Part 20
Show him a glass! That false face has betray'd me-- That base heart wrong'd me!
CAESAR.
Be more sweetly angry. I wrong'd you, fair?
CLEOPATRA.
Away with your foul flatteries; They are too gross! But that I dare be angry, And with as great a god as Caesar is, To show how poorly I respect his memory I would not speak to you.
CAESAR.
Pray you, undo this riddle, And tell me how I've vexed you.
CLEOPATRA.
Let me think first, Whether I may put on patience That will with honor suffer me. Know I hate you! Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.
CAESAR.
But do it mildly: in a noble lady, Softness of spirit, and a sober nature, That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows sweetness, Shows blessed, like herself.
CLEOPATRA.
And that great blessedness. You first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature, Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder, Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller. You had the spring of my affections, And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of; You must expect the winter of mine anger. You flung me off--before the court disgraced me-- When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty-- Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes The common strumpet, love of hated lucre,-- Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature,-- Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory, And minds adorned with noble love, would kick at! Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase; Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at. I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you, Called you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly, Was proud to appear your friend--
CAESAR.
You have mistaken me.
CLEOPATRA.
But neither eye, nor favor, not a smile Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely, And as you had been sold to sordid infamy, You fell before the images of treasure, And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted; Forgotten, and contemned; my soft embraces, And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium As letters writ in sand, no more remember'd; The name and glory of your Cleopatra Laugh'd at, and made a story to your captains! Shall I endure?
CAESAR.
You are deceived in all this; Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness.
CLEOPATRA.
No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen'd; I love with as much ambition as a conqueror, And where I love will triumph!
CAESAR.
So you shall: My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you: All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods, The bravery of this woman's mind has fir'd me! Dear mistress, shall I but this once----
CLEOPATRA.
How! Caesar! Have I let slip a second vanity That gives thee hope?
CAESAR.
You shall be absolute, And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing.
CLEOPATRA.
* * * *
Farewell, unthankful!
CAESAR.
Stay!
CLEOPATRA.
I will not.
CAESAR. I command.
CLEOPATRA.
Command, and go without, sir, I do command _thee_ be my slave forever, And vex, while I laugh at thee!
CAESAR.
Thus low, beauty---- [_He kneels_
CLEOPATRA.
It is too late; when I have found thee absolute, The man that fame reports thee, and to me, May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror!
(_Exit._)
Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is not Cleopatra, this is not "the gipsey queen." The sentiment here is too profound, the majesty too real, and too lofty. Cleopatra could be great by fits and starts, but never sustained her dignity upon so high a tone for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher reminds us of the antique colossal statue of her in the Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra in Dryden's tragedy is like Guido's dying Cleopatra in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shakspeare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all anomalous shapes and impossible and wild combinations of form are woven together in regular confusion and most harmonious discord: and such, we have reason to believe, was the living woman herself, when she existed upon this earth.
OCTAVIA.
I do not understand the observation of a late critic, that in this play "Octavia is only a dull foil to Cleopatra." Cleopatra requires no foil, and Octavia is not dull, though in a moment of jealous spleen, her accomplished rival gives her that epithet.[77] It is possible that her beautiful character, if brought more forward and colored up to the historic portrait, would still be eclipsed by the dazzling splendor of Cleopatra's; for so I have seen a flight of fireworks blot out for a while the silver moon and ever-burning stars. But here the subject of the drama being the love of Antony and Cleopatra, Octavia is very properly kept in the background, and far from any competition with her rival: the interest would otherwise have been unpleasantly divided, or rather Cleopatra herself must have served but as a foil to the tender, virtuous, dignified, and generous Octavia, the very _beau ideal_ of a noble Roman lady:--
Admired Octavia, whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men; Whose virtues and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter.
Dryden has committed a great mistake in bringing Octavia and her children on the scene, and in immediate contact with Cleopatra. To have thus violated the truth of history[78] might have been excusable, but to sacrifice the truth of nature and dramatic propriety, to produce a mere stage effect, was unpardonable. In order to preserve the unity of interest, he has falsified the character of Octavia as well as that of Cleopatra:[79] he has presented us with a regular scolding-match between the rivals, in which they come sweeping up to each other from opposite sides of the stage, with their respective trains, like two pea-hens in a passion. Shakspeare would no more have brought his captivating, brilliant, but meretricious Cleopatra into immediate comparison with the noble and chaste simplicity of Octavia, than a connoisseur in art would have placed Canova's Dansatrice, beautiful as it is, beside the Athenian Melpomene, or the Vestal of the Capitol.
The character of Octavia is merely indicated in a few touches, but every stroke tells. We see her with "downcast eyes sedate and sweet, and looks demure,"--with her modest tenderness and dignified submission--the very antipodes of her rival! Nor should we forget that she has furnished one of the most graceful similes in the whole compass of poetry, where her soft equanimity in the midst of grief is compared to
The swan's down feather That stands upon the swell at flood of tide, And neither way inclines.
