Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and the nature of power in the hands of the people

It is a tragedy not of a single individual or even the entire Roman Republic, but one of power, who has it, who wants it, how they get it, and how it ebbs and flows at the whims of the crowd, exercising their free and fickle will to support who they choose at any given moment. 

Julius Caesar is one of Shakespeare’s better known, but less well studied plays, at least comparatively speaking.  Written in the middle of his career immediately after Henry V, it does not quite rise to the level of his more revered works like Hamlet, Macbeth, or King Lear, though the seeds of genius are clearly in place.  It can perhaps best be understood as a companion piece to Henry V itself, an extension of the themes surrounding the legendary English hero, reframed to the demise of the ancient Roman one.  If the preceding work addresses the inevitably Machiavellian nature of successful leaders, Julius Caesar considers where leaders derive their power from in the first place and how tenuous such power can be.  In this regard, it is a tragedy not of a single individual or even the entire Roman Republic, but one of power, who has it, who wants it, how they get it, and how it ebbs and flows at the whims of the crowd, exercising their free and fickle will to support who they choose at any given moment.  The setting is therefore as important as the characters in this framing, and in the opening scenes, Shakespeare largely dispenses with the complex characterizations he would become famous for to focus instead on the ironies and complexities underlying politics in the city itself.  Rome, before Caesar, was ostensibly a republic where citizens had a direct say in government through regular elections and were granted certain freedoms that we might refer to as inalienable rights in the modern era.  Caesar, the most powerful man in Rome after his exploits around the known world, is perceived by his assassins as a threat to these freedoms, a potential tyrant who would make himself king.  Brutus is one of Caesar’s closest allies, but he grows to fear his ambition, what unlimited power would do to such a man, even as it hasn’t done it yet.  A fellow conspirator, Cassius, describes Caesar early in the play in one of the most famous lines, “he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”  We can choose to take this at face value, or not. Shakespeare, almost uncharacteristically, offers little insight into anyone’s actual state of mind.  We do not know for certain if Brutus, Cassius, or any of the others are truly acting out of their perceived duty to the Republic, jealousy of Caesar, or ambition of their own, nor do we know what motivates Caesar himself.  The audience can read into their actions what they will, depending on where their own sympathies lie.

This is further complicated by the nature of the events themselves and how much of them are pre-ordained by the gods. Certainly, the audience would have been familiar with the history and likely would have seen the outcome as inevitable, a story already told. In Shakespeare’s hands, Rome itself provides its own contrast from which to consider the character’s motivations.  Despite Cassius’ protestation that the fault does not lie in their stars, Rome in both reality and Shakespeare’s conception was obsessed with signs, symbols, and other portents of the future, believing in the power of prophecy, representing any irony that underlies all of the events, an essential dichotomy between fate and freewill.  Throughout the first three acts of the play, this is made literal in the appearance of strange, unexplained occurrences from earthquakes shaking the ground and meteors flying through the air to the strange behavior of animals and people.  Casca, another conspirator, remarks that the “sway of the earth shakes like a thing unfirm” and he went through a “tempest dropping fire.  Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction.”  Humans and animals are affected as well, including a slave who “Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches joined; and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched.”  There was also a lion who sauntered by without attacking anyone and in a “heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformèd with their fear, who swore they saw Men all in fire walk up and down the streets.”  Casca is not alone or delusional.  Others, including Brutus himself, saw such things, prompting everyone, both Caesar’s enemies and friends to believe the gods are sending a message.  That this message is about Caesar, there is no doubt.  As his wife Calphurnia explains, “When beggars die there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.”  The only question is how to interpret them:  Are they a warning about Caesar and his ambition, or do they herald the rise of Caesar?  Calphurnia believes her husband is in danger, and the audience surely agrees, urging him not to take that fateful trip to the Senate on the Ides of March, claiming “these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them.”  Caesar himself is nonplussed, believing his fate is already written and there is nothing he can do about it.  He tells Calphurnia, “What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?  Yet Caesar shall go forth, for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar” for he does not fear death.  He adds, “Cowards die many times before their deaths;  The valiant never taste of death but once,” and  “Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should stay at home today for fear.”  Despite these protestations, he decides to remain home to please his wife –  until the conspirators arrive and propose another interpretation of these signs.  Decius has been charged with leading him to slaughter and upon learning that Caliphurnia also had a dream of Caesar’s death, he turns the meaning completely around.  “This dream is all amiss interpreted. It was a vision fair and fortunate…[Signifying] that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press  For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified.”  For obvious reasons, Caesar much prefers this interpretation, declaring, “How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamèd I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go,” and promptly marches to his doom.

