Chapter 7

Lucius comes in with the gown. Brutus says, “Give me the gown,” and asks where his (Lucius's) musical instrument is, and Lucius replies that it's here in the tent. Brutus notices that he speaks drowsily. “Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou are o'er-watched.” He tells him to call Claudius and some other of his men: “I'd have them sleep on cushions in my tent.” They come. He tells them he might have to send them on business by and by to his “brother” Cassius, and bids them lie down and sleep, calling them sirs. They say they'll stand and watch his pleasure. “I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs.” He finds, in the pocket of his gown, a book he'd been hunting high and low for--and had evidently given Lucius a warm time about--and he draws Lucius's attention to the fact:

Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so: I put it in the pocket of my gown.

Lucius: I was sure your lordship did not give it to me.

Brutus: Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful, etc.

He asks Lucius if he can hold up his heavy eyes and touch his instrument a strain or two. But better give it all--it's not long:

Lucius: Ay, my lord, an't please you.

Brutus: It does, my boy: I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

Lucius: It is my duty, sir.

Brutus: I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

Lucius: I have slept, my lord, already.

Brutus: It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long: if I do live, I will be good to thee. (Music, and a song.) This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee: If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument; I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good-night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. (He sits down.)

A man for all time! How natural it all reads! You must remember that he is a tired man after a long, strenuous day such as none of us ever know. The fate of Rome and his--a much smaller matter--are hanging on the balance, and tomorrow will decide; but he is so mind-dulled and shoulder-weary under the tremendous burden of great things and of many griefs that he is almost apathetic; and over all is the cloud of a loss that he has not yet had time to realize. He is self-hypnotized, so to speak, and his mind mercifully dulled for the moment on the Sea of Fatalism.

Enter GHOST of CAESAR

Brutus: How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou any thing? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art!

His very “scare,” or rather his cold blood and staring hair are as things apart, to be analysed and explained quickly and put aside.

Ghost: Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

That was frank enough, anyway.

Brutus: Why comest thou?

Ghost: To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Brutus: Well; then I shall see thee again?

Ghost: Ay, at Philippi. (Vanishes.)

That was very satisfactory, so far. But Brutus, having taken heart, as he says, would hold more talk with the “ill spirit.” A ghost always needs to be taken quietly--it's no use getting excited and threshing round. But Caesar's, being a new-chum ghost and bashful, was doubtless embarrassed by his cool, matter-of-fact reception, and left. It didn't matter much. They were to meet soon, above Philippi, on more level terms.

But I cannot get away from the idea that Caesar's ghost's visit was made in a friendly spirit. Who knows? Perhaps Portia's spirit had sent it to comfort Brutus: her own being prevented from going for some reason only known to the immortal gods.

Then Brutus wakes them all.

Lucius: The strings, my lord, are false.

Brutus: He thinks he is still at his instrument. Lucius, awake!

And after questioning them as to whether they cried out in their sleep, or saw anything, he bids the boy sleep again (it is easy for tired boys to sleep at will in camp) and sends two of the others to Cassius to bid him get his forces on the way early and he would follow.

Brutus: Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow.

Varro and Claudius: It shall be done, my lord.

For, being a wise soldier, as well as a brave and gentle one, he reckoned, no doubt, that it would be best to have a strong man in the rear until the field was actually reached, for the benefit of would-be deserters, and unconsidered trifles of country people-and maybe for another reason not totally disconnected with his erratic friend Cassius.

Just one more scene, and a very different one, before we hurry on to the end, as they have done to Philippi. It's the only scene in which those two unlucky Romans, Cassius and Brutus, seem to score.

It is during the barney, or as Shakespeare calls it, the “parley” before the battle. Those parleys never seemed to do any good--except to make matters worse, if I might put it like that: it's the same, under similar circumstances, right up to to-day. Enter on one side Octavius Caesar, Mark Antony, and their pals and army; and, on the other, Brutus and Cassius and the friends and followers of their falling fortunes.

Brutus: Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?

Octavius: Not that we love words better, as you do.

You see, Octavius starts it.

Brutus lays himself open:

Brutus: Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. Antony: In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words: Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart, Crying, “Long live! hail, Caesar!”

This is one for Brutus, though it contains a lie. But Cassius comes to the rescue:

Cassius: Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown, But, for your words, they rob the Hybla bees And leave them honeyless.

