καὶ δυσδιαίτητος, ὦ παῖ, πρόκειται σκέψις, οὔτε γὰρ διαφθεῖραι τοὺς πολίτας καλὸν, οὔτε τοὺς πεπιστευκότας προδοῦναι δίκαιον. νῦν δ’ ἀπαλλαγὴν κακῶν αἰτιούμεθα, σωτήριον μὲν ἀμφοτέροις ὁμοίως, ἔνδοξον δὲ καὶ καλὴν μᾶλλον Οὐολούσκοις, ὅτι τῷ κρατεῖν δόξουσι διδόναι τὰ μέγιστα τῶν ἀγαθῶν, =οὐχ ἧττον λαμβάνοντες=, εἰρήνην καὶ φιλίαν, ὧν μάλιστα μὲν αἴτιος ἔσῃ γινομένων, μὴ γινομένων δὲ, μόνος αἰτίαν ἕξεις παρ’ ἀμφοτέροις. ἄδηλος δ’ ὠν ὁ πόλεμος τοῦτ’ ἔχει πρόδηλον, ὅτι σοὶ νικῶντι μὲν, ἀλάστορι τῆς πατρίδος εἶναι περιέστιν· ἡττώμενος δὲ, δόξεις ὑπ’ ὀργῆς εὐεργέταις ἀνδράσι καὶ φίλοις τῶν μεγίστων συμφορῶν αἴτιος γεγονέναι.” ταῦτα τῆς Οὐολουμνίας λεγούσης ὁ Μάρκιος ἠκροάτο μηδὲν ἀποκρινόμενος. ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ παυσαμένης, εἱστήκει σιωπῶν πολὺν χρόνον, αὖθις ἡ Οὐολουμνία, “Τί σιγᾷς (εἶπεν) ὦ παῖ, πότερον ὀργῇ καὶ μνησικακίᾳ πάντα συγχωρεῖν καλόν; οὐ καλὸν δὲ μητρὶ χαρίσασθαι δεομένῃ περὶ τηλικούτων; ἢ τὸ μεμνῆσθαι πεπονθότα κακῶς ἀνδρὶ μεγάλῳ προσήκει, τὸ δ’ εὐεργεσίας αἷς εὐεργετοῦνται παῖδες ὑπὸ τῶν τεκόντων σέβεσθαι καὶ τιμᾷν, οὐκ ἀνδρὸς ἔργον ἐστὶ μεγάλου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ; καὶ μὴν οὐδενὶ μᾶλλον ἔπρεπε τηρεῖν χάριν ὡς σοι, =πικρῶς οὕτως ἀχαριστίαν ἐπεξίοντι=. καίτοι παρὰ τῆς πατρίδος ἤδη μεγάλας δίκας ἀπείληφας, τῇ μητρὶ δ’ οὐδεμίαν χάριν ἀποδέδωκας. ἦν μὲν οὖν ὁσιώτατον ἄνευ τινος ἀνάγκης τυχεῖν με παρὰ σοῦ δεομένην οὕτω καλῶν καὶ δικαίων· μὴ πείθουσα δὲ τί φείδομαι τῆς ἐσχάτης ἐλπίδος;” καὶ ταῦτ’ εἰποῦσα προσπίπτει τοῖς ποσὶν αὐτοῦ μετὰ τῆς γυναικὸς ἅμα καὶ τῶν τέκνων. ὁ δὲ Μάρκιος ἀναβοήσας, “Οἷα εἴργασαί με, ὦ μᾶτερ;” ἐξανίστησιν αὐτὴν, καὶ τὴν δεξιὰν πιέσας σφόδρα, “Νενίκηκας (εἶπεν) εὐτυχῆ μὲν τῇ πατρίδι νίκην, ἐμοὶ δ’ ὀλέθριον· ἄπειμι γὰρ ὑπὸ σοῦ μόνης ἡττώμενος.”

AMYOT’S VERSION.

