Rome was now riven and torn by cataclysms of civil strife. The
foundations of the Republic were shaken by the explosion of new social
forces, the growth of which was naturally attendant upon the spread of
conquest, and which could no longer be confined within the narrow limits
of the old constitution. Marius, Sylla, Pompey, and Cæsar--these are the
names around which gathers the history of the pains and death groans of
the expiring Republic. Crimson was the color of each political party;
and the blood of opponents was the means used for its exhibition. Rome
had become too great for her ancient civic constitution: she was
restlessly awaiting the arrival of a man who could thrust himself above
all opposition, and in his own person unify the government. Imperialism
or anarchy must necessarily follow such a Republic as Rome had become in
the closing century of the pre-Christian era.
During those fierce political disturbances and bloody revolutions, how
did woman fare? She was by no means secure in that quiet, unmolested
round of conjugal duty and domestic life which had so long been hers by
right. In the sanguinary civil wars and murderous proscriptions which
resulted from the ambitions of the leaders, life for the Roman people
was of extremely uncertain tenure. It is easy to surmise what the women
of many Italian cities suffered when whole populations were put to the
sword under the merciless Sylla. Death, outrage, and slavery became so
common that there was developed in the Roman women that indifference to
the sight of human suffering which appears to us as nothing less than
monstrous. Under Sylla, wives were accustomed to being simultaneously
robbed of their husbands and their sustenance; as in the case of that
peaceful citizen who, finding his own name in the lists of the
proscribed, exclaimed: "My Alban farm has informed against me," and was
immediately thereafter slain.
The political changes of the time wrought no marked alteration in the
status of the women; that is, no legislation was enacted which, in any
special manner, bore upon their condition and privileges. Certain
developments did take place in the manner of life of the women of Rome;
but these were the natural results of the character of the times. The
weakening of moral principle which we have noticed in a preceding
chapter continued with accelerated rapidity. The bounds set by
traditional honor were overthrown with increasing recklessness, and the
habits of many of the upper-class women carried the sex still further
beyond the limits of old-fashioned morality.
In this period we also See the women beginning to lay their hands to
that particular sort of political work to which they are adapted. In the
days of the Gracchi, it had become possible for a bright and
intellectual lady to draw around her learned men, grammarians, and
philosophers; we shall now see such women, who have other ambitions,
gathering politicians, and sometimes conspirators, in their atriums.
There was Sempronia, for example, who was of the family of the Gracchi
and the wife of Decimus Brutus. In her house Catiline was in the habit
of meeting his followers for the purpose of plotting his conspiracy. Of
her character and attainments Sallust gives us this interesting
description: "A woman who had committed many crimes, with the spirit of
a man. In birth and beauty, in her husband and her children, she was
extremely fortunate; she was skilled in Greek and Roman literature; she
could sing, play, and dance, with greater elegance than became a woman
of virtue, and possessed many other accomplishments that tend to excite
the passions. But nothing was ever less valued by her than honor or
chastity. Whether she was more prodigal of her money or her reputation,
it would have been difficult to decide. She had frequently, before this
period, forfeited her word, forsworn debts, been privy to murder, and
hurried into the utmost excesses by her extravagances and poverty. But
her abilities were by no means despicable; she could compose verses,
jest, and join in conversation either modest, tender, or licentious. In
a word, she was distinguished by much refinement of wit and much grace
of expression." She seems to have been the equal of Cornelia in ability,
and her reverse in character; which, perhaps, illustrates the degeneracy
of the times as much as it does the special turpitude of this particular
woman.
The Romans were learning the political uses of a salon. The women began
to acquire the knowledge that, for those who have access to the powerful
male leaders, much may be accomplished by a fair face if backed by an
active brain, even though the ballot be denied. The way was being
prepared for a Livia and an Agrippina. The women were forced to take a
greater interest in politics, for the simple reason that politics had
become a most hazardous business. Their husbands might be riding in
triumph one day, and finding their names in the lists of the proscribed
the next; hence, it often happened that only by mingling in political
intrigues could the wives secure their own safety and that of those to
whom they were united by affection. The times had changed. In the old
days, the women were accustomed, with patriotic ardor, to encourage
their male relatives as they marched out against the public enemy, and
they bravely devoted their sons to the welfare of the State; but in the
times of which we are now treating, those did the best service who
possessed the wit to discover a plot. It was to a courtesan named Fulvia
that Cicero was indebted for the detection of the Catiline conspiracy.
