Shakespeare & the Soldier's Lament
Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.
“Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.” — Coriolanus, Act I, Scene 3.
What does it mean to be ‘too proud’?
Coriolanus is one of those plays that isn’t put on much. Perhaps it’s the logistics of putting on full scale battles (although that doesn’t prevent everyone and their mother from staging Henry V). Perhaps it’s the thread of anti-democratic sentiment weaving its way though and making us uncomfortable. Or perhaps it’s being confronted with a complex titular character who makes us look at how we confront our heroes.
Don’t get me wrong, Caius Martius (later dubbed ‘Coriolanus’) is not without his faults. But in judging him for those faults, we have to also judge the societal systems that created those faults.1 He is turned hard by those that love him and by the wars he is thrust into. And then, he is destroyed for being too hard.
Now, before we go further, I want to be very clear — this newsletter is about soldiers in ancient Rome. This is not a commentary on current military affairs. Sure, there is some relevance to those discussions, but that’s Shakespeare for you.
The Shake-Scene
Coriolanus is another Roman history play categorized as a ‘Tragedy’ in the First Folio (a posthumous collection of Shakespeare’s plays). It was written around 1607/1608, likely after both Julius Caesar and Antony & Cleopatra. And, like those plays, the source material is Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. Coriolanus the man likely lived around 5th Century BC, a few hundred years before Shakespeare’s other Roman heroes. Ok, so now that we’re historically situated, on with the play.
The play opens with the revolt of the common people (plebians) because they are starving (allegedly because Rome spends its money on war instead of grain). One citizen in this revolt suggests Caius Martius is to blame, and the rest agree that he is a “very dog to the commonality.” But a second citizen implores them to consider the services he’s done for their country. The first citizen admits that Martius has done impressive things, but that he did them only to please his mother “and to be partly proud.” Needless to say, the common people don’t care too much for their war hero.
Enter Caius Martius. He berate the plebians and is generally condescending. He thinks their demands are unreasonable and they shouldn’t question the wisdom of those running the government. He is a man of action spoiling for a fight with no patience (or capability) for diplomacy (note: that doesn’t end well for him). But he also announces that, to appease the plebians, they’ve been given representatives at the capitol (the “tribunes”).
But Martius is saved from having to stomach listening to the plebians by a war breaking out (things men will do to avoid going to therapy, am I right?). The opposing force is being led by Tullus Aufidius. Martius is elated. He admits that if he had to be anyone else, he would want to be Aufidius. And, if it were up to him, all of his wars would be against Aufidius. “He is a lion that [Martius is] proud to hunt.” Perhaps this is our first sign that Martius feels alienated from the community he fights for, finding camaraderie only on the battle field — even with those he fights against. He leaves for the wars, and the newly-minted tribunes deride him for his pride.
However, before we can follow Caius Martius to his war, we must first meet this mother he’s so intent to please and his wife. Volumnia (Martius’s mother) is one of the most powerful women in Shakespeare’s cannon. She reminds me of the old joke about Chuck Norris toilet paper (it’s rough and tough and don’t take sh*t off no one). She mocks the wife (Virgilia) for worrying about Martius. Volumnia would rather have Martius risking his life for honor than being safely in their company. She says “had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Martius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.” Yup, real healthy. Turns out toxic ‘masculinity’ isn’t just for the boys.
But, thankfully for both Volumnia and Virgilia, Martius is victorious. In the town of Corioles, he is left alone against an army, but prevails. He walks from the city and is described as looking as if he were flayed (i.e. as though his skin were removed violently). During this battle, we see the care and respect with which he treats his fellow soldiers . A far cry from how he spoke to the plebians of the city. So again I ask, what are we calling his ‘pride’?
At the end of this battle, he is praised for his efforts, but he doesn’t want the praise. He repeatedly attempts to prevent the general from telling the men of his great deeds, claiming his wounds “smart to hear themselves remember’d” — not the usual behavior of someone accused of being too proud. But, in this battle, he fails, and the general renames Caius Martius as “Coriolanus.” And, from this point on, even the play forgets his original identity as the dialogue tags change from “Martius” to “Coriolanus.”
There’s an interesting interlude following the renaming where Coriolanus tells the general of a man who gave him shelter in Corioles during the battle, and asks that the man be freed. Coriolanus said he saw the man taken prisoner but “Aufidius was within [his] view, and wrath o’erwehlm’d [his] pity.” It brings into view Coriolanus’s singular vision for the victory in battle over the humans at its edges. But what’s more, when the general agrees to free this man, Coriolanus has forgotten his name. This is a departure from the source material that gives the man a name. Is this evidence of Coriolanus’s lack of care for the common man, or is it an echo of Coriolanus whose own name is now forgotten?
