Coriolanus

If and when he asks for our votes, we shouldn’t deny him.

We can deny him, sir, if we want to.

We have the right to deny him, but it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. If he shows us his wounds and tells us of his deeds, we must honor those wounds with our votes. And if he tells us of his noble deeds, we must then tell him of our gratitude. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the people to be seen as ungrateful would make us into monsters.

And it wouldn’t take much to make us worse thought of. When we complained about the corn, he didn’t hesitate to call us an unstable mass of people.

Many people have called us that. Not because some of us have brown hair, some black, some blond and some bald, but because our opinions are so diverse. I truly think that if all our opinions were to come from one mind, they would go east, west, north, and south. All they could agree on would be to go in different directions.

Do you think so? Which way do you think my opinion would go?

You’re stubborn, so your opinion will stay stuck inside you until another man’s will expresses itself first. If yours could come out, though, it would surely go south.

Why that way?

To lose itself in the plague-ridden air. Three-quarters of it would melt away in the contagious dew, and the remaining quarter would have a conscience and return to help you get a wife.

You’re never without your jokes. It’s okay—you can laugh at me.

Are you all ready to vote? It doesn’t actually matter, since the majority vote wins. If only he cared about the people, he would be the most deserving man there ever was.

Here he comes, wearing the gown of humility. Watch his behavior. We’re not supposed to all stay together but rather go up to him where he’s standing, either alone or in groups of two or three. He’s supposed to make his request to us individually, and each of us has the separate honor of giving him our own vote in our voice. Follow me. I’ll show you how to go up to him.

Okay, okay.

Oh, sir, you don’t understand. Don’t you know that the most honorable men have done this?

What am I supposed to say? “Please, sir”—Curse that! I can’t force myself to say such a thing. “Look at my wounds, sir. I got them while serving my country, while men who were undoubtedly your brothers cried and ran away from the battle.”

Oh, gods! You can’t talk about that. You need to get them to think well of you.

Think well of me! Hang them! I wish they would forget me, like they have forgotten the virtues that the gods didn’t sufficiently instill in them.

You’ll ruin everything. I’m leaving now. Please, keep it clean with them.

I’ll ask them to wash their faces and brush their teeth.

So, here comes a pair.

You know why I’m standing here.

We do, sir. Tell us what brought you here.

It’s what I deserve.

It’s what you deserve!

Yes, but it’s not what I desire.

You don’t desire it?

No, sir, I never desired to trouble the poor with begging.

You must think that if we give you something, we hope to get something from you.

Well then, tell me: what will it cost for you to give me the consulship?

The price is to ask for it kindly.

Please, sir, kindly let me have it. I have wounds to show you, which I’ll show you in private. Your vote, sir, what do you say?

You’ll get my vote, worthy sir.

It’s a deal, sir. That’s two deserving votes I’ve secured. Thank you your charity. Goodbye.

(to the other Citizens) This is strange.

If I could vote again, but never mind.

I ask if you would please vote for me, since I am wearing the customary gown.

You’ve served your country nobly, but you aren’t deserving.

What do you mean?

You’ve defeated her enemies and you’ve protected her friends, but you haven’t loved the common people.

You should consider me virtuous because I don’t give my love away easily. Sir, I’ll flatter my sworn brothers, the people, so they’ll think well of me. It’s a custom they consider noble. And since they’d rather decide based on what hat I’m wearing than on who I am, I’ll practice taking off my hat and bowing insincerely. That is to say, sir, I’ll pretend to be enchanted by them, as some popular men do, and give my false admiration plentifully to those who desire it. So I ask you, may I be consul?

We hope you’ll be our ally, so we happily vote for you.

You’ve been wounded many times serving your country.

I won’t confirm what you already know by showing my wounds to you. I’ll just take your votes and not trouble you further.

May the gods give you much joy, sir!

Most sweet voters! It’s better to die, better to starve, than to beg to be chosen for a position you already deserve. Why must I stand here in this hypocritical toga and beg the commoners for their meaningless approval, which I shouldn’t need? Custom forces me to do it, and what custom requires, we must do. It’s an ancient tradition that has gone on for so long that no one can see that it’s a huge mistake. I wish I didn’t have to play the fool, but the honor of the consulship goes to he who will. I’m halfway done. I’ll do the other half.

Here come more votes. Your votes: I have fought for your votes and stayed out on watch for your votes. For your votes I have been wounded more than two dozen times and been in thirty-six battles. For your votes, I have seen and heard many things and done some things less and some things more—all for your votes, so I can be in the consul.

He has served nobly and must win any honest man’s vote.

Therefore let him be the consul. May the gods give him joy and make him be good to the people!

Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul

Worthy voters!

You’ve stood here for the time required, and the tribunes approve you with the people’s endorsement. All that remains is to make it official. We must go now to the senators.

It’s over?

You’ve done the required custom, and the people admit you to the consul. Go meet the senators so they can approve your election.

Where? At the Senate house?

Yes, Coriolanus.

May I change out of these clothes?

You may, sir.

I’ll do that first, and once I feel like myself again, I’ll go to the Senate house.

I’ll keep you company. Will you come, too?

We’ll stay here with the people.

Good luck.

He has the consulship now, and he looks happy about it.

He wore the gown of humility, but his heart was still proud. Will you let the people’s vote stand?

How are you, good people? Have you chosen this man?

He has our votes, sir.

We pray to the gods that he deserves your favor.

Amen, sir. I’m not certain, but I think he mocked us while asking for our votes.

He expressed his contempt for us in no uncertain terms.

No, that’s just the way he speaks. He didn’t mock us.

All of us, except you, say he used us scornfully. He should have showed us his marks of merit, the wounds he received for his country.

I’m sure he showed you.

No, no. No one saw them.

He said he had wounds he could show in private. He waved his hat scornfully and said, “I should be the consul but because of this ancient custom, I can’t be without your votes, so give me your votes.” When we gave them to him, he said, “I thank you for your votes. Thank you. Your most sweet votes, now that you’ve given me your votes, I have no further use for you.” Isn’t that mockery?

You were either too ignorant to see it, or if you did see it, you were too childish and accommodating to deny him your vote.

Couldn’t you have told him as you were instructed? When he had no power and was only a petty servant of the state, he was your enemy. He has always spoken against your freedom and the legal privileges you have. Now that he’s arriving in a position of power and influence on the state, if he remains such an evil enemy to the people, you might have cause to curse yourself for giving him your votes. You should have said that while his acts of bravery do entitle him to the consulship, he should also be gracious and think well of you for giving him your approval. He should transform his hatred toward you into love and become your political advocate.

If you’d said that, as you were advised ahead of time, it would have touched his spirit and changed his inclination. You might have gotten a gracious promise from him, which you could have held him to when you needed it. Or else it would have provoked his angry nature, which is easily done, and he would have gone into a rage. You could have used his anger as reason not to vote for him.

Didn’t you notice that he asked for your vote in blatant contempt even when he needed your approval? So don’t you think that his contempt will harm you when he has power to exercise? Didn’t you have any courage? Couldn’t you cry out against the status quo?

Haven’t you ever refused to vote for someone? And now you give your vote to someone who didn’t even ask for it but mocked you instead?

He’s not confirmed. He can still deny him.

And we will deny him. I’ll get five hundred people to vote against him.

I’ll get a thousand people and their friends, too.

Go do it immediately, and tell those friends that they’ve chosen someone for the consul who will take away their freedoms and give them no more voice than dogs have that are repeatedly beaten for barking even though their job is to bark.

Let them come together and make a wiser judgment to revoke your ignorant election. Emphasize his pride and his longstanding hatred of you. And don’t forget the contempt with which he wore the gown of humility and how in his quest for your votes, he scorned you. Your admiration of his past service kept you from noticing of his present way of being, which was insulting and inappropriate and reflective of the hatred he feels for you.

Blame us, your tribunes. Say that we pushed you not to let these obstacles stop you from voting for him, but that you must repeal your election of him.

Say that you chose him based more on our instructions than on your own true feelings, and that because you were preoccupied with what you thought was expected of you, you went against your own interest by voting him consul. Lay the fault on us.

Indeed, don’t spare us. Say we told you all about him, about how young he was when he began to serve his country and how long he has done so, about the noble family he comes from—the same family as Ancus Martius, Numa’s daughter’s son, who was king after great Hostilius. He’s from the same family as Publius and Quintus, the ones who built our best water conduits. And his great ancestor, suitably named Censorinus, was chosen twice as censor by the people.

We asked you to remember that he’s a man descended from a famous family, who also has earned his own high praise. But you have found, weighing his present behavior against his past, that he’s definitely your enemy, and you repeal your hasty approval.

Say that you never would have done it—emphasize that—if we hadn’t put you up to it. And then, when you have enough people on your side, go to the capitol.

We will. Almost everyone regrets the vote they gave.

Let them go on their own. Better to risk this mutiny than wait for the undoubtedly bigger one that would come later. If, his nature being what it is, he goes into a rage over their refusal, both watch for and take advantage of his anger.

Let’s go to the capitol. We’ll be there before the uprising of the people. And it will appear to be their own initiative, which it partially is, although we urged them into action.