_Elle prit sa belle fille_ et ses enfans quand et[283] elle, et avec toutes les autres Dames Romaines s’en alla droit au camp des Volsques, lesquelz eurent eulx-mesmes une compassion meslee de reverence quand ils la veirent _de maniere qu’il n’y eut personne d’eulx qui luy ozast rien dire_. Or estoit lors Martius assis en son tribunal, _avec les marques de souverain Capitaine_,[284] et _de tout loing_ qu’il apperceut venir des femmes, s’esmerveilla que ce pouvoit estre; mais peu apres recognoissant sa femme, qui marchoit la premiere, il voulut _du commencement_ perseverer en son obstinee et inflexible _rigueur_; mais à la fin, vaincu de l’affection naturelle, estant tout esmeu de les voir, il _ne peut_ avoir le _coeur si dur_ que de les attendre en son siege, ains[285] en descendant plus viste que le pas, leur alla au devant, et baisa sa mere la premiere, et la teint assez longuement embrassee, puis sa femme et ses petits enfants, ne se pouvant plus tenir que les _chauldes_ larmes ne luy vinssent _aux yeux_, ny se garder de leur faire caresses, ains se laissant aller à l’affection _du sang_ ne plus ne moins qu’à _la force_ d’un impetueux torrent. Mais apres qu’il leur eut assez faict _d’aimable recueil_, et qu’il apperceut que sa mere Volumnia vouloit commencer a luy parler, il appella les principaux du conseil des Volsques pour _ouyr ce qu’elle proposeroit_, puis elle parla en ceste maniere: “Tu peux assez cognoistre de toy mesme, mon filz, encore que nous ne t’en dissions rien, à voir noz accoustremens, et l’estat auquel sont noz pauvres corps, quelle a esté nostre vie en la maison depuis tu en es dehors; mais considere encore maintenant combien plus _mal heureuses_ et plus infortunees nous sommes icy venues que toutes les femmes du monde, attendu que ce qui est à toutes les autres le plus doulx a voir, la fortune nous l’a rendu le plus effroyable, faisant voir à moy mon filz, et à celle-ci, son mary, assiegeant les murailles de son propre païs; tellement que ce qui est à toutes autres le _souverain_ renconfort en leurs adversitez, de _prier_ et invoquer les Dieux à leur secours, c’est ce qui nous met en plus grande perplexité, pource que nous ne leur sçaurions demander en noz prieres victoire a nostre païs et preservation de ta vie tout ensemble, ains toutes les plus griefves maledictions que sçauroit imaginer contre nous un ennemy sont _necessairement_ encloses en noz oraisons, pource qu’il est force à ta femme et à tes enfans qu’ilz soyent privez de l’un de deux, ou de toy, ou de leurs païs: car quant a moy, je ne suis pas deliberee d’attendre que la fortune, moy vivante, decide _l’issue de ceste guerre_: car si je ne te puis persuader que tu vueilles plus tost bien faire à toutes les deux parties, que d’en _ruiner_ et destruire l’une, en preferant amitie et concorde aux miseres et calamitez de la guerre, je veux bien que tu saches et le tienes pour asseuré que tu n’iras jamais assaillir ny combattre ton païs que premierement tu ne passes par dessus le corps de celle qui t’a mis en ce monde, et ne doy point differer jusques à voir le jour, ou que mon filz _prisonnier_ soit mené en triumphe par ses citoyens, ou que luy mesme triumphe de son païs. Or si ainsi estoit que je te requisse de sauver ton païs en destruisant les Volsques, ce te serait certainement une deliberation trop mal-aisee à resoudre; car comme il n’est point licite de ruiner son païs, aussi n’est-il point juste de trahir ceulx qui se sont fiez en toy. Mais ce que je te demande est une delivrance de maulx, laquelle est egalement _profitable_ et salutaire à l’un et à l’autre peuple, mais plus honorable aux Volsques, pource qu’il semblera qu’ayans la victoire en main, ils nous auront de grace donné deux souverains biens, la paix et l’amitié, encore qu’ilz n’en prennent pas moins pour eulx, duquel tu seras principal autheur, s’il se fait; et, s’il ne se fait, tu en auras seul le _reproche et le blasme_[286] total envers l’une et l’autre des parties: ainsi _estant l’issue de la guerre_ incertaine,[287] cela neantmoins est bien tout certain que, si tu en demoures vaincueur, il t’en restera _ce profit_, que tu en seras estimé la _peste_ et la ruine de ton païs: et si tu es vaincu, on dira que pour un _appetit de venger tes propres injures_ tu auras esté cause de tres griefves calamitez à ceulx qui t’avoient humainement et amiablement recueilly.” Martius escouta ces paroles de Volumnia sa mere sans l’interrompre, et apres qu’elle eut acheve de dire demoura longtemps tout _picqué_ sans luy respondre. Parquoy elle reprit la parole et recommencea à luy dire: “Que ne me respons-tu, mon filz? Estimes-tu qu’il soit licite de conceder tout à son ire et à son appetit de vengeance, et non honeste de condescendre et _incliner_ aux prieres de sa mere en si grandes choses? Et _cuides-tu_ qu’il soit convenable a un grand personnage, se souvenir des torts qu’on luy a faits et _des injures passees_, et que ce ne soit point acte d’homme de bien et de grand cueur, _recognoistre_ les bienfaicts que reçoyvent les enfans de leurs peres et meres, en leur portant honneur et reverence? Si[288] n’y a il homme en ce monde qui deust mieux observer tous les poincts de gratitude que toy, veu que tu poursuis si asprement une ingratitude: et si[289] y a davantage, que tu as ja fait payer a ton païs de grandes amendes pour les torts que l’on t’y a faits, et n’as encore fait aucune recognoissance a ta mere; pourtant seroit-il plus honeste que sans autre contrainte j’_impetrasse_[290] de toy une requeste si juste et si raisonnable. Mais puis que _par raison_ je ne le te puis persuader, à quel besoing espargne-je plus, et _differe-je_ la derniere esperance.” En disant ces paroles elle se jetta elle mesme, avec sa femme et ses enfans, a ses pieds. Ce que Martius _ne pouvant supporter_, la releva tout aussi tost en s’escriant: “O mere, que m’as tu faict?” et un luy serrant estroittement la main droite: “Ha,” dit il, “Mere, tu as vaincu une victoire heureuse pour ton païs mais bien _malheureuse_ et mortelle pour ton filz, car je m’en revois[291] vaincu par toy seule.”

