Cassius: Have not you love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me
Makes me forgetful?
Brutus: Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
And all this on the brink of disaster and death.
But here comes a rare touch, and we might as well quote it in full.
Mind you, I am following Shakespeare, and not history, which is mostly
lies.
A great poet's instinct might be nearer the truth; after all. Of course
scholars know that Macbeth (or Macbethad) reigned for upwards of twenty
years in Scotland a wise and a generous king--so much so that he was
called “Macbathad the Liberal,” and it was Duncan who found his way to
the throne by way of murder; but it didn't fit in with Shakespeare's
plans, and--anyway that's only a little matter between the ghosts of
Bill and Mac which was doubtless fixed up long ago. More likely they
thought it such a one-millionth part of a trifle that they never dreamed
of thinking of mentioning it.
(Noise within.)
Poet (within): Let me go in to see the generals; There is some
grudge between 'em--'tis not meet
They be alone.
Lucilius (within): You shall not come to them.
Poet (within): Nothing but death shall stay me.
(“Within” in this case is, of course, without--outside the tent where
Lucilius and Titinius are on guard.)
Enter POET.
Cassius: How now! What's the matter?
Poet: For shame, you generals! What do you mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be:
For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye.
Cassius: Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme!
Brutus: Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence!
Cassius: Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion.
Brutus: I'll know his humour when he knows his time:
What should the wars do with these jingling fools?
Companion, hence!
Cassius: Away, away, be gone!
(Exit POET.)
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit a black eye
(_Lawson_). Shakespeare was ever rough on poets--but stay! Consider that
this great world of Rome and all the men and women in it were created by
a “jingling fool” and a master of bad--not to say execrable--rhymes, and
his name was William Shakespeare. You need to sit down and think awhile
after that.
Brutus sends Lucilius and Titinius to bid the commanders lodge their
companies for the night, and then all come to him. Then he gives Cassius
a shock and strikes him to the heart for his share in the quarrel. It is
almost directly after the row, when they have kicked out the “jingling
fool” of a poet. Cassius does not know that Brutus has to-day received
news of the death, in Rome, of his good and true wife Portia, who,
during a fit of insanity, brought on by her grief and anxiety for
Brutus, and in the absence of her attendant, has poisoned herself--or
“swallowed fire,” as Shakespeare has it.
Brutus (to Lucius, his servant): Lucius, a bowl of wine!
Cassius: I did not think you could have been so angry.
Brutus: O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.
Cassius: Of your philosophy you make no use,
If you give place to accidental evils.
Brutus: No man bears sorrow better:--Portia is dead.
Cassius: Ha! Portia!
Brutus: She is dead.
Cassius: How 'scaped I killing when I cross'd you so!
O insupportable and touching loss!
Upon what sickness?
Brutus: Impatient of my absence,
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong: for with her death
That tidings came; with this she fell distract,
And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire.
Cassius: And died so?
Brutus: Even so.
Cassius: O, ye immortal gods!
(Enter Lucius, with a jar of wine, a goblet, and a taper.)
Brutus: Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine:
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.
(Drinks.)
Cassius: My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup;
I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love.
(Drinks.)
You ought to read that scene carefully. It will do no one any harm. It
did me a lot of good one time, when I was about to quarrel with a friend
whose heart was sick with many griefs that I knew nothing of at the
time. You never know what's behind.
Titinius and Messala come in, and proceed to discuss the situation.
Brutus: Come in, Titinius!! Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.
Cassius (on whom the wine seems to have taken some effect):
Portia, art thou gone?
Brutus: No more, I pray you.
Messala, I have here received letters,
That young Octavius and Mark Antony
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition towards Philippi.
Messala has also letters to the same purpose, and they have likewise
news of the murder, or execution, of upwards of a hundred senators in
Rome.
Cassius: Cicero one!
Messala: Cicero is dead.
Poor Brutus! His heart had cause to be sick of many griefs that day.
Messala thinks he has news to break, and Brutus draws him out. How many
and many a man and woman, with a lump in the throat, have broken sad and
bad news since that day, and started out to do it in the same old gentle
way:
Messala: Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?
Brutus: No, Messala.
Messala: Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?
Brutus: Nothing, Messala.
Messala: That, methinks, is strange.
Brutus: Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?
Maybe it strikes Messala like a flash that Brutus is in no need of any
more bad news just now, and it had better be postponed till after the
battle:
Messala: No, my lord.
Brutus: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.
Messala: Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.
Brutus: Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once
I have the patience to endure it now.
Poor Messala comes to the scratch again rather lamely with a little weak
flattery: “Even so great men great losses should endure;” and Cassius
says, rather mixedly--it might have been the wine--that he has as much
strength in bearing trouble as Brutus has, and yet he couldn't bear it
so.
I have as much of this in art as you,
But yet my nature could not bear it so.
