Julius Caesar Act 2 Scene 1

Lucius! Hello there!

I can't tell from the movement of the stars

how close it is to dawn. — Lucius, I say! —

I wish I had his failing of sleeping so deeply.

Come on, Lucius! Wake up! Lucius!

Did you call, my lord?

Put a candle in my study, Lucius.

When it's lit, come back and fetch me.

I will, my lord.

It has to be his death. As for me,

I have no personal reason to strike at him —

only the public good. He wants to be crowned.

How that might change his character — that's the question.

It's the bright day that brings out the snake,

and that calls for careful walking. Crown him,

and I admit we've given him a sting

that he can use to do damage whenever he likes.

Power is abused when it separates

conscience from authority. And to be honest about Caesar,

I've never known his emotions to rule him

more than his reason did. But it's a well-known fact

that humility is the ladder young ambition climbs;

the climber keeps his face toward it going up,

but once he reaches the top rung

he turns his back on the ladder,

stares into the clouds, and despises the low steps

he climbed by. Caesar might do that.

So in case he might — stop him first. And since the case against him

can't be justified by what he actually is,

put it like this: that what he is, once enlarged,

would run to such and such extremes.

So think of him as a snake's egg —

which, once hatched, would turn dangerous like all its kind —

and kill him in the shell. (Read that argument again. He has no grievance, admits Caesar has never abused power, and concludes he must die for what he might become.)

The candle is lit in your study, sir.

Looking on the windowsill for a flint, I found

this sealed letter — and I'm certain

it wasn't there when I went to bed.

Go back to bed. It isn't daylight yet.

Isn't tomorrow the fifteenth of March, boy?

I don't know, sir.

Check the calendar and tell me.

I will, sir.

The meteors streaking through the air

give enough light for me to read by.

'Brutus, you're asleep. Wake up and see yourself!

Shall Rome... etcetera. Speak! Strike! Put it right!'

'Brutus, you're asleep. Wake up.'

Prompts like this have often been dropped

where I would pick them up.

'Shall Rome... etcetera.' I have to fill in the rest:

Shall Rome cower before one man? Rome?

My own ancestors drove the Tarquin king

out of the streets of Rome when he was called king.

'Speak, strike, put it right!' Am I being begged

to speak and to strike? Rome, I promise you:

if putting it right is what follows, you'll get

everything you've asked for, at the hand of Brutus. (The letters are forgeries. Cassius wrote them. Brutus is being played and never suspects it.)

Sir, fifteen days of March have gone.

Good. Go to the gate — someone's knocking.

Since Cassius first sharpened me against Caesar

I haven't slept.

Between doing a terrible thing

and first thinking of it, the whole interval

is like a hallucination or a hideous dream.

The mind and the body's powers

are locked in debate, and a man's whole self,

like a small kingdom, undergoes

something very like a revolution.

Sir, it's your brother-in-law Cassius at the door,

asking to see you.

Is he alone?

No, sir. There are others with him.

Do you recognise them?

No, sir. Their hats are pulled down over their ears

and half their faces buried in their cloaks,

so there's no way I could identify them

by any feature at all.

Let them in.

They're the conspiracy. Oh, conspiracy —

are you ashamed to show your dangerous face even at night,

when evil roams freest? Then where by daylight

will you find a cave dark enough

to hide your monstrous face? Don't look for one, conspiracy.

Hide it in smiles and friendliness.

Because if you walk about wearing your true face,

not even the underworld would be dark enough

to hide you from being stopped.

I think we're intruding on your sleep.

Good morning, Brutus. Are we disturbing you?

I've been up an hour — awake all night.

Do I know the men you've brought?

Yes, every one of them. And there isn't a man here

who doesn't respect you, and every one wishes

you thought of yourself

the way every noble Roman thinks of you.

This is Trebonius.

He's welcome here.

This is Decius Brutus.

He's welcome too.

This is Casca, this Cinna, and this Metellus Cimber.

They're all welcome.

What anxieties have come between

your eyes and sleep tonight?

May I have a word?

East is that way — doesn't the sun rise there?

No.

Excuse me, sir, it does. Those grey streaks

threading the clouds are the messengers of daybreak.

You'll both have to admit you're wrong.

The sun rises here, where I'm pointing my sword,

which is well round toward the south,

given how early in the year it is.

In about two months it'll rise further north,

and true east

lies, like the Capitol, directly over there.