Antony: Not stingless too.

Brutus: O, yes, and soundless too; For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting.

That was one for Antony, and he gets mad. “Villains!” he yells, and he abuses them about their vile daggers hacking one another in the sides of Caesar (a little matter that ought to be worn threadbare by now), and calls them apes and hounds and bondmen and curs, and O, flatterers (which seems to be worst of all in his opinion--for he isn't one, you know), and damns 'em generally.

Old Cassius remarks, “Flatterers!”

Then Octavius breaks loose, and draws his Roman chopper and waves it round, and spreads himself out over Caesar's three-and-thirty wounds--which ought to be given a rest by this time, but only seem to be growing in number--and swears that he won't put up said chopper till said wounds are avenged,

Or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Brutus says quietly that he cannot die by traitors unless he brings 'em with him. (He sent one to Egypt later on.) Octavius says he hopes he wasn't born to die on Brutus's sword; and Brutus says, in effect, that even if he was any good he couldn't die more honourably.

Brutus: O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.

Cassius: A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honour, Join'd with a masker and a reveller!

Octavius calls off his dogs, and tells them to come on to-day if they dare, or if not, when they have stomachs.

Cassius: Why, now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.

Yes, I reckon old Cassius (“old” in an affectionate sense) and Brutus came out top dogs from that scrap anyway. And, yes, Antony _was_ good at orating. He was great at orating over dead men--especially dead “friends” (as he called his rivals) and dead enemies. Brutus was “the noblest Roman of them all” when Antony came across him stiff later on. Now when I die--

Octavius, by the way, orated over Antony and his dusky hussy later on in Egypt, and they were the most “famous pair” in the world. I wonder whether the grim humour of it struck Octavius _then_: but then that young man seemed to have but little brains and less humour.

But now they go to see about settling the matter with ironmongery. You can imagine the fight; the heat and the dust, for it was spring in a climate like ours. The bullocking, sweating, grunting, slaughter, the crack and clash and rattle as of fire-irons in a fender. The bad Latin language; the running away and chasing _en masse_ and by individuals. The mutual pauses, the truces or spells--“smoke-ho's” we'd call 'em--between masses and individuals. The battered-in, lost, discarded or stolen helmets; the blood-stained, dinted, and loosened armour with bits missing, and the bloody and grotesque bandages. The confusion amongst the soldiers, as it is to-day--the ignorance of one wing as to the fate of the other, of one party as to the fate of the other, of one individual as to the fate of another:

Brutus: Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills [directions to officers] Unto the legions on the other side:

Poor Cassius, routed and in danger of being surrounded, and thinking Brutus is in the same plight, or a prisoner or dead--and that Titinius is taken or killed--gets his bondman, whose life he once saved, to kill him in return for his freedom.

Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover 'd, as 'tis now, Guide thou the sword. Caesar, thou art revenged, Even with the sword that kill'd thee.

Good-bye, Cassius, old chap!

Titinius and Messala, coming too late, find Cassius dead; and Titinius, being left alone while Messala takes the news to Brutus, kills himself with Cassius's sword. Titinius, farewell!

Come Brutus and those that are left.

Brutus: Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?

Messala: Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Brutus: Titinius' face is upward.

Cato: He is slain.

Grim mates in a grim day in a grim hour. Then the cry of Brutus:

O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet!

But if he were, perhaps he only gathered old Cassius and Titinius to be sure of their company with him and Brutus amongst the gods a little later.

Brutus: Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.

And, after making arrangements for the removal of Cassius's body, they go to try their fortunes in a second fight. Young Cato is killed and good Lucilius taken. Comes Brutus beaten, with Dardanius his last friend, and his three servants, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius.

Brutus: Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.

Strato, exhausted, goes to sleep, as man can sleep during a battle; and Brutus whispers the others, one after another, to kill him; but they are shocked and refuse: “I'll rather kill myself,” “I do such a deed?” etc. He begs Volumnius, his old schoolmate, to hold his sword-hilt while he runs on it, for their love of old.

Volumnius: That's not the office for a friend, my lord.

There are alarums, and they urge him to fly, for it's no use stopping there.

Brutus: Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato! Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found so man but he was true to me.