And then Coriolanus returns home. His mother rejoices that he is injured. She counts the wounds and is grateful at the number and severity that he can show to the people when he seeks a place in the government. He enters the city and is celebrated by the herald, but says “no more of this; it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more.” His mother pushes him to be part of the Senate, but he tells her he had “rather be their servant in my way than sway with them in theirs.”
He’s put up for election as the highest elected position in Rome, “consul.” He goes to the Capitol but leaves when they begin to praise him for his deeds. The Senate elects him consul, but before it is official, he has to stand in the marketplace wearing the “gown of humility” and showing off his wounds. He does this … reluctantly. Refusing to show off his wounds or talk about his deeds. Initially, the plebians give him their blessing to be consul. But the representatives of the plebians in the Senate deride them for so easily giving up their voices. They turn the citizens against Coriolanus. In turn, Coriolanus lambasts them and is accused of treason. Tensions raise. And Volumnia, the mother who has praised him for his fight and wounds, begs him to go to the people with humility. Shocking to no one, Coriolanus who was never taught diplomacy, is unable to win over the people he does not respect. The citizens of Rome sentence him to death, but relent, and banish him instead. And so, as a result of earning the honor he did not want, he is cast out from the city where he never truly belonged.
There is a world elsewhere.
So where does Coriolanus turn when cut off from family of blood and brothers of battle? His enemy of course. His equal. The only person in the whole of the world who could understand him. Aufidius.2
And, for the first time since Act I, Scene 9, Coriolanus is addressed by his birth name— Martius. Aufidius addresses him by name and says “That I see thee here, thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart than when I first my wedded mistress saw bestride my threshold.” Interestingly, a much more heartfelt welcome than that he received from his mother. And the two agree to join forces and attack Rome.
When word is sent to Rome that they are being attacked, the tribunes refuse to hear it and have the messengers beaten. Finally, the general comes and is believed. And once again, Coriolanus is referred to as “a thing” — “He leads them like a thing made by some other deity than nature, that shapes man better.” This dehumanization of Coriolanus (referring to him as a thing instead of a person, applauding his pain, naming him without consent, etc.) has been discussed by people much smarter than me. But the gist is this: Rome, his mentor and even his mother treat him as an instrument of war rather than a person.
The people, terrified to face Coriolanus once again change their view to support him. His general and his mentor try to persuade Coriolanus to relent but they are unsuccessful. He is unyielding. Until his mother, wife, and son arrive. And them, he cannot deny.
Meanwhile, in Rome, the citizens have turned on their tribune and threaten to give him “death by inches” (it’s real gross and painful; trust me). But thankfully for him, word comes back that Coriolanus has agreed to relent.
Coriolanus returns to Corioles, bringing the treasures he’s won in battle against the Romans. But, because he refused to sack Rome itself, he is once again branded a traitor, this time by Aufidius. And once again, lacking in tact, Coriolanus cannot defuse the situation. And he is killed.
But, once his rage is cooled, Aufidius mourns the death of his longtime enemy and honors him in a march through Corioles.
So was his flaw really pride? Or was it an inability to respect or relate to those that had never been on the battlefield? Or, perhaps, the only way to allay the sadness of missing life with his family is to find pride in the violence, and disdain those that challenge him without making the same sacrifice? Or perhaps Aufidius knows him best of all, that it is his “nature, not to be other than one thing, not moving from th’ casque to th’ cushion, but commanding peace even with the same austerity and garb as he controll’d the war”. Perhaps it is that the man they taught to take pride in only battle, to collect wounds like medals, and renamed as a reminder of his trauma, was incapable of living in their society.
Speak the Speech, I Pray You
Bring Shakespeare’s words into your own life by:
Leave your friend-group’s Karen behind when you head out to shop;
Tell that angry conspiracy friend to skip weekend brunch;
And… let the sad sack friend sob in peace…
Additional Resources
It’s officially Shakespeare in the Park season! From New York to Oregon to Toronto to Houston, local parks everywhere are putting on Shakespeare adaptations that are mostly free to attend. I’m including some links to the popular ones I know of, but feel free to drop your faves in the comments! I’m also taking down the paywall for past newsletters for the next few weeks in case you need to brush up on your Shakespeare before you attend.
Find a copy of the entire play here.
Listen to a podcast version of the play here.
I do want to pause and say I’m very grateful for our service men and women. Please do not read my own political beliefs into my critique of a Shakespearean play written in the 1600s.
Shakespeare’s treatment of male companionship is a matter that is the subject of numerous papers and lectures. Often in Shakespeare’s comedies, the male is taught to leave male community and embrace female companionship in marriage — See Much Ado About Nothing or Merchant of Venice. Sometimes the inability of a male to do so leads to tragedy — See Othello. Arguably, Coriolanus falls in the latter category as well. It’s another lens to look at this play through, should you desire to do so.