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 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 1 See Appendix F. 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 (v. vi. 50.) 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! I was forc'd to scold. Your judgements, my grave lords, First Lord. Peace, both, and hear me speak. Coriolanus. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, Flutter'd your Volscians in Corioli; 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 often times 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. 627 155 172 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. 1 Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? The Tarquin drive when he was call'd a King. (11. i. 51.) |