In the general estimation of the men, however, the chief political use
which women might serve was to reinforce, by marriage, the strained
relations between rival politicians. Accordingly, the daughter of a
powerful leader would be married and divorced, passed from one man to
another, with almost as much facility as a detachment of light cavalry
might appear first in one part and then in another of a battlefield.
These enforced marriages for political purposes had the effect of so
training the women that, in the succeeding generations, they could with
all the greater levity sever the bonds of matrimony for their own
capricious ends. With what nonchalant freedom women made such entrance
into the hazardous arena of public life is indicated in the story of
Valeria. She was a sprightly young lady, who had been divorced from her
husband. One day, in the theatre, as she passed behind Sylla on the way
to her seat, she stopped for a moment and plucked a little bit of wool
from the dictator's cloak. This caused him to turn and regard her with
some wonderment. Whereupon she said: "Surely, sir, you cannot object if
in picking a little thread from your garment I also desired to share a
small portion of your good fortune." She went on to her seat; but it
soon became apparent that Sylla was not displeased. During the
performance, the lady was of more interest to him than the gladiatorial
spectacle, and it was not long before a marriage was arranged.
This made the fifth time that Sylla had wedded. Just previously to his
thus romantically making the acquaintance of Valeria he had lost by
death Caecilia Metella, to whom reference has heretofore been made, and
who was one of the best women of her time. Kind and compassionate by
nature, she often successfully interceded for the lives of men whom her
relentless husband had foredoomed. At her death, though there is every
indication that he held her in the highest regard, his action was
peculiar and extremely characteristic of the man. Because the priest of
Venus Victrix, to which goddess he was especially devoted, forbade him
to allow his house to be polluted by mourning, while Metella was on her
deathbed he sent her a bill of divorce and caused her to be removed to
the home of one of her relatives. Yet, after her death he went so far as
to transgress his own law against funeral expense, and provided the most
elaborate obsequies in her honor.
Sylla was absolutely without conscience in his employment of marriage
and divorce for political ends. Metella's daughter by her first husband
had been married to Glabrio the Censor. The dictator saw a more useful
ally in young Cnæus Pompeius, who was already married to Antistia;
therefore, he commanded Glabrio and Pompeius to divorce their wives, and
the latter to take Æmilia, his stepdaughter. Piso, also at his
suggestion, had divorced his wife Annia. But when Sylla attempted to
employ the same tactics with Cæsar, he made the discovery that he had
encountered a man of altogether different metal. The latter had married
Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna. They had one child, a little daughter
named Julia, who afterward became the wife of Pompey. When Cæsar was
ordered by the all-powerful dictator to divorce Cornelia, he absolutely
refused, preferring death to subjection to such tyranny. There is every
warrant for belief that Cornelia was worthy of the devotion of her
husband, which she enjoyed to the day of her death.
Cæsar was a turning point in the course of Roman history, a crisis in
the history of the world. His labors affected an epoch, and the tragedy
of his passing is a memory which can never be relinquished by the human
mind. Yet, inasmuch as a man's greatness is always in large measure
attributable to the character of the times in which he lives, the same
conditions which he seizes to raise himself to the highest position
serve also to surround him with other men who approach him in that
wisdom strength, and valor which are developed by the common
environment. Cæsar was first in a community of heroic souls. Pompey,
Mark Antony, Brutus, Cato, and Cassius, all exhibit in their character
and their powers a greater or lesser participation in those qualities
which made Caesar preëminent. This is none the less true also of the
women of the day; the times wrought greatness of soul in them to as
liberal a degree as in the men. Hazard, ambition, and high enterprise
carried the women of this period far in the development of those
qualities which are brought out by such means. Portia, Calpurnia,
Fulvia, Julia, and Cornelia were fit companions for their renowned
masculine associates.