The strange mix of omens, the lack of any access into the character’s thoughts, and Caesar himself being largely devoid of characterization beyond confidence, lend the sequences leading to his death a mechanical, pre-ordained feel, advancing as inevitably as time itself, but this all changes when the masses learn of Caesar’s death.  In the aftermath, we learn quite clearly that fault is not in anyone’s stars or the future decided by the gods, but rather the will of the mob.  Whatever title the rulers of Rome bear, their ability to exercise their power – and even to live or die – is entirely dependent on the adulation of the people themselves, who can and will rise up for whatever faction they desire at the moment, and those desires can change from moment to moment.  Shakespeare makes the contingent nature of power quite plain in the play’s remarkable central sequence, a scene that is rather astoundingly equal parts an overarching allegory for the inconstancy of power and real world power politics that should be studied by anyone aspiring to the profession to this day.  Brutus, foolishly, has not followed the advice of his fellow conspirators to assassinate Caesar’s chief lieutenant, Marc Antony.  Instead, he believes Antony can be converted to the cause because of his inconstant, wild nature, and allows him to speak at Caesar’s funeral.  Brutus ascends the platform first, attempting to answer a mob incensed with the death of their beloved Caesar.  Brutus is himself beloved, a descendent of an ancient Roman hero, and a skilled orator.  He speaks plainly and to the point, informing the crowd that he is an honorable man who loved Caesar, but he loved Rome more.  He asks them, playing on how jealously Roman’s guard their rights, “Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all freemen? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him. As he was fortunate, I rejoice at it. As he was valiant, I honor him. But, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition.”  The mob is pleased at first, declaring that Brutus has done a good deed and should be brought in triumph to his house.  “Give him a statue with his ancestors,” and even “Let him be Caesar” for “Caesar’s better parts Shall be crowned in Brutus.”  As Marc Antony takes the platform afterwards, they are completely convinced that Caesar deserved to die, declaring “This Caesar was a tyrant” and “We are blest that Rome is rid of him,” but Antony proves more skillful than Brutus – by pulling the classic politicians trick of pretending to be the opposite.

Rather than directly contradict his adversary, Antony agrees with him, hiding his real meaning beneath the words themselves, shining through the cracks of the literal interpretation.  In another often quoted line, he begins by saying “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him” while doing exactly that.  He acknowledges that Brutus and his fellow conspirators are honorable and he is only allowed to speak at their pleasure.  He tells the crowd that Caesar was “my friend, faithful and just to me, But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man,” but then he subtly begins reminding the crowd of who Caesar was to them and how they previously loved him because of his generosity – and carefully orchestrated displays of a lack of ambition.  He asks them how Caesar shared his wealth after returning from war, “Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?”  He begs them to remember how Caesar wept at the plight of the poor, and notes that “Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man.”  He describes how Caesar – in what was surely a scene designed for public consumption – refused to crown himself king three times before he was killed.  “Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And sure he is an honorable man.”  Antony is equally sure to note that he mentions these things not to disagree with Brutus, but merely “to speak what I do know.  After all, You all did love [Caesar] once, not without cause.  What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?”  In a bit of pitch perfect theatrics, the supposedly unskilled orator Antony breaks down, declaring that men have “lost their reason” and asking the crowd to “Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.”  The mob is necessarily moved and the very same people that were praising Brutus a moment earlier suddenly change their minds, as some so frequently do.  There is “much reason in [Antony’s] sayings,” and “Caesar has had a great wrong” for “‘tis certain he was not ambitious.”  Antony, however, is not yet finished pushing these unsaid points to their limits.  The hook being baited, he proceeds to fully reel the crowd in, continuing the strategy of pretending he wants only to do the opposite.  He claims that he would rather wrong Caesar himself than Brutus and Cassius, “Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong.”  He mentions in passing that he has seen Caesar’s will, but cannot read it, because the crowd would “would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds  And dip their napkins in his sacred blood.”