[283] _together with._

[284] A mistranslation of the Greek phrase, μετὰ τῶν ἡγεμονικῶν, from which it must come. The Latin is correct and unmistakable.

[285] But.

[286] Greek αἰτίαν, Latin noxam crimenque.

[287] Latin: cumque incertus belli sit eventus.

[288] Yet.

[289] Yet.

[290] An unusual word in French. Compare the _impetrare_ of the Latin.

[291] ἄπειμι, revais = retourne.

NORTH’S VERSION.

She tooke her daughter in lawe, and Martius children with her, and being accompanied with all the other Romaine ladies, they went _in troupe_ together unto the Volsces camp: whome when they sawe, they of them selves did both pitie and reverence her, and there was not a man amonge them that once durst say a worde unto her. Nowe was Martius set then in his chayer of state, with all the honours of a generall, and when he had spied the women coming a farre of, he marveled what the matter ment: but afterwardes knowing his wife which came formest, he determined at the first to persist in his obstinate and inflexible rancker. But overcomen in the ende with naturall affection, and being altogether altered to see them; his harte _would not serve him_ to tarie their comming to his chayer, but comming down in hast, he went to meete them, and first he kissed his mother, and imbraced her a pretie while, then his wife and litle children. And _Nature so wrought with him_, that the[292] teares fell from his eyes, and he coulde not keepe him selfe from making much of them, but yeelded to the affection of his bloode as if he had bene _violently_ caried with the furie of a most swift running streame. After he had thus lovingly received them, and perceiving that his mother Volumnia would beginne to speake to him, he called the chiefest of the counsell of the Volsces to heare what she would say. Then she spake in this sorte: “If we held our peace, (my sonne) and _determined not to speake_, the state of our poor bodies, and _present_ sight of our rayment, would easely bewray to thee what life we have led at home, since thy exile and abode abroad. But thinke nowe with thy selfe, how much more unfortunatly,[293] then all the women livinge we are come hether, considering that the sight which should be most pleasaunt to all other to beholde, _spitefull_ fortune hath made most fearefull to us: making my selfe to see my sonne, and my daughter here, her husband, besieging the walles of his native countrie. So as that which is thonly comforte to all other in their adversitie and _miserie_, to pray unto the goddes and to call to them for aide; is the _onely_ thinge which _plongeth_ us into most deepe perplexitie. For we can not (alas) together pray, both for victorie, for our countrie, and for safetie of thy life also: but a _worlde_ of grievous curses, _yea more then any mortall_ enemie can heape uppon us, are forcibly wrapt up in our prayers. For the _bitter soppe of most hard choyce_ is offered thy wife and children, to forgoe the one of the two: either to lose the _persone_ of thy selfe, or the _nurse_ of[294] their native contrie. For my selfe (my sonne) I am determined not to tarie, till fortune in my life time do make an ende of this warre. For if I cannot persuade thee, rather to doe good unto both parties than to overthrowe and destroye the one, preferring love and _nature_ before the _malice_ and calamitie of warres: _thou shalt_ see, my sonne, and trust unto it,[295] thou shalt no soner marche forward to assault thy countrie, but thy foote shall treade upon thy mothers _wombe_, that brought thee first into this world. And I maye not deferre to see the daye, either that my sonne be led prisoner in triumphe by his _naturall_ country men, or