Hence, independent of how little or how much the feminine participants
in this great world-drama may appear upon the stage, we may be certain
that when they are seen we have before us some of the most remarkable
women in history, if for no other reason than that they are connected
with the plot of that drama.
The attention is naturally first drawn to those women who were most
intimately connected with Julius Cæsar. To Aurelia, the daughter of M.
Aurelius Cotta, was destined the honor of bringing into the world the
man who was to bear one of the three most renowned names in its military
history. She lost her husband, Caius Julius, while their son was yet a
boy; but, from what is known of her character, it is evident that she
was not unequal to the task of superintending alone the completion of
young Cæsar's education. It was undoubtedly to her influence that he
owed the development of those traits which are most pleasing in his
greatness. Tacitus is sufficient authority for this, likening as he does
Aurelia to the mother of the Gracchi. She was one of the few surviving
representatives of that matronal dignity and virtue which beautified the
austerity of the earlier days of the Republic. Her house, small and
frugally managed, was situated under the Esquiline and Viminal hills, in
that low part of Rome called the Subura. It was not a fashionable
quarter; in fact, it was a street of shops and taverns. It resounded
with the clamor of traffic and the noise of such broils and revelry as
are usual in the vicinity of pothouses. At the top of the street, there
was a depressed, open space, called the Lacus Orphei because of a statue
of Orpheus which stood there. To this spot, which must have made an
admirable playground, Aurelia was in the habit of sending a slave to
look for the young Csesar when the shades of night fell on the unlighted
streets. It is also likely that she as frequently, and with much more
satisfaction, caused him to be looked for in the Vicus Sandaliarius, a
street running parallel with her own, where were the booksellers' shops.
In her unpretentious residence, with its plebeian surroundings, Aurelia
kept house for her son. When he brought home Cornelia, the daughter of
Cinna the Consul, as his bride, his mother decked the threshold and
prepared the modest atrium for the nuptial ceremonies. Here was born the
little Julia, the only child that ever blessed the home of Cæsar.
When the order came from Sylla that, if he would preserve his life and
serve his best interests, Cæsar must put away his wife so as to be free
to form a matrimonial union with the dictator's party, there is no doubt
that Aurelia's virtuous counsel supported her son's courage in refusing
to comply with so tyrannical a command. The result was that Cæsar was
obliged to leave the city, hardly escaping the assassin's hand; and the
two women were left for two years to comfort each other as best they
could in the absence of a husband and a son. That they were impoverished
by the rapacious Sylla--who, when he could not touch the person of an
enemy, contented himself with seizing his property--we know. Fortunate
were they if their lives were not still more embittered by the knowledge
of those vile slanders which came from Bithynia, for the disproof of
which there is no evidence needed beside the character of him whose name
was so maliciously besmirched.
After two years of loneliness, these devoted women were made happy by
receiving the exile home. From that time on, Aurelia's maternal pride
was satisfied by beholding the star of her son's fortunes, though at
times beclouded by rivalry, always ascending and brightening. He rose
from one office to another, until the day came when she saw him elected
chief pontiff over the heads of two candidates who were his superiors in
age, rank, and wealth. On this election he had staked everything. If he
failed, his debts would overwhelm him. In the morning, as he left the
little house in the Subura, kissing his mother good-bye, he had said:
"Mother, I will return home pontiff, or not at all." How anxiously she
must have awaited the result! All through the day, she heard his name
shouted with approbation by the people on the street; and in the
evening, he returned to inform her that she must move with him to the
palace of the pontificate on the Via Sacra.
Cornelia was no longer there to share in Aurelia's pride and Cæsar's
good fortune. During the year B.C. 68, Caesar had pronounced two funeral
panegyrics. One was for his aunt, Julia, the wife of that unpolished but
indomitable soldier, Marius. Little is known of this lady; but at Les
Baux, in Provence, there is a monument on which are represented Marius
and Julia, and between them--suggestive it may be of private trials
endured by the latter--Martha, the Syrian prophetess, who accompanied
and advised Marius in all his adventurous undertakings. The second
funeral oration delivered by Cæsar was for his faithful wife Cornelia.
