"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.
We have seen that in the mother of Coriolanus, the principal qualities
are exceeding pride, self-will, strong maternal affection, great power
of imagination, and energy of temper. Precisely the same qualities enter
into the mind of Constance of Bretagne: but in her these qualities are
so differently modified by circumstances and education, that not even in
fancy do we think of instituting a comparison between the Gothic
grandeur of Constance, and the more severe and classical dignity of the
Roman matron.
The scenes and circumstances with which Shakspeare has surrounded
Constance, are strictly faithful to the old chronicles, and are as
vividly as they are accurately represented. On the other hand, the hints
on which the character has been constructed, are few and vague; but the
portrait harmonizes so wonderfully with its historic background, and
with all that later researches have discovered relative to the personal
adventures of Constance, that I have not the slightest doubt of its
individual truth. The result of a life of strange vicissitude; the
picture of a tameless will, and high passions, forever struggling in
vain against a superior power: and the real situation of women in those
chivalrous times, are placed before us in a few noble scenes. The manner
in which Shakspeare has applied the scattered hints of history to the
formation of the character, reminds us of that magician who collected
the mangled limbs which had been dispersed up and down, reunited them
into the human form, and reanimated them with the breathing and
conscious spirit of life.
Constance of Bretagne was the only daughter and heiress of Conan IV.,
Duke of Bretagne; her mother was Margaret of Scotland, the eldest
daughter of Malcolm IV.: but little mention is made of this princess in
the old histories; but she appears to have inherited some portion of the
talent and spirit of her father, and to have transmitted them to her
daughter. The misfortunes of Constance may be said to have commenced
before her birth, and took their rise in the misconduct of one of her
female ancestors. Her great-grandmother Matilda, the wife of Conan III.,
was distinguished by her beauty and imperious temper, and not less by
her gallantries. Her husband, not thinking proper to repudiate her
during his lifetime, contented himself with disinheriting her son Hoel,
whom he declared illegitimate; and bequeathed his dukedom to his
daughter Bertha, and her husband Allan the Black, Earl of Richmond, who
were proclaimed and acknowledged Duke and Duchess of Bretagne.
Prince Hoel, so far from acquiescing in his father's will, immediately
levied an army to maintain his rights, and a civil war ensued between
the brother and sister, which lasted for twelve or fourteen years.
Bertha, whose reputation was not much fairer than that of her mother
Matilda, was succeeded by her son Conan IV.; he was young, and of a
feeble, vacillating temper, and after struggling for a few years against
the increasing power of his uncle Hoel, and his own rebellious barons,
he called in the aid of that politic and ambitious monarch, Henry II. of
England. This fatal step decided the fate of his crown and his
posterity; from the moment the English set foot in Bretagne, that
miserable country became a scene of horrors and crimes--oppression and
perfidy on the one hand, unavailing struggles on the other. Ten years of
civil discord ensued, during which the greatest part of Bretagne was
desolated, and nearly a third of the population carried off by famine
and pestilence. In the end, Conan was secured in the possession of his
throne by the assistance of the English king, who, equally subtle and
ambitious, contrived in the course of this warfare to strip Conan of
most of his provinces by successive treaties; alienate the Breton nobles
from their lawful sovereign, and at length render the Duke himself the
mere vassal of his power.
In the midst of these scenes of turbulence and bloodshed was Constance
born, in the year 1164. The English king consummated his perfidious
scheme of policy, by seizing on the person of the infant princess,
before she was three years old, as a hostage for her father. Afterwards,
by contracting her in marriage to his third son, Geoffrey Plantagenet,
he ensured, as he thought, the possession of the duchy of Bretagne to
his own posterity.
From this time we hear no more of the weak, unhappy Conan, who, retiring
from a fruitless contest, hid himself in some obscure retreat: even the
date of his death is unknown. Meanwhile Henry openly claimed the duchy
in behalf of his son Geoffrey and the Lady Constance; and their claims
not being immediately acknowledged, he invaded Bretagne with a large
army, laid waste the country, bribed or forced some of the barons into
submission, murdered or imprisoned others, and, by the most treacherous
and barbarous policy, contrived to keep possession of the country he had
thus seized. However, in order to satisfy the Bretons, who were attached
to the race of their ancient sovereigns, and to give some color to his
usurpation, he caused Geoffrey and Constance to be solemnly crowned at
Rennes, as Duke and Duchess of Bretagne. This was in the year 1169 when
Constance was five, and Prince Geoffrey about eight, years old. His
father, Henry, continued to rule, or rather to ravage and oppress, the
country in their name for about fourteen years, during which period we
do not hear of Constance. She appears to have been kept in a species of
constraint as a hostage rather than a sovereign; while her husband
Geoffrey, as he grew up to manhood, was too much engaged in keeping the
Bretons in order, and disputing his rights with his father, to think
about the completion of his union with Constance, although his sole
title to the dukedom was properly and legally in right of his wife. At
length, in 1182, the nuptials were formally celebrated, Constance being
then in her nineteenth year. At the same time, she was recognized as
Duchess of Bretagne _de son chef_, (that is, in her own right,) by two
acts of legislation, which are still preserved among the records of
Bretagne, and bear her own seal and signature.