Honor, Ethics, and Assassination: Shakespeare's Julius Caesar

Is political violence ever justified?  Who decides?  And what ethical systems can evaluate the justice of such acts?  Today, we look at the ethics driving the characters of Shakespeare's The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.

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• 19:34 (Cont.) Honor, Ethics, and Assassination: Shakespeare's Julius Caesar

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Friends, Readers, Litterbugs!  Lend me your ears!  I come not to bury Shakespeare, but to study him!  The writing that men do lives after them, but the intentions are oft interred with their bones.  So it is with Shakespeare.

Which is why we have this little podcast!  Welcome, everyone, to the Classic English Literature Podcast, the show that gives rhyme some of its reasons.  Today, I want to have a look at Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, a play that many see as increasingly relevant and timely in today’s political climate.  It’s one part political thriller, one part war movie, but all parts a deeply unsettling interrogation of the ethics of political violence used to achieve visions of social justice and stability.

The play was written in 1599, probably Shakespeare’s most productive year, and uses as its primary source the 1579 translation of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans by Thomas North.  Plutarch, by the by, was a 1st century CE Greek writer who became a Roman citizen.  His most notable work, also known as the Parallel Lives, offers biographical portraits of paired influential or powerful men, the pairing employed to highlight or contrast the virtues and vices of these figures. Plutarch pairs Julius Caesar with Alexander the Great. So, Plutarch intends more of a moral or psychological project than a strictly historical one, and the same may be said for Shakespeare’s play.  

That Shakespeare is not particularly interested in the life of Caesar is best evidenced by the fact that he begins the play mere days before Caesar’s death.  Oh, sorry – did that spoil it for anyone?  There are 69 chapters to Plutarch’s life of Caesar, and Bill picks up his story at chapter 60.

Julius Caesar has returned to Rome after triumphing over his rivals and enemies, foreign and domestic.  He has additionally won the hearts of the Romans, who are enjoying the feast of Lupercal, a ceremony for the renewal of Rome.  However, certain senators, especially Brutus and Cassius, fear that Caesar’s power may overthrow the senate, destroy the Roman republic, and establish a monarchy.  They organize a plot to kill Caesar on the Ides of March when he enters the Senate.  Brutus wishes to ensure that their project is honorable and done for the good of Rome.  Cassius seems rather more ambitious, personally slighted by Caesar’s rise.

Storms, portents, and soothsayers testify to the coming tribulation.  Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, begs him to absent himself from the Senate because of an ominous dream, but he goes and meets his death at the hands of his enemies.  Brutus insists on addressing the crowd to convince them of the righteousness of their terrible act.  Following Brutus, Caesar’s ally and friend Mark Antony offers a speech of masterful pathos and demagoguery, inciting the Roman people to riot and, eventually, civil war.

Brutus and Cassius, as generals, prepare their armies for battle against the forces of Antony and Octavius, Caesar’s adopted son and heir.  There are cracks in their relationship, as Brutus reprimands his friend for corrupting the honor of their cause.  Brutus stoically accepts the news of his wife Portia’s death, sleeps, and dreams of Caesar’s ghost, who prophesies they will meet again at the Battle of Philippi.  At that battle, the Republican forces seem to hold the day, but Cassius mistakes a report and commits suicide as an honorable death.  Brutus and the others similarly end their own lives as a means to preserve the honor of their names and so Antony is triumphant and returns to Rome with Octavius, who (after the events of the play proper) will go on to become Caesar Augustus, the first Emperor of Rome.

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The critical reputation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar has fluctuated over the centuries.  Early critics, steeped in the Aristotelian unities (that is, the Greek philosopher’s belief that a play should have a single action which take place in a single day in a single setting) and his definition of the tragic hero (that he is a man of noble stature who is brought to destruction by a flaw in his character) obviously found the play unsatisfactory.   No respect for the unities and just who is the protagonist, anyway?  The title character killed off in act 3?  Monstrous!

This opinion held on until the 19th century, when neo-classical modes were supplanted by critics of a more Romantic nature who saw in the play strong portraits of powerful characters and innovations in dramatic structure.  More recently, the play has been seen as a political allegory or as a cautionary tale of toxic masculinist power.

I include the play in a course I teach on the introduction to philosophy through literature.  In fact, we’ve just concluded our study of it.  So here’s a shout-out to the C-block Clubhousers: Magnanimous Martha, Ruminating Raynna, Galloping Grace, Rambling Rowan, Sagacious Sarah, Chef Henil, and the always spectacular Karena Augusta.  A more splendid group of young people you will not find.

 I use it as a hinge text, allowing the class to move from the study of ethics to a study of political philosophy.  Obviously, the assassination itself becomes the central object of discussion: is political violence ever ethical?  If so, under what circumstances?  How do we determine the ethical status of an action? Should we look to the intentions of the actor or the consequences of the action?  If the latter, how do we account for the uncertainty and unverifiability of potential consequences?

So that’s the angle I want to take in today’s show.  If we think of parallel lives in this play, how do Caesar and Brutus and Antony offer different visions of the just accumulation and effective exercise of power?

Let’s begin with the case against Caesar.  Shakespeare compacts the events of about four years of history as provided by Plutarch, but here’s the gist of what’s happened before the play begins.

Pompey and Caesar formed part of the First Triumvirate, along with a fella named Crassus, a political alliance that helped them consolidate power.  But when Crassus dies, the resulting power vacuum intensifies the rivalry between Pompey and Caesar.