Matrons so young as she were not often honored with a panegyric at their
obsequies; and it testifies no less to the worth of her character than
to her husband's devotion that he, in this instance, transgressed the
custom with the approval of the people.
It was not long, however, before Aurelia was called upon to welcome a
new bride of her son, this time to the magnificence of the pontifical
abode. Marriage was looked upon by the best Romans as a citizen's duty;
and for a man to abbreviate his widowed regrets was not regarded as
censurable conduct; though, on the other hand, the constancy of widowed
matrons was held in the highest honor. The Romans, notwithstanding their
aptitude for law, cared little for consistency in their distribution of
privileges between men and women.
Cæsar's second wife was Pompeia, the granddaughter of Sylla, whose
family Aurelia had but little cause to love. What the mother's attitude
toward the new bride was we do not know. Two things are certain from the
narrative of the sequel to this marriage: Aurelia continued to maintain
the position of _domina_ in the house of her son, for it was she who had
charge of the ceremonies of the Bona Dea which Clodius interrupted by
his intrusion; and the inferences are all against the innocence of
Pompeia, for, had she been faithful, Clodius would not have ventured
into the house at such a time. She was divorced by Cæsar; but he took no
active part in the proceedings against Clodius. When called upon to
testify, he contented himself with the declaration that he knew nothing
about the affair; which was true in a sense, inasmuch as he was not
present. The matter might have been hushed, had it not been for the
matrons, who could not brook that their sacred mysteries should be thus
invaded. Terentia, the wife of Cicero, was especially persistent. She
was a woman who interfered in political matters to such a degree that,
when her husband was consul, she was spoken of sarcastically as being
his colleague. Having a private grudge against Clodius, she so incited
Cicero that the powerful advocate completely refuted the defendant's
strong plea of an alibi.
Cæsar's testimony that he was uninformed as to what had happened at his
house was not satisfactory to the prosecutor, who shrewdly inquired:
"Why, then, did you divorce Pompeia?" The reply was: "Cæsar's wife must
be above suspicion!"--a reply haughty enough to be characteristic of the
man, and deemed a sufficient check to all further cross-examination.
But, viewing the whole situation from our standpoint, it is impossible
to refrain from the comment that, if Cæsar had been equipped with
anything corresponding to a modern conscience, he could scarcely have
had the effrontery to utter such a saying. Just and generous as he was,
he was incapable of entertaining the idea that there should be but one
code of morals for the woman and the man. If Cæsar's wife had said: "The
husband of Pompeia must be above suspicion," it would have appeared as
ridiculous to her contemporaries as it was impossible of realization.
We may well give as little heed as did Cæsar himself to the calumnious
stigma upon his name which disgraces the pages of the historians and the
verse of Catullus. Yet, setting this aside as unworthy of credence,
evidence seems to prove abundantly his propensity for those gallantries
which were considered among the least reprehensible immoralities by the
men of his time. The names of many women were connected with that of the
great soldier in a manner which is detrimental to the reputation of all
concerned. Unless higher criticism of a most radical and partial kind is
adopted in the study of the ancient historians, we must take their word
that ladies of the highest quality surrendered to Cæsar's attractions.
It is said that Pompey was wont to refer to the chief pontiff as
Ægisthus; and that when he spoke of him it was with a sigh which was
elicited not so much on account of Cæsar's greater success in affairs of
State as by his rivalry in the affections of Mucia, who, like
Clytemnestra, was won by the pontiff while her husband was absent in
war. Posthumia, wife of Servius Sulpicius, Lollia, wife of Aulus
Gabinius, and Tertulla, wife of Marcus Crassus, come under the same
indictment. The husbands named were close friends of the man who shared
with them in their conjugal rights, as well as climbed over their
shoulders in political ascendency; and they served him well in the
furtherance of his latter-mentioned projects. It has been argued that if
Cæsar's conduct had really been as blameworthy as is alleged, he could
not have retained the amity of these men; but the argument proves
nothing. What if he were a sufficient adept in policy--a thing not
unknown in the history of human experience--to be able to command the
hands and the heads of the husbands through the hearts of their wives?