Ye gods! but it's grand. I wish to our God that I could say as much--or that man or woman [n]ever found me untrue. Could Antony say as much, afterwards, in Egypt--or Octavius! with Antony then on his mind? Even Antony's last man and servant failed him in the end, killing himself rather than kill his master. But Strato--

There are more alarums and voices calling to them to run. They urge Brutus again, and he tells them to go and he'll follow. They all run except Strato, who hesitates.

Brutus: I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord: Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some snatch of honour in it Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?

Strato: Give me your hand first: fare you well, my lord.

Brutus: Farewell, good Strato. Caesar, now be still: I kill'd not thee with half so good a will.

Brutus, good night!

I like Shakespeare's servants. They seem to show that he sprang from servants or common people rather than from lords and masters, for he deals with them very gently. It must be understood that servants, bond and free, were born unto the same house and served it for generations; and so down to modern England, where the old nurse and the tottering old gardener often nursed and played with “Master Will,” when his father, the dead and gone old squire, was a young man.

See where Timon's servants stand in the only patch of sunlight in that black and bitter story:

Enter Flavius, with two or three SERVANTS.

1 Serv.: Hear you, master steward, where's our master? Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?

Flav.: Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you.

1 Serv.: Such a house broke! So noble a master fall'n! All gone! and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm, And go along with him!

2 Serv.: As we do turn our backs From our companion thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away; leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.

Enter other Servants

Flav.: All broken implements of a ruin'd house.

3 Serv.: Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery; That see I by our faces; we are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow: leak'd is our bark, And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat; we must all part Into this sea of air.

Flav.: Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I'll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake Let's yet be fellows; let's shake our heads, and say, As 'twere a knell unto our master's fortunes, “We have seen better days.” Let each take some. (Giving them money.) Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more: Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor.

Notes on Australianisms. Based on my own speech over the years, with some checking in the dictionaries. Not all of these are peculiar to Australian slang, but are important in Lawson's stories, and carry overtones.

barrackers: people who cheer for a sporting team, etc. boko: crazy. bushman/bushwoman: someone who lives an isolated existence, far from cities, “in the bush”, “outback”. (today: “bushy”. In New Zealand it is a timber getter. Lawson was sacked from a forestry job in New Zealand, “because he wasn't a bushman”:-) bushranger: an Australian ``highwayman'', who lived in the `bush'-- scrub--and attacked and robbed, especially gold carrying coaches and banks. Romanticised as anti-authoritarian Robin Hood figures-- cf. Ned Kelly--but usually very violent. US use was very different (more = explorer), though some lexicographers think the word (along with “bush” in this sense) was borrowed from the US... churchyarder: Sounding as if dying--ready for the churchyard = cemetery cobber: mate, friend. Used to be derived from Hebrew chaver via Yiddish. General opinion now seems to be that it entered the language too early for that--and an English etymology is preferred. fiver: a five pound (sterling) note (or “bill”) fossick: pick out gold, in a fairly desultory fashion. In old “mullock” heaps or crvices in rocks. jackaroo: (Jack + kangaroo; sometimes jackeroo)--someone, in early days a new immigrant from England, learning to work on a sheep/cattle station (U.S. “ranch”.) kiddy: young child. “kid” plus ubiquitous Australia “-y” or “-ie” nobbler: a drink, esp. of spirits overlanding: driving (or, “droving”, cattle from pasture to market or railhead.) pannikin: a metal mug. Pipeclay: or Eurunderee, Where Lawson spent much of his early life (including his three years of school... Poley: name for s hornless (or dehorned) cow. skillion(-room): A “lean-to”, a room built up against the back of some other building, with separate roof. sliprails: portion of a fence where the rails are lossely fitted so that they may be removed from one side and animal let through. smoke-ho: a short break from, esp., heavy physical work, and those who wish to can smoke. sov.: sovereign, gold coin worth one pound sterling splosh: money Sqinny: nickname for someone with a squint. Stousher: nickname for someone often in a fight (or “stoush”) swagman (swaggy): Generally, anyone who is walking in the “outback” with a swag. (See “The Romance of the Swag”.) Lawson also restricts it at times to those whom he considers to be tramps, not looking for work but for “handouts” (i.e., “bums” in US. In view of the Great Depression, 1890->, perhaps unfairly. In 1892 it was reckoned 1/3 men were out of work)

GJC