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 [p. 599] 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 [p. 600] 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:
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,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.
[proverbs] may go nearly or quite out of use among the socalled 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, [p. 601] 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.
After such counsel, we feel that the exclamation of Sicinius is not without its warrant: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.
His self-centred confidence and egotism culminates. in his retort to his sentence:Where is this viper
That would depopulate the city, and
Be every man himself?
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: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.
Here he blossoms out as the reddest of radicals, though a radical of the Napoleonic type. [p. 602] 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: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.
I have a heart as little apt as yours,
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger
To better vantage.
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 [p. 603] 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.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?
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: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..
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:To the market-place!
You have put me now to such a part which never
I shall discharge to the life.
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 [p. 604] 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 selfwill- 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.
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 [p. 605] 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: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 controlled 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.
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: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.
Out, affection!
All bond and privilege of nature, break!
But it is mere histrionic make-believe and pretence: at the first words of Virgilia he cries: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.
[p. 606] 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:Like a dull actor now,
I have forgot my part, and I am out,
Even to a full disgrace.
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 [p. 607] 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: O, 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, [p. 608] 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:
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's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb.
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: [p. 609]He loves your people;
But tie him not to be their bedfellow;
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:Know, good mother,
I had rather been their servant in my way,
Than sway with them in theirs.
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 have been i‘ the market-place; and, sir, ‘tis fit
You make strong party, or defend yourself
By calmness or by absence.
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 [p. 610] 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 think ‘t will serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
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: [p. 611]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.
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 tojoin 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: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.
=He went immediatly to the gate ot 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 [p. 612] 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:
Surely it is a real attempt at consolation, when he interrupts her maledictions on the plebeians who have banished him:You were used to load me
With precepts that would make invincible
The heart that conn'd them.
He seems to hint at seeking out new adventures and a new career in new regions beyond the reach of Rome, when he says:What, what, what!
I shall be loved, when I am lack'd.
[p. 613] 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: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.
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.Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full
Of the wars' surfeits, to go rove with one
That's yet unbruised.
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 [p. 614] 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: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.
And the citizens promptly agree:Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,
As he hath follow'd you, with all despite:
Give him deserved vexation.
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 [p. 615] 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:Come, come; let's see him out at gates; come.
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 [p. 616] of the exile's resentment. In Plutarch, after saying that only the surname of Coriolanus remains to him, he continues:Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further.
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:
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: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.
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 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.
But the speaker is an enemy, and an enemy who has to account for the disagreeable circumstance [p. 617] 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: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.
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:
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: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.
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 [p. 618] 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, 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.
Here he acknowledges that his change of sides has [p. 619] 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 birthplace. Or again, when on the point of dismissing Menenius, he says: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.
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:That we have been familiar
Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather
Than pity note how much.
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:
This is no doubt suggested by the incident of the thirty days' truce, of which Plutarch makes so much [p. 620] 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: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.
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:What faults he made before the last, I think,
Might have found easy fines.
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.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.
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.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! [p. 621]
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.
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 if of, when his anger was blowen over; yet he had no reason for the love of his [p. 622] 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:
And his speech to the senators of Antium shows no revival of former loyalties:For my part
I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you.
[p. 623] 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: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.
It is the opinion of the First Lord, despite his impartiality and his sympathy with Marcius: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.
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: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.
[p. 624] 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.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!
”
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 it1 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 [p. 625] 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:
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.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.
Measureless liar, thou hast made my heartThe 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.
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. [p. 626]
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!
I find in Fabius, a most ancient writer, that he lived untill he was an old man: who repeateth this of him: that [p. 627] oftentimes in his latter daies he used to utter this speech: A heavie case and most wretched, for an aged man to live banish.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. [p. 628]