The fear which, seems to haunt the mind of Cleopatra, lest she should be "chastised by the sober eye" of Octavia, is exceedingly characteristic of the two women: it betrays the jealous pride of her, who was conscious that she had forfeited all real claim to respect; and it places Octavia before us in all the majesty of that virtue which could strike a kind of envying and remorseful awe even into the bosom of Cleopatra. What would she have thought and felt, had some soothsayer foretold to her the fate of her own children, whom she so tenderly loved? Captives, and exposed to the rage of the Roman populace, they owed their existence to the generous, admirable Octavia, in whose mind there entered no particle of littleness. She received into her house the children of Antony and Cleopatra, educated them with her own, treated them with truly maternal tenderness, and married them nobly.
Lastly, to complete the contrast, the death of Octavia should be put in comparison with that of Cleopatra.
After spending several years in dignified retirement, respected as the sister of Augustus, but more for her own virtues, Octavia lost her eldest son Marcellus, who was expressively called the "Hope of Rome." Her fortitude gave way under this blow, and she fell into a deep melancholy, which gradually wasted her health. While she was thus declining into death, occurred that beautiful scene, which has never yet, I believe, been made the subject of a picture, but should certainly be added to my gallery, (if I had one,) and I would hang it opposite to the dying Cleopatra. Virgil was commanded by Augustus to read aloud to his sister that book of the Eneid in which he had commemorated the virtues and early death of the young Marcellus. When he came to the lines--
This youth, the blissful vision of a day, Shall just be shown on earth, then snatch'd away, &c.
The mother covered her face, and burst into tears. But when Virgil mentioned her son by name, ("Tu Marcellus eris,") which he had artfully deferred till the concluding lines, Octavia, unable to control her agitation, fainted away. She afterwards, with a magnificent spirit, ordered the poet a gratuity of ten thousand sesterces for each line of the panegyric.[80] It is probable that the agitation she suffered on this occasion hastened the effects of her disorder; for she died soon after, (of grief, says the historian,) having survived Antony about twenty years.
VOLUMNIA.
Octavia, however, is only a beautiful sketch, while in Volumnia, Shakspeare has given us the portrait of a Roman matron, conceived in the true antique spirit, and finished in every part. Although Coriolanus is the hero of the play, yet much of the interest of the action and the final catastrophe turn upon the character of his mother, Volumnia, and the power she exercised over his mind, by which, according to the story, "she saved Rome and lost her son." Her lofty patriotism, her patrician haughtiness, her maternal pride, her eloquence, and her towering spirit, are exhibited with the utmost power of effect; yet the truth of female nature is beautifully preserved, and the portrait, with all its vigor, is without harshness.
I shall begin by illustrating the relative position and feelings of the mother and son; as these are of the greatest importance in the action of the drama, and consequently most prominent in the characters. Though Volumnia is a Roman matron, and though her country owes its salvation to her, it is clear that her maternal pride and affection are stronger even than her patriotism. Thus when her son is exiled, she burst into an imprecation against Rome and its citizens:--
Now the red pestilence strikes all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!
Here we have the impulses of individual and feminine nature, overpowering all national and habitual influences. Volumnia would never have exclaimed like the Spartan mother, of her dead son, "Sparta has many others as brave as he;" but in a far different spirit she says to the Romans,--
Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son, Whom you have banished, does exceed you all.
In the very first scene, and before the introduction of the principal personages, one citizen observes to another that the military exploits of Marcius were performed, not so much for his country's sake "as to please his mother." By this admirable stroke of art, introduced with such simplicity of effect, our attention is aroused, and we are prepared in the very outset of the piece for the important part assigned to Volumnia, and for her share in producing the catastrophe.
In the first act we have a very graceful scene, in which the two Roman ladies, the wife and mother of Coriolanus, are discovered at their needle-work, conversing on his absence and danger, and are visited by Valeria:--
The noble sisters of Publicola, The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle, That's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple!
Over this little scene Shakspeare, without any display of learning, has breathed the very spirit of classical antiquity. The haughty temper of Volumnia, her admiration of the valor and high bearing of her son, and her proud but unselfish love for him, are finely contrasted with the modest sweetness, he conjugal tenderness, and the fond solicitude of his wife Virgilia.
VOLUMNIA.
When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding--considering how honor would become such a person; that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir,--was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter--I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.
VIRGILIA.
But had he died in the business, madam? how then?
VOLUMNIA.
Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven die nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
_Enter a_ GENTLEWOMAN.
Madam, the lady Valeria is come to visit you.
VIRGILIA.
Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.
VOLUMNIA.
Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum: See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair: As children from a bear, the Volces shunning him: Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus-- "Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome." His bloody brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes; Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow Or all, or lose his hire.
VIRGILIA.
His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!
VOLUMNIA.
Away, you fool! it more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood At Grecian swords contending. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. [_Exit Gent._
VIRGILIA.
Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!
VOLUMNIA.
He'll beat Aufidius's head below his knee. And tread upon his neck.