Give me your hands, all of you, one at a time.

And let's swear an oath on our resolve.

No — no oath. If the look on people's faces,

our own suffering, the corruption of these times —

if those are weak motives, then call it off now

and let every man go back to his idle bed.

Let arrogant tyranny run loose

until we're each picked off at random. But if these motives —

and I'm certain they do — carry enough fire

to ignite cowards and put courage

into the softest of spirits — then, countrymen,

what spur do we need besides our own cause

to drive us to act? What other bond

than Romans sworn to secrecy who've given their word

and won't go back on it? What other oath

than honest men pledged to honest men

that this will happen, or we'll die trying?

Let priests and cowards and cautious men swear,

and feeble old wrecks, and the sort of doormats

who welcome being wronged. Let bad causes be sworn to

by creatures nobody trusts. But don't stain

the steady virtue of our undertaking,

or the unbreakable strength of our spirits,

by suggesting that either our cause or our courage

needed an oath — when every drop of blood

that every Roman carries, and carries nobly,

proves him a bastard several times over

if he breaks the smallest fraction

of any promise he has made.

But what about Cicero? Shall we sound him out?

I think he'd be a strong ally.

Let's not leave him out.

No, certainly not.

Let's have him — his grey hair

will buy us a good reputation

and win us voices to praise what we do.

People will say his judgment guided our hands.

Our youth and recklessness won't show at all —

it'll all be buried under his dignity.

Don't even mention him. Let's not approach him —

he'll never go along with anything

that other men have started.

Then leave him out.

He isn't suitable anyway.

Is nobody else to be killed — only Caesar?

Good point, Decius. I don't think it's wise

for Mark Antony, so beloved of Caesar,

to outlive him. We'll find he's

a cunning schemer — and his resources,

if he uses them well, could easily reach

far enough to harm us all. To prevent that,

let Antony and Caesar die together.

Our plan would look too bloody, Cassius,

cutting off the head and then hacking at the limbs —

rage in the killing, and spite afterwards.

Antony is only a limb of Caesar.

Let's be sacrificers, not butchers, Cassius.

We're rising against the spirit of Caesar,

and a man's spirit has no blood in it.

If only we could get at Caesar's spirit

without dismembering Caesar! But sadly

Caesar has to bleed for it. So, gentlemen,

let's kill him boldly, but not in anger.

Let's carve him like a dish fit for the gods,

not hack him like a carcass thrown to dogs.

And let our hearts, like clever employers,

stir up their servants to a violent act

and afterwards pretend to scold them. That will make

our purpose look necessary rather than spiteful.

And appearing that way to ordinary people,

we'll be called healers, not murderers. (He is planning the stage management of a stabbing. This is the man who refused an oath because oaths are beneath honest men.)

And as for Mark Antony, don't give him a thought.

He can do no more than Caesar's arm can

once Caesar's head is off.

I'm still afraid of him,

because of his deep-rooted love for Caesar—

Cassius, don't waste thought on him.

If he loves Caesar, all he can do

is harm himself — grieve and die for Caesar.

And even that's unlikely, since he's devoted

to sport, and wild living, and lots of company.

There's nothing to fear from him. Don't kill him —

he'll live and laugh about this later on.

Quiet — count the chimes.

The clock struck three.

It's time we separated.

But it's still uncertain

whether Caesar will come out today,

because he's grown superstitious lately,

quite unlike the firm view he used to hold

about fantasies, dreams and rituals.

It may be that these obvious omens,

the unusual terror of this night,

and his fortune-tellers' advice

will keep him away from the Capitol today.

Don't worry about that. If he's decided against it,

I can talk him round. He loves hearing

that unicorns can be trapped with trees,

bears with mirrors, elephants with pits,

lions with nets, and men with flatterers.

But when I tell him he hates flatterers,

he agrees — at exactly the moment he's being flattered most.

Leave it to me.

I can bend his mood the right way

and I'll get him to the Capitol.

No — we'll all go and collect him.

By eight o'clock — is that the latest?

Let that be the latest, and don't be late.

Caius Ligarius has a grudge against Caesar,

who told him off for speaking well of Pompey.

I'm surprised none of you thought of him.

Metellus, call in on him on your way.

He's fond of me, and I've given him cause.

Just send him here and I'll work on him.

Morning's catching us. We'll leave you, Brutus.