that he him selfe doe triumphe _of them_, and of his _naturall_ countrie. For if it were so, that my request tended to save thy countrie, in destroying the Volsces: _I must confesse_, thou wouldest hardly and _doubtfully_ resolve on that. For as to destroye thy naturall countrie it is altogether _unmete_ and unlawfull; so were it not just, and _lesse honorable_, to betraye those that put their trust in thee. But my only demaunde consisteth to make a _gayle_[296] deliverie of all evills, which delivereth equall benefit and safety both to the one and the other, but most honorable for the Volsces. For it shall appeare, that having victorie in their hands, they have of speciall favour graunted us singular graces; peace, and amitie, albeit them selves have no lesse parte of both, then we. Of which _good_, if so it came to passe, thy selfe is thonly authour, _and so hast thou thonly honour_. But if it faile, _and fall out contrarie_: thy selfe alone _deservedly_ shall carie the _shameful_ reproche and burden of either partie. So, though the ende of warre be uncertaine, yet this notwithstanding is most certaine: that if it be thy chaunce to conquer, this benefit shalt thou _reape_ of _thy goodly conquest_, to be chronicled the plague and destroyer of thy countrie. And if fortune also overthrowe thee, then the worlde will saye, that through desire to revenge thy private injuries, thou hast _for ever_ undone thy good friendes, who dyd most lovingly and curteously receyve thee.” Martius gave good eare unto his mothers wordes, without interrupting _her speache at all_: and after she had sayed _what she would_, he held his peace a prety while,[297] and annswered not a worde. Hereupon she beganne again to speake unto him, and sayed: “My sonne, why doest thou not aunswer me? Doest thou think it good altogether to geve place unto thy choller and desire of revenge, and thinkest thou it not honestie for thee to graunt[298] thy mothers request in so weighty a cause? doest thou take it honorable for a noble man, to remember the wrongs and injuries done him: and doest not in like case thinke it an honest noble man’s parte, to be thankefull for the goodnes that parents doe shewe to their children, acknowledging the duety and reverence _they ought to beare unto them_?[299] No man living is more bounde to shewe him selfe thankefull in all partes and respects then thy selfe: who so unnaturally sheweth all ingratitude.[300] Moreover (my sonne) thou hast sorely taken of thy countrie, exacting grievous payments apon them, in revenge of the injuries offered thee: besides, thou hast not hitherto shewed thy poore mother any curtesie.[301] And therefore it is _not only_ honest, _but due unto me_, that without compulsion I should obtaine my so just and reasonable request of thee. But since by reason I cannot persuade thee to it, to what purpose do I deferre[302] my last hope?” And with these wordes her selfe, his wife and children fell downe upon their knees before him. Martius seeing that could refraine no longer but _went straight_ and lifte her up, crying out: “Oh mother, what have you done to me?” And holding her hard by the right hand, “Oh mother,” sayed he, “You have wonne a happy victorie for your countrie, but mortall and unhappy for your sonne: for I see[303] myself vanquished by you alone.”

[292] No _chauldes_.

[293] Adverb for adjective, omission of one duplicate.

[294] _of_, appositional.

[295] Not so clear as the French.

[296] gaol.

[297] picqué not translated.

[298] One of Amyot’s duplicates wanting.

[299] Important connective particle omitted.

[300] Quite wrong. The French means: “Since you so bitterly pursue ingratitude.”