This distinction between the two females is as interesting and beautiful as it is well sustained. Thus when the victory of Coriolanus is proclaimed, Menenius asks, "Is he wounded?"
VIRGILIA.
O no, no, no!
VOLUMNIA.
Yes, he is wounded--I thank the gods for it!
And when he returns victorious from the wars, his high-spirited mother receives him with blessings and applause--his gentle wife with "gracious silence" and with tears.
The resemblance of temper in the mother and the son, modified as it is by the difference of sex, and by her greater age and experience, is exhibited with admirable truth. Volumnia, with all her pride and spirit, has some prudence and self-command; in her language and deportment all is matured and matronly. The dignified tone of authority she assumes towards her son, when checking his headlong impetuosity, her respect and admiration for his noble qualities, and her strong sympathy even with the feelings she combats, are all displayed in the scene in which she prevails on him to soothe the incensed plebeians.
VOLUMNIA.
Pray be counsell'd: I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage.
MENENIUS.
Well said, noble woman: Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic For the whole state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear.
CORIOLANUS.
What must I do?
MENENIUS.
Return to the tribunes.
CORIOLANUS.
Well. What then? what then?
MENENIUS.
Repent what you have spoke.
CORIOLANUS.
For them? I cannot do it to the gods; Must I then do't to them?
VOLUMNIA.
You are too absolute, Though therein you can never be too noble, But when extremities speak.
I pr'ythee 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 eloquent, 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.
MENENIUS.
This but done, Even as she speaks, why all their hearts were yours For they have pardons, being asked, as free As words to little purpose.
VOLUMNIA.
Pr'ythee now, Go, and be rul'd: although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower.
MENENIUS.
Only fair speech.
COMINIUS.
I think 'twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit.
VOLUMNIA.
He must, and will: Pr'ythee, now say you will, and go about it.
CORIOLANUS.
Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie, that it must bear? Well, I will do't; Yet were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw it against the wind. To the market-place You have put me now to such a part, which never I shall discharge to the life.
VOLUMNIA.
I pr'ythee now, sweet son, as thou hast said, My praises made thee first a soldier, so To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before.
CORIOLANUS.
Well, I must do't: Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit!
* * * *
I will not do't: Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, And by my body's action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness.
VOLUMNIA.
At thy choice, then: To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor, Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear Thy dangerous stoutness: for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list-- Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me But owe thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANUS.
Pray be content; Mother, I am going to the market place-- Chide me no more.
When the spirit of the mother and the son are brought into immediate collision, he yields before her; the warrior who stemmed alone the whole city of Corioli, who was ready to face "the steep Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels,--vagabond exile--flaying," rather than abate one jot of his proud will--shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty, fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that nothing can more impress us with the real grandeur and power of Volumnia's character, than his boundless submission to her will--his more than filial tenderness and respect.
You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth-- Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons!
When his mother appears before him as a suppliant, he exclaims,--
My mother bows; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod.
Here the expression of reverence, and the magnificent image in which it is clothed, are equally characteristic both of the mother and the son.
Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in Volumnia's manner and character, and her supreme contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard expressed by some high-born and high-bred women of our own day.
I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals; things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations; to yawn, be still, and wonder When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war.
And Volumnia reproaching the tribunes,--
'Twas you incensed the rabble-- Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth, As I can of those mysteries which Heaven Will not have earth to know.
There is all the Roman spirit in her exultation when the trumpets sound the return of Coriolanus.
Hark! the trumpets! These are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears.
And in her speech to the gentle Virgilia, who is weeping her husband's banishment--
Leave this faint puling! and lament as I do In anger--Juno-like!
But the triumph of Volumnia's character, the full display of all her grandeur of soul, her patriotism, her strong affections, and her sublime eloquence, are reserved for her last scene, in which she pleads for the safety of Rome, and wins from her angry son that peace which all the swords of Italy and her confederate arms could not have purchased. The strict and even literal adherence to the truth of history is an additional beauty.
Her famous speech, beginning "Should we be silent and not speak," is nearly word for word from Plutarch, with some additional graces of expression, and the charm of metre superadded. I shall give the last lines of this address, as illustrating that noble and irresistible eloquence which was the crowning ornament of the character. One exquisite touch of nature, which is distinguished by italics, was beyond the rhetorician and historian, and belongs only to the poet.
Speak to me, son; Thou hast affected the fine strains of honor, 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 honorable for a nobleman Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness may move him more Than can our reasons. There is no man in the world More bound to his 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, Laden with honor._ 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, and end; This is the last; so will we home to Rome, And die among our neighbors. Nay, behold us; 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.[81]
It is an instance of Shakspeare's fine judgment, that after this magnificent and touching piece of eloquence, which saved Rome, Volumnia should speak no more, for she could say nothing that would not deteriorate from the effect thus left on the imagination. She is at last dismissed from our admiring gaze amid the thunder of grateful acclamations--
Behold, our patroness,--the life of Rome.
CONSTANCE.