There was one woman who had for Cæsar a passionate attachment which was
returned by him with an ardent and lasting affection in which political
ambition played no part. This was Servilia, the half-sister of Cato and
the mother of Marcus Brutus. Unfortunately, this lady's regard for her
powerful lover did not carry with it the confidence and the friendship
of her brother and her son. Modern writers, notably Froude and Baring
Gould, strive to eliminate everything of an unworthy nature from the
mutual affection which is known to have existed between Servilia and
Cæsar; but their argument is devoid of historical proof. Much as we may
be inclined to eradicate from the character of the great Roman
everything that is unpleasant, it will not do to ignore or explain away
every tittle of evidence that has been handed down by the ancient
authorities on this subject. It may have been but the unfounded surmise
of the gossips that it was a billet-doux from his sister which caused
Cato to demand of Cæsar, during an acrimonious Senatorial debate, that
he make known the contents of a note the latter had just received;
nevertheless, we have it on the authority of Plutarch that Cæsar
believed Brutus to be his own son. In this the great Imperator may very
easily have been mistaken; but as to the fact that he had reason to
believe in the possibility of such a thing, surely the conclusions of
modern writers should have less weight than the plain statements of the
ancient historians, which are the sole and only source of any knowledge
whatsoever that we may have on the subject. It is true that slanderers
were even coarser-minded and less restrained among the Romans of those
days than they are in our own time; and among them Cicero was as
preëminently conscienceless as he was clever. Hence, it is not necessary
for us to take seriously his pun on the name of Servilia's daughter,
when, remarking on the low price at which Servilia obtained some lands
from Cæsar, he says: "Between ourselves, Tertia [or, a third] was
deducted," intimating that the mother profited by her daughter's
dishonor.
Calpurnia, the daughter of L. Calpurnius Piso, was the third wife of
Cæsar. For fourteen years she occupied the Regia, the pontifical
residence, as its _domina_. Thus she was the highest lady in Rome and in
the Empire. That she became the consort of Cæsar for reasons of
expediency is very probable; but that she was possessed of a deep and
lasting affection for her husband, which was reciprocated by him with
tender regard, is shown by their conduct on the eve of his death. During
the years of Calpurnia's union with Cæsar, though he crowded them with
events of tremendous import in the history of Rome, nothing whatever is
recorded of his wife. Her name has come down to us untarnished with any
scandal; which, considering the fact that the historians of that time
incorporated such stories in their records on the least possible
warrant, is a very strong testimony to the purity of her life, which was
devoted to furthering the interests of Cæsar among his friends, caring
for his home during his many and lengthened absences, and ministering to
his comfort in the short respites which his innumerable cares afforded
him. All that we really know of her character is revealed in his time of
danger, in which everything is to her credit.
In the plot of _Julius Cæsar_, Shakespeare, with historical accuracy,
introduces only two feminine characters: Calpurnia and Portia, the
latter the worthy wife of the noblest of the conspirators. Were they
friends, these two ladies, as their husbands were supposed to be? Did
they visit each other and engage in the discussion of those topics which
were then current in the atriums and gardens of Rome? Did Calpurnia
sometimes spend an afternoon with Portia in her house on the Aventine;
and though somewhat chilled by the austere and philosophical demeanor of
the descendant of the Censor, yet cordially invite her to the more
magnificent palace of Cæsar? This we do not know. Possibly the terrible
event which was in store cast a shadow upon any intercourse which the
women may have had; especially since Cato, the brother of Portia, had
found in Calpurnia's marriage occasion for denunciation, for the reason
that her father was immediately thereupon made consul.