[301] In this sentence North again misses the point of the argument. The meaning is “And there is this further point as well, that you have already in a measure requited your wrongs, but never yet shown your gratitude.”

[302] One of Amyot’s duplicate expressions omitted.

[303] A pardonable mistranslation of the French; which, however, proves that in this passage at least North consulted neither the Greek nor the Latin.

SHAKESPEARE’S VERSION.

The narrative which ushers in the speech is of course left to the actors. It is interesting, however, to observe that Shakespeare varies from his authorities in making Coriolanus embrace not his mother but his wife in the first instance. He inserts too the conversation, that, at first merely personal, leads up to the grand question. Then Volumnia proceeds with her speech. It is impossible to note all the minute changes that Shakespeare makes. The Italics in the following reprint represent most generously what he has borrowed, for even in the clauses and phrases indicated as loans there is abundant evidence of his own irrepressible dramatic and poetic originality.

_Vol._ _Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither: since that thy sight_, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow; _Making the mother, wife_, and child to see _The son, the husband_, and the father tearing His country’s bowels out. _And to poor we Thine enmity’s most capital: thou barr’st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy; for how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray_, Whereto we are bound, _together with thy victory_, Whereto we are bound? _alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person_, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win: for _either thou Must_, as a foreign recreant, _be led_ With manacles thorough our streets, or _else Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin_ And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children’s blood. _For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread_— _Trust to’t thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb, That brought thee to this world._ _Vir._ Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name Living to time. _Young Mar._ A’ shall not tread on me; I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight. _Cor._ Not of a woman’s tenderness to be, Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see. I have sat too long. [_Rising._ _Vol._ Nay, go not from us thus, _If it were so that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us_, As poisonous of your honour: no; _our suit Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces May say “This mercy we have show’d”; the Romans, “This we received”; and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee; and cry “Be blest For making up this peace!_” Thou know’st, great son, _The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name_, Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses; _Whose chronicle thus writ_: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out; _Destroy’d his country_, and his name remains To the ensuing age abhorr’d.” Speak to me, son: Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods; To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ the air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? _Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs?_ Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy: Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. _There’s no man in the world More bound to’s mother_; yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ the stocks. _Thou hast never in thy life Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy_, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck’d thee to the wars and safely home, Loaden with honour. _Say my request’s unjust, And spurn me back: but if it be not so, Thou art not honest_; and the gods will plague thee, That thou restrain’st from me the duty which To a mother’s part belongs. He turns away: Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end; This is the last: so we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold’s: This boy, that cannot tell what he would have, But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny’t. Come, let us go: This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His wife is in Corioli and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch: I am hush’d until our city be afire, And then I’ll speak a little. [_He holds her by the hand, silent._ _Cor._ _O mother, mother! What have you done?_ Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! _You have won a happy victory to Rome; But, for your son_,—believe it, O, believe it, _Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d, If not most mortal to him._ But, let it come.

APPENDIX C

SHAKESPEARE’S ALLEGED INDEBTEDNESS TO APPIAN IN _JULIUS CAESAR_

Plutarch gives little more than the situation and the _motif_ for Antony’s oration. He has two accounts of the incident.

(_a_) When Caesars body was brought into the Market Place, Antonius making his funeral oration in praise of the dead according to the ancient custom of Rome, and perceiving that his wordes moved the common people to compassion; he framed his eloquence to make their harts yerne the more, and taking Caesars gowne all bloudy in his hand, he layed it open to the sight of them all, shewing what a number of cuts and holes it had upon it. Therewithall the people fell presently into such a rage and mutinie, that there was no more order kept amongs the common people. (_Marcus Brutus._)

(_b_) When Caesars body was brought to the place where it should be buried, he made a funeral oration in commendacion of Caesar, according to the auncient custom of praising noble men at their funerals. When he saw that the people were very glad and desirous to heare Caesar spoken of, and his praises uttered: he mingled his oration with lamentable wordes, and by amplifying of matters did greatly move their harts and affections unto pitie and compassion. In fine to conclude his oration, he unfolded before the whole assembly the bloudy garments of the dead, thrust through in many places with their swords, and called the malefactors, cruell and cursed murtherers. With these words he put the people into ... a fury. (_Marcus Antonius._)

Shakespeare certainly did not get much of the stuff for Antony’s speech from these notices.