The mob, of course, is intrigued, demanding an immediate reading, but Antony defers, saying instead that it would “inflame” them and that he must show them Caesar’s body first, even as he fears doing so will “wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar. I do fear it.”  There is an old thought experiment in the philosophy of language, designed to illustrate how we impart meaning with words both said and unsaid.  A student asks a professor to write them a letter of recommendation for graduate school.  The professor agrees, but writes only “This student is an excellent speller.”  The literal meaning is altogether positive – the student is excellent at something – and nothing negative is actually said, but in the context of a recommendation for graduate school, the obvious implication is that the student isn’t qualified.  An admissions committee would assume all of their potential students are excellent spellers and would expect something far more meaningful.  Since the professor hasn’t provided it, they would conclude the student in question wasn’t fit.  Antony takes advantage of this difference between literal and implied meanings by insisting Brutus and the other conspirators are honorable while pointing out that they stabbed Caesar.  He describes in detail how Caesar was killed all while insisting he doesn’t mean to bring the mob’s wrath upon his killers.  “Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,  That made them do it. They are wise and honorable And will no doubt with reasons answer you.”  Further, despite the obvious evidence of his political talents, he claims to be “no orator, as Brutus is, But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man That love my friend, and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on.”  In its totality, Shakespeare via Marc Antony delivers a masterclass in the difference between literal and figurative meaning, and the manipulation of crowds worthy of a consummate politician.  Long before the end, when Antony informs them that Caesar has left his estate and some cash to the people, the mob is enraged, demanding revenge, “Revenge!  About!  Seek!  Burn!  Fire!  Kill!  Slay!  Let not a traitor live!”  They immediately set up on the conspirators, driving Brutus and Cassius from the city, and in a chilling scene that dramatizes the contingency of these events in stark contrast to the machinations of the opening sequences, kill a Roman citizen simply because he has the same name of one of Caesar’s assassins.  The man protests that he was a devotee of Caesar, “I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet!” but the mob can only be satisfied with blood, “Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses!” and whether or not he’s actually a conspirator is irrelevant, “It is no matter. His name’s Cinna. Pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going.”

The rest, as they say, is history.  Shakespeare trusted the audience to know that Marc Antony and his ally, Octavius, Caesar’s nephew were ultimately triumphant over the conspirators, and rather than dwell on the history itself, chooses to focus on key moments that serve to, rather ironically, humanize the conspirators over the victors.  Chief among them for our purposes here is another oft quoted line that occurs in an extended scene that begins with Brutus and Cassius at odds, threatening to go to war with one another before they re-establish their bond, as though they are an elderly couple bickering to pass the time.  Brutus, in the middle, reframes the entire play, making the role of freewill in the affairs of history all too clear, contrary to the previous presences of so many omens and strange tidings, “There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves Or lose our ventures.”  Unfortunately for him, Brutus completely misread this tide, believing the Roman people could be convinced that Caesar’s assassination was necessary before learning the opposite and completely underestimating Marc Antony.  At the end, he commits suicide, but Antony and Octavius aren’t through with him yet.  The same way Antony did Caesar, they repurpose Brutus as a symbol, declaring that he was the only honorable conspirator and granting him full burial rights.  “This was the noblest Roman of them all,” Antony declares, “All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only in a general honest thought And common good to all made one of them.  His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him that nature might stand up And say to all the world ‘This was a man.’”  After the events we’ve witnessed, it is both difficult to believe that Antony truly believes this or that it is even strictly true in principle.  Brutus’ life was far from gentle, especially after delivering the fatal blow to Caesar.  Whatever his motives, and admittedly they are unclear, he was objectively a traitor, who betrayed his closest ally.  He might have done so because he believed it was the right thing, but it’s impossible to separate that from the potential gain – with Caesar gone, and the other conspirators relying on him, the mob wanted to crown him the next Caesar for a moment at least.  The same is true of the motives driving everyone else – given the amount of blood that was shed, the way everything, from occurrences in the heavens to the players themselves, are subsumed into symbols that advance the cause of the moment, suggests at a minimum, that everyone was ambitious and no one was pure.  All of it was politics, a game that is won by those who can best channel the energies of the masses, where power is fleeting, free will, however, fickle is paramount, and – considering Marc Antony commits suicide himself not long after – no one actually wins.

PS This is likely to be my last post for a couple of weeks as I take a much needed vacation. Thank you for reading!