Of the two women, Portia is much the better known; and, though she may
not really have been superior to the wife of Cæsar, she may justly be
taken as the best representative of the noblest type of Roman matron of
that period. In her we see the effect of stoical training on the
character of a normal woman. There have been many women of greater
firmness of mind, more self-control, more power to witness and take part
in fearsome deeds without a tremor of the lips, or a blanching of the
countenance. These are abnormal women, in whose character nature had
mingled an undue amount of the masculine element. But in Portia we have
no Lady Macbeth; she did not and could not have instigated her husband
to bloody deeds. Her character was of itself gentle and most womanly;
her conduct was the result of education. She herself admitted that, if
she were stronger than her sex, it was the result of being "so fathered
and so husbanded." Her philosophy taught her to strive for stoical
firmness, but she ever found in herself nothing but a woman's strength.
This is seen in the historian's account, and is wonderfully brought out
by Shakespeare in the scene in which he portrays her almost dying for
news from the Capitol.
"PORTIA.--I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house;
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone:
Why dost thou stay?
LUCIUS.--To know my errand, madam.
PORTIA.--I would have had thee there, and here again,
Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there.--
O constancy, be strong upon my side!
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue!
I have a man's mind, but a woman's might.
How hard it is for women to keep counsel!--
Art thou here yet?
LUCIUS.--Madam, what should I do?
Run to the Capitol, and nothing else?
And so return to you, and nothing else?
PORTIA.--Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,
For he went sickly forth: and take good note
What Cæsar doth, what suitors press to him.
Hark, boy! what noise is that?
LUCIUS.--I hear none, madam.
PORTIA.--Prithee, listen well;
I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,
And the wind brings it from the Capitol.
Then, after the conversation with the soothsayer:
"I must go in.--Ay me, how weak a thing
The heart of woman is! O Brutus,
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise!--
Sure, the boy heard me.--Brutus hath a suit,
That Cæsar will not grant--O, I grow faint:--
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;
Say, I am merry: come to me again,
And bring me word what he doth say to thee."
All this feeling and acute anxiety she doubtless underwent; not however,
from sympathy with the motive and purpose of Brutus, though she believed
in these as fully as he did, but for sheer and simple love of her
husband. By nature she was no stoic--as no true woman has ever been or
can be; but she had trained herself in the estimation of self-control
and dignified endurance as moral excellences of the highest value. There
were other women in Rome who, like Portia, had studied and adopted as
their rule of life the principles of Zeno. We can see them walking
amidst the frivolity of their times with the hauteur of too conscious
superiority. It was a part which, if taken up by women at all, they must
necessarily overdo. The principles of their philosophy might carry them
far, even to death "after the high Roman fashion"; but whether the
stoicism was only a mask of pride or a real grandeur of character, there
was always some point at which the woman's heart showed itself. A man,
whether bent on sentimental or serious purposes, needed not to stand
greatly in awe of those stoical Roman ladies.
School herself in dignified impassiveness as she might, every thought of
Portia's mind, as well as every impulse of her heart, betrayed her
philosophy. Her affectionate solicitude allowed no sigh escaping the
breast of her lord, no absent-mindedness clouding his brow and boding
care, to escape her observation. It was plain to her that Brutus had
some great trouble weighing upon his mind. She longed to share its
knowledge, not for the gratification of curiosity, but because she could
not endure to be deemed by her husband anything less than his loyal
comrade. But was she worthy to be the custodian of her husband's
secrets? Doubtless she was assured that they related to State affairs.
It was not the custom among the Romans to put freeborn women to the
torture; yet Portia, before she would ask to know her husband's mind,
would test her power of enduring pain. Let Plutarch present the picture
in his own fashion:
"Now Brutus, feeling that the noblest spirits of Rome, for virtue,
birth, or courage, were depending upon him, and surveying with himself
all the circumstances of the dangers they were to encounter, strove
indeed as much as possible, when abroad, to keep his uneasiness of mind
to himself, and to compose his thoughts; but at home, and especially at
night, he was not the same man, but sometimes against his will his
working care would make him start out of his steep, and other times he
was taken up with further reflection and consideration of his
difficulties, so that his wife that lay with him could not choose but
take notice that he was full of unusual trouble, and had in agitation
some dangerous and perplexing question. Portia, as was said before, was
the daughter of Cato, and Brutus, her cousin-german, had married her
very young, though not a maid, but after the death of a former husband.