Appian, on the other hand, gives a much fuller report, which was quite accessible to ordinary readers, for Appian had been published in 1578 by Henrie Bynniman.[304]

[304] Under the title: “An auncient Historie and exquisite Chronicle of the Romanes warres, both Ciuile and Foren. Written in Greeke by the noble Orator and Historiographer Appian of Alexandria.”

The English version of the most important passages runs thus:

Antony marking how they were affected, did not let it slippe, but toke upon him to make Caesars funeral sermon, as Consul, of a Consul, friend of a friend, and kinsman, of a kinsman (for Antony was partly his kinsman) and to use craft againe. And thus he said: “I do not thinke it meete (O citizens) that the buriall praise of suche a man, should rather be done by me, than by the whole country. For what you have altogither for the loue of hys vertue giuen him by decree, aswell the Senate as the people, I thinke your voice, and not Antonies, oughte to expresse it.”

This he uttered with sad and heauy cheare, and wyth a framed voice, declared euerything, chiefly upon the decree, whereby he was made a God, holy and inuiolate, father of the country, benefactor and gouernor, and suche a one, as neuer in al things they entituled other man to the like. At euery of these words Antonie directed his countenance and hands to Caesars body, and with vehemencie of words opened the fact. At euery title he gaue an addition, with briefe speach, mixte with pitie and indignation. And when the decree named him father of the country, then he saide: “This is the testimony of our duety.”

And at these wordes, _holy_, _inuiolate_ and _untouched_, and _the refuge of all other_, he said: “None other made refuge of hym. But he, this holy and untouched, is kylled, not takyng honoure by violences whiche he neuer desired, and then be we verye thrall that bestowe them on the unworthy, neuer suing for them. But you doe purge your selves (O Citizens) of this unkindnesse, in that you nowe do use suche honoure towarde hym being dead.”

Then rehearsing the othe, that all shoulde keepe Caesar and Caesars body, and if any one wente about to betraye hym, that they were accursed that would not defende him: at this he extolled hys voice, and helde up his handes to the Capitoll, saying:

“O Jupiter, Countries defendour, and you other Gods, I am ready to reuenge, as I sware and made execration, and when it seemes good to my companions to allowe the decrees, I desire them to aide me.”

At these plaine speeches spoken agaynst the Senate, an uproare being made, Antony waxed colde, and recanted hys wordes. “It seemeth, (O Citizens),” saide hee, “that the things done haue not bin the worke of men but of Gods, and that we ought to haue more consideration of the present, than of the past, bycause the thyngs to come, maye bring us to greater danger than these we haue, if we shall returne to oure olde [dissentions], and waste the reste of the noble men that be in the Cittie. Therefore let us send thys holy one to the number of the blessed, and sing to him his due hymne and mourning verse.”

When he had saide thus, he pulled up his gowne lyke a man beside hymselfe, and gyrded it, that he might the better stirre his handes: he stoode ouer the Litter, as from a Tabernacle, looking into it and opening it, and firste sang his Himne, as to a God in heauen. And to confirme he was a God, he held up his hands, and with a swift voice he rehearsed the warres, the fights, the victories, the nations that he had subdued to his countrey, and the great booties that he had sent, making euery one to be a maruell. Then with a continuall crie,

“This is the only unconquered of all that euer came to hands with hym. Thou (quoth he) alone diddest reuenge thy countrey being iniured, 300 years, and those fierce nations that only inuaded Rome, and only burned it, thou broughtest them on their knees.”

And when he had made these and many other inuocations, he tourned hys voice from triumphe to mourning matter, and began to lament and mone him as a friend that had bin uniustly used, and did desire that he might giue hys soule for Caesars. Then falling into moste vehement affections, uncouered Caesars body, holding up his vesture with a speare, cut with the woundes, and redde with the bloude of the chiefe Ruler, by the which the people lyke a Quire, did sing lamentation unto him, and with this passion were againe repleate with ire. And after these speeches, other lamentations wyth voice after the Country custome, were sung of the Quires, and they rehearsed again his acts and his hap.