When Caesar's term as governor of Gaul ends, he faces prosecution for alleged misconduct during his governorship, so Caesar seeks to retain his command and immunity from prosecution (glad we never see that kind of nonsense anymore). However, the Senate, under Pompey’s sway, demands that Caesar disband his army and return to Rome.

Caesar, complaining this is all a witch hunt organized by Romans In Name Only, crosses the Rubicon River with his army in 49 BCE, an act of treason – governments are skittish about armies marching on their capitals. Thus begins the Roman Civil War. 

Caesar finally defeats Pompey in the Battle of Pharsalus in 48 BCE. Pompey flees to Egypt, where he is assassinated. Caesar purges his rival's former allies and solidifies his control over Rome and its territories.  Plutarch writes, “the Romans gave way before the good fortune of the man and accepted the bit, and regarding the monarchy as a respite from the evils of the civil wars, they appointed him dictator for life. This was confessedly a tyranny, since the monarchy, besides the element of irresponsibility, now took on that of permanence.”

In the play, we mainly see apprehensions about this state of affairs in the speeches of Cassius and Brutus – these men articulate the political crisis; the other conspirators (including a cameo appearance by the philosopher Cicero, to whom Plutarch gives a more central role) mainly report off-stage events or mime their leaders.  But as I hinted at earlier, while the main plotters overlap in their concerns and motivations, as a Venn diagram they are not perfect circles.

Cassius seems personally insulted by the rise of Caesar.  He is appalled that a man he sees as weak, feeble, and effeminate should be the foremost man of the world, while he himself – robust and manly – lives in relative obscurity.  Here’s his speech to Brutus following the Lupercal race and their concern that the crowd may be crowning Caesar king:

I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but, for my single self,

I had as lief not be as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Caesar; so were you:

We both have fed as well, and we can both

Endure the winter's cold as well as he:

For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,

Caesar said to me 'Darest thou, Cassius, now

Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?' Upon the word,

Accoutred as I was, I plunged in

And bade him follow; so indeed he did.

The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside

And stemming it with hearts of controversy;

But ere we could arrive the point proposed,

Caesar cried 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!'

I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber

Did I the tired Caesar. And this man

Is now become a god, and Cassius is

A wretched creature and must bend his body,

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake: 'tis true, this god did shake;

His coward lips did from their colour fly,

And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world

Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:

Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans

Mark him and write his speeches in their books,

Alas, it cried 'Give me some drink, Tintinius,'

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me

A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world

And bear the palm alone.

I’m not really sure that Cassius is so much a republican as a frustrated dictator himself.  We get no mighty orations from him about the essential justice of republicanism.  In fact, he really only mentions the glorious republic as a way to persuade Brutus, whose ancestor drove the last Tarquin king from Rome at the end of the 6th century BCE, establishing the very republic that Caesar threatens.  Cassius doesn’t seem to be against the strong man method of government per se, just not this strong man, who can’t impregnate his wife, can’t swim the Tiber, is prone to fevers and fits.  Cassius' motivations, in short, are “why not me?”

Or, indeed, you, Brutus?  Cassius tempts his friend:

Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that 'Caesar'?

Why should that name be sounded more than yours?

Write them together, yours is as fair a name;

Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;

Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet?  I like that the first line here is two syllables too long, and those are “Caesar” – like he overwhelms the poetry itself.  Ah, Cassius knows that he has that lean and hungry look – he cannot win the crowd for he has not the public regard that Brutus does.  Brutus, who inspires by his honor and integrity.  While he resents that Caesar

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

he also sees that the narrow world is still too wide for himself.  Cassius’ ethics here bear the traces of Thrasymachus’ definition of justice from Plato’s Republic, who says, "nothing other than the advantage of the stronger . . . [it is] really someone else's good, the advantage of the man who is stronger and rules."  Might makes right, to bastardize the sentiment grossly, and Cassius believes that Caesar is not the “stronger” man.  Those who take the opportunities afforded them are the just – as he says, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.”  We must strike, as we are stronger, the undo the injustice of this weak man whose has exploited the greater weakness of the Roman people: “he sees the Romans are but sheep; / He were no lion, were not the Romans hinds.”

Brutus, on the other hand, subscribes to a different ethical system.  To be somewhat anachronistic, Brutus is a utilitarian, a theory of ethics rooted in consequentialism.  Briefly, this identifies the just action as that which augments the net sum of happiness.  The consequences of an action are what determines that action's justness.  If general happiness increases, the action is good.

We can look to Victorian philosopher John Stuart Mill for the best articulation of this principle.  In his essay “Utilitarianism” from 1861.  In chapter 2, he writes (and I will be playing a bit fast and loose with the ellipses here): 

The Greatest Happiness Principle holds that actions are right in proportion as they tend to promote happiness and wrong as they tend to produce the reverse of happiness. . . . The happiness which forms the utilitarian standard of what is right in conduct, is not the agent’s own happiness, but that of all concerned. As between his own happiness and that of others, utilitarianism requires him to be as strictly impartial as a disinterested and benevolent spectator.

and in chapter 4:

The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant.

Now, have a listen to Brutus, late at night in his garden, as he debates the justness of assassinating a man who has, as yet, committed no crime:

It must be by his death: and for my part,

I know no personal cause to spurn at him,

But for the general. He would be crown'd:

How that might change his nature, there's the question.

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;

And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that;—

And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,

That at his will he may do danger with.

The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins

Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar,

I have not known