This Portia, being interested in philosophy, a great lover of her
husband, and full of an understanding courage, resolved not to inquire
into Brutus's secrets before she had made trial of herself. She turned
all her attendants out of her chamber; and taking a little knife, such
as they use to cut nails with, she gave herself a deep gash in the
thigh; upon which followed a great flow of blood, and, soon after,
violent pains and a shivering fever, occasioned by the wound. Now when
Brutus was exceedingly anxious and afflicted for her, she, in the height
of her pain, spoke thus to him: 'I, Brutus, being the daughter of Cato,
was given to you in marriage, not like a concubine, to partake only in
the common intercourse of bed and board, but to bear a part in all your
good and all your evil fortunes; and for your part, as regards your care
for me, I find no reason to complain; but from me, what evidence of my
love, what satisfaction can you receive, if I may not share with you in
bearing your hidden griefs, or be admitted to any of your counsels that
require secrecy and trust? I know very well that women seem to be of too
weak a nature to be trusted with secrets; but surely, Brutus, a virtuous
birth and education, and the company of the good and honorable, are of
some force in the forming of manners; and I can boast that I am the
daughter of Cato and the wife of Brutus, in which two titles though
before I put less confidence, yet now I have tried myself, and find I
can bid defiance to pain.' Having spoken these words, she showed him her
wound, and related to him the trial she had made of her constancy; at
which, being astonished, he lifted up his hands to heaven, and begged
the assistance of the gods in his enterprise, that he might show himself
a husband worthy of such a wife as Portia."
From that time, she shared the secret of Brutus in his direful purpose;
moreover, her heart and mind were oppressed with the added burden of
anxiety for him.
Another woman in Rome had once waited with great impatience while her
husband thrust the ruler from his throne; and though the plot meant the
death of her own father, Tullia could ride to the Senate chamber to
ascertain with her own eyes if everything were in satisfactory progress.
But there is no comparison to be drawn between Tullia and Portia. There
is nothing to indicate that the latter was in the least stirred by
ambition. She simply believed in her husband to the extent that if it
were he who purposed assassination, she must deem it justified. Yet she
could not ask: "Is Cæsar yet gone to the Capitol?" without danger of
swooning.
At the Imperator's palace, there was another woman whose mind was
troubled with dire misgivings, and who feared that which Portia
impatiently awaited to hear was done. Calpurnia's womanly instinct was
quicker than the suspicion of Cæsar and his friends. She was not given
to superstitious fears; but now even the very air seemed portentous of
coming disaster. She dreamed, and cried out in her sleep: "They murder
Caesar."
Thus has the great dramatist, in a manner which it would be folly to
imitate or replace, depicted the scene:
"CALPURNIA.--What mean you, Cæsar? Think you to walk forth?
You shall not stir out of your house to-day.
CÆSAR.--Cæsar shall forth. The things that threaten'd me
Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see
The face of Cæsar, they are vanish'd.
CALPURNIA.---Cæsar, I never stood on ceremonies,
Yet now they fright me. There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and seen,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
O Cæsar! these things are beyond all use,
And I do fear them.
CÆSAR.-- What can be avoided,
Whose end is purpos'd by the mighty gods?
Yet Cæsar shall go forth; for these predictions
Are to the world in general as to Cæsar.
CALPURNIA.---When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
The wife is supported in her plea by the warnings of the augurs; and
Cæsar has decided to allow Mark Antony to say he is not well. But
Decius, the false coward, comes, and for his private satisfaction,
because Cæsar loves him, he is told that:
"Calpurnia here, my wife stays me at home:
She dream'd to-night she saw my statua,
Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts,
Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans
Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it.
And these does she apply for warnings and portents.
And evils imminent; and on her knee
Hath begged that I will stay at home to-day."
Decius easily puts a better interpretation upon the vision; and he
changes Cæsar's mind by cunningly suggesting how the Senate may sneer
at being adjourned until "another time,