Then made he Caesar hymselfe to speake as it were in a lamentable sort, to howe many of his enimies he hadde done good by name, and of the killers themselves to say as in an admiration, “Did I saue them that haue killed me?” This the people could not abide, calling to remembraunce, that all the kyllers (only Decimus except) were of Pompey’s faction, and subdued by hym, to whom, in stead of punishment, he had giuen promotion of offices, gouernments of prouinces and armies, and thought Decimus worthy to be made his heyre and son by adoption, and yet conspired his death.[305]

[305] In Schweighäuser’s Edition II. cxliii. to cxlvi.

Now, this is not very like the oration in the play. It may be analysed and summarised as follows:

Antony begins by praising the deceased as a consul a consul, a friend a friend, a kinsman a kinsman. He recites the public honours awarded to Caesar as a better testimony than his private opinion, and accompanies the enumeration with provocative comment. He touches on Caesar’s sacrosanct character and the unmerited honours bestowed on those who slew him, but acquits the citizens of unkindness on the ground of their presence at the funeral. He avows his own readiness for revenge, and thus censures the policy of the Senate, but admits that that policy may be for the public interest. He intones a hymn in honour of the deified Caesar; reviews his wars, battles, victories, the provinces annexed and the spoils transmitted to Rome, and glances at the subjugation of the Gauls as the payment of an ancient score. He uncovers the body of Caesar and displays the pierced and blood-stained garment to the wrath of the populace. He puts words in the mouth of the dead, and makes him cite the names of those whom he had benefited and preserved that they should destroy him. And the people brook no more.

Thus Appian’s Antony differs from Shakespeare’s Antony in his attitude to his audience, in the arrangement of his material, and to a considerable extent in the material itself. Nevertheless, in some of the details the speeches correspond. It is quite possible that Shakespeare, while retaining Plutarch’s general scheme, may have filled it in with suggestions from Appian. The evidence is not very convincing, but the conjecture is greatly strengthened by the apparent loans from the same quarter in _Antony and Cleopatra_, which would show that he was acquainted with the English translation. See Appendix D.

APPENDIX D

SHAKESPEARE’S LOANS FROM APPIAN IN _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_

I do not think there can be any serious doubt about Shakespeare’s having consulted the 1578 translation of the _Bella Civilia_ for this play, at any rate for the parts dealing with Sextus Pompeius. The most important passage is the one (_A. and C._ III. v. 19) which records Antony’s indignation at Pompey’s death. Now of that death there is no mention at all in the _Marcus Antonius_ of Plutarch; and even in the _Octavius Caesar Augustus_ by Simon Goulard, which was included in the 1583 edition of Amyot and in the 1603 edition of North, it is expressly attributed to Antony. Here is Goulard’s statement:[306]

Whilst Antonius made war with the Parthians, or rather infortunately they made war with him to his great confusion, his lieutenant Titius found the means to lay hands upon Sextus Pompeius; that was fled into the ile of Samos, and then forty years old: whom he put to death by Antonius’ commandment.

[306] I quote from _Shakespeare’s Plutarch_ (Prof. Skeat), the 1603 edition of North being at present inaccessible to me.

Appian at least leaves it an open question whether Antony was responsible or not, and thus gives his apologist an opportunity:

Titius commaunded hys (_i.e._ Pompey’s) army to sweare to Antony, and put hym to death at Mileto, when he hadde lyved to the age of fortye yeares, eyther for that he remembered late displeasure and forgot olde good turnes, or for that he had such commaundemente of Antony.

_There bee that saye that Plancus, and not Antony did commaunde hym to dye, whyche beeyng president of Syria had Antonyes signet, and in greate causes wrote letters in hys name._ Some thynke it was done wyth Antonyes knowledge, he fearyng the name of Pompey, or for Cleopatra, who fauoured Pompey the Great.

_Some thynke that Plancus dyd it of hymselfe_ for these causes, and also that Pompey shoulde gyve no cause of dissention between Caesar and Antony, or for that Cleopatra would turn hyr favour to Pompey. (V. cxiv.)

I do not think indeed that there is any indication that Shakespeare had read, or at all events been in any way impressed by, Goulard’s _Augustus_: no wonder, for compared with the genuine _Lives_, it is a dull performance. The only other passages with which a connection might be traced, do no more than give hints that are better given in Appian. Thus Sextus Pompeius’ vein of chivalry, of which there is hardly a suggestion in Plutarch’s brief notices, is illustrated in Goulard by his behaviour to the fugitives from the proscription.