Friends, scatter — but everyone remember

what you've said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Gentlemen, look rested and cheerful.

Don't let your faces wear your intentions.

Carry it off the way our Roman actors do,

with tireless spirits and steady composure.

And so, good morning to you all.

Boy! Lucius! — Fast asleep? Never mind.

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of sleep.

You've no imaginings or phantoms

that anxiety paints in men's brains.

That's why you sleep so soundly.

Brutus, my lord.

Portia! What's this? Why are you up at this hour?

It isn't good for your health to expose

your delicate constitution to the raw cold morning.

Nor for yours. You slipped unkindly, Brutus,

out of my bed. And last night at supper

you suddenly got up and paced around,

brooding and sighing, arms folded.

And when I asked what was wrong

you stared at me with unkind looks.

I pressed you further; you scratched your head

and stamped your foot impatiently.

Still I insisted; still you didn't answer,

but with an angry wave of your hand

signalled me to leave. So I did,

afraid of feeding an impatience

that seemed already too inflamed — and also

hoping it was just a passing mood,

the kind every man has now and then.

It won't let you eat or talk or sleep,

and if it could alter your appearance

as much as it's taken over your state of mind,

I wouldn't recognise you as Brutus. My dear lord,

tell me what's troubling you.

I'm not well. That's all it is.

Brutus is sensible, and if he were unwell

he'd take steps to get better.

And so I am. Portia, go to bed.

Is Brutus ill? And is it healthy

to walk about half-dressed, breathing in the damp

of the raw morning? Is Brutus ill,

and yet slips out of his warm, healthy bed

to risk the foul infection of the night

and tempt the damp, unclean air

to make his illness worse? No, my Brutus.

There's some sickness of the mind in you

which, by the right of my position as your wife,

I ought to know about. And on my knees

I beg you — by the beauty you once praised,

by all your vows of love, and by that great vow

that joined us and made us one —

reveal to me, your self, your other half,

why you're so burdened, and what men tonight

have come to see you. Because six or seven

have been here who hid their faces

even from the darkness.

Don't kneel, gentle Portia.

I wouldn't need to, if you were being gentle.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus —

is there a clause saying I should know no secrets

that concern you? Am I your other self

only up to a point, with limits —

to eat with you, warm your bed,

and talk to you occasionally? Do I live only on the outskirts

of your affection? If that's all it is,

then Portia is Brutus's whore, not his wife.

You are my true and honourable wife,

as dear to me as the red drops

that visit my sorrowing heart.

If that were true, I'd know this secret.

I admit I'm a woman — but also

a woman Lord Brutus chose for a wife.

I admit I'm a woman — but also

a woman of good reputation, Cato's daughter.

Do you think I'm no stronger than other women,

with such a father and such a husband?

Tell me your plans. I won't reveal them.

I've given hard proof of my steadfastness

by deliberately wounding myself

here, in the thigh. If I can bear that without flinching,

can't I bear my husband's secrets?

You gods —

make me worthy of this noble wife!

Listen — someone's knocking. Portia, go inside for now,

and shortly your heart will share

the secrets of mine.

I'll explain all my commitments to you,

and everything written on my troubled face.

Go now, quickly.

Lucius — who's knocking?

Here's a sick man who wants to speak with you.

Caius Ligarius — the man Metellus mentioned. —

Boy, step aside.

Caius Ligarius — how are you?

Accept a good morning from a feeble tongue.

What a time you've picked, brave Caius,

to be wearing an invalid's headscarf. I wish you weren't ill.

I'm not ill, if Brutus has in hand

any undertaking worthy of the name of honour.

I have exactly such an undertaking, Ligarius,

if you were well enough to hear about it.

By all the gods that Romans bow to,

I throw off my illness here and now.

Soul of Rome!

Brave son of honourable blood —

like an exorcist you've raised up

my deadened spirit. Now tell me to run

and I'll take on the impossible

and beat it. What needs doing?

A piece of work that will make sick men well.

But aren't there some healthy men we'll have to make sick?

That too. What it is, Caius,

I'll explain as we walk

to the man it must be done to.

Lead the way,

and with a newly fired heart I'll follow you

to do I don't know what — it's enough for me

that Brutus is leading. (Nobody in this play asks Brutus what the plan is. They just follow him. That is exactly what Cassius bought.)

Follow me, then.