Brutus: Well, to our work alive. What do you think
Of marching on Philippi presently?
Brutus was a strong man. Portia's spirit must bide a while. They discuss
a plan of campaign. Cassius is for waiting for the enemy to seek them
and so get through his tucker and knock his men up, while they rest in
a good position; but Brutus argues that the enemy will gather up the
country people between Philippi and their camp and come on refreshed
with added numbers and courage, and it would be better for them to
meet him at Philippi with these people at their back. The politics or
inclination of the said country people didn't matter in those days.
“There is a tide in the affairs of men”--and so they decide to take it
at the flood and float high on to the rocks at Philippi. Ah well, it led
on to immortality, if it didn't to fortune.
Well, there's no more to say. Brutus thinks that the main thing now is
a little rest--in which you'll agree with him; and he sends for his
night-shirt.
Good night, Titinius: noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose!
That old fool of a Cassius--remorseful old smooth-bore--is still a bit
maudlin--maybe he had another swig at the wine when Shakespeare wasn't
looking.
Cassius: O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night
Never come such division 'tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.
Brutus: Everything is well.
Cassius: Good night, my lord.
Brutus: Good sight, good brother.
Titinius and Messala: Good night, Lord Brutus.
Brutus: Farewell, every one.
And Cassius is the man whom Caesar denounced as having a lean and hungry
look: “Let me have men about me that are fat... such men are dangerous.”
(Mr Archibald held with that--and he had a lean, if not a hungry, look
too.) When Antony put in a word for Cassius, Caesar said that he wished
he was fatter anyhow. “He thinks too much,” Caesar said to Antony. He
read a lot; he could look through men; he never went to the theatre, and
heard no music; he never smiled except as if grinning sarcastically at
himself for “being moved to smile at anything.” Caesar said that such
men were never at heart's ease while they could see a bigger man than
themselves, and therefore such men were dangerous. “Come on my right
hand, for this ear is deaf, and tell me truly what thou think'st of
him.” (That's a touch, for deafness in people affected that way is
usually greater in the left ear.)
When Lucilius returned from taking a message from Brutus to Cassius _re_
the loan of the fivers aforementioned and other matters--and before
the arrival of Cassius with his horse and foot, and the quarrel--Brutus
asked Lucilius what sort of a reception he had, and being told “With
courtesy and respect enough,” he remarked, “Thou hast described a hot
friend cooling,” and so on. But Cassius will cool no more until death
cools him to-morrow at Philippi.
The rare gentleness of Brutus's character--and of the characters of
thousands of other bosses in trouble--is splendidly, and ah! so softly,
pictured in the tent with his servants after the departure of the
others. It is a purely domestic scene without a hint of home, women, or
children--save that they themselves are big children. The scene now has
the atmosphere of a soft, sad nightfall, after a long, long, hot and
weary day full of toil and struggle and trouble--though it is really
well on towards morning.
Lucius comes in with the gown. Brutus says, “Give me the gown,” and asks
where his (Lucius's) musical instrument is, and Lucius replies that it's
here in the tent. Brutus notices that he speaks drowsily. “Poor knave,
I blame thee not, thou are o'er-watched.” He tells him to call Claudius
and some other of his men: “I'd have them sleep on cushions in my tent.”
They come. He tells them he might have to send them on business by and
by to his “brother” Cassius, and bids them lie down and sleep, calling
them sirs. They say they'll stand and watch his pleasure. “I will not
have it so; lie down, good sirs.” He finds, in the pocket of his gown, a
book he'd been hunting high and low for--and had evidently given Lucius
a warm time about--and he draws Lucius's attention to the fact:
Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so:
I put it in the pocket of my gown.
Lucius: I was sure your lordship did not give it to me.
Brutus: Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful, etc.
He asks Lucius if he can hold up his heavy eyes and touch his instrument
a strain or two. But better give it all--it's not long:
Lucius: Ay, my lord, an't please you.
Brutus: It does, my boy:
I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.
Lucius: It is my duty, sir.
Brutus: I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
Lucius: I have slept, my lord, already.
Brutus: It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again;
I will not hold thee long: if I do live,
I will be good to thee. (Music, and a song.)
This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber,
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy
That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good-night;
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee:
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument;
I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good-night.
Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down
Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.
(He sits down.)
A man for all time! How natural it all reads! You must remember that he
is a tired man after a long, strenuous day such as none of us ever know.
The fate of Rome and his--a much smaller matter--are hanging on
the balance, and tomorrow will decide; but he is so mind-dulled and
shoulder-weary under the tremendous burden of great things and of many
griefs that he is almost apathetic; and over all is the cloud of a loss
that he has not yet had time to realize. He is self-hypnotized, so
to speak, and his mind mercifully dulled for the moment on the Sea of
Fatalism.