Pompeius had sent certain ships to keep upon the coast of Italy, and pinnaces everywhere, to the end to receive all them that fled on that side; giving them double recompence that saved a proscript, and honourable offices to men that had been consuls and escaped, comforting and entertaining the others with a most singular courtesy.

But Appian says all this too in greater detail, and adds the significant touch:

So was he moste profitable to hys afflicted Countrey, and wanne greate glory to hymselfe, _not inferioure to that he hadde of hys father_. (IV. xxxvi.)

Note particularly this reference to his father’s reputation, for which there is no parallel in Plutarch or Goulard; and compare

Our slippery people ... begin to throw Pompey the Great, and all his dignities Upon his son. (_A. and C._ I. ii. 192.)

and

Rich in his father’s honour. (_Ib._ I. iii. 50.)

Again, Goulard, talking of the last struggle, says:

After certain encounters, where Pompey ever had the better, insomuch as Lepidus was suspected to lean on that side, Caesar resolved to commit all to the hazard of a latter battle.

The insinuation in regard to Lepidus might be taken as the foundation for Shakespeare’s statement, which has no sanction in Plutarch, that Caesar

accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey. (_A. and C._ III. v. 10.)

But it seems a closer echo of a remark of Appian’s about some transactions shortly after Philippi:

Lepidus was accused to favour Pompey’s part. (V. iii.)

There are, moreover, several touches in Shakespeare’s sketch, that he could no more get from Goulard than from Plutarch, but that are to be found in Appian. Thus there is Pompey’s association with the party of the “good Brutus” and the enthusiasm he expresses for “beauteous freedom” (_A. and C._ II. vi. 13 and 17). Compare passages like the following in Appian:

Sextus Pompey, the seconde son of Pompey the Great being lefte of that faction, was sette up of Brutus friends. (V. i.)

Pompey’s friends hearing of this, did marvellously rejoyce, crying now to be time to restore their Countrey’s libertie. (III. lxxxii.)

Thus, too, Shakespeare refers to Pompey’s command of “the empire of the sea” (_A. and C._ I. ii. 191), which, if Plutarch were his authority, would be an unjustifiable exaggeration. Yet it exactly corresponds to the facts of the case as Appian repeatedly states them, and perhaps one of Binniman’s expressions suggested the very phrase.

Pompey _being Lorde of the Sea_ ... caused famine in the cittie all victuall beyng kepte away. (V. xv.)

The Citie in the meane time was in great penurie, their provision of corne beyng stopped by Pompey. (V. xviii.)

In the meane time the cytie was oppressed with famine, for neyther durst the Merchauntes bring any corn from the East bicause of Pompeis beeing in Sicelie, nor from the Weast of Corsica and Sardinia, where Pompeis ships also lay: nor from Africa, where the navies of the other conspiratours kepte their stations. Being in this distresse, they (_i.e._ the people) alleaged that the discorde of the rulers was the cause, and therefore required that peace might be made with Pompey, unto the whiche when Caesar woulde not agree, Antonie thought warre was needefull for necessitie. (V. lxvii.)

Then there are the frequent references of Antony (_A. and C._ I. ii. 192, I. iii. 148), of the messenger (I. iv. 38, I. iv. 52), of Pompey himself (II. i. 9), to Pompey’s popularity and the rush of recruits to his standard. Neither Goulard nor Plutarch makes mention of these points, but Appian does often, and most emphatically in the following passage:

Out of Italy all things were not quiet, for Pompey by resorte of condemned Citizens, and auntient possessioners was greatly increased, both in mighte, and estimation: for they that feared their life, or were spoyled of their goodes, or lyked not the present state, fledde all to hym. And this disagreemente of Lucius augmented his credite: beside a repayre of yong men, desirous of gayne and seruice, not caring under whome they went, because they were all Romanes, sought unto him. And among other, hys cause seemed most just. He was waxed rich by booties of the Sea, and he hadde good store of Shyppes, with their furniture.... Wherefore me thynke, that if he had then inuaded Italy, he might easily have gotte it, which being afflicted with famine and discord loked for him. But Pompey of ignorance had rather defend his owne, than inuade others, till so he was ouercome also. (V. xxv.)

It should be noted too that Menas, to whom Appian always gives his full formal name of Menodorus, not only as in Plutarch proposes to make away with the Triumvirs after the compact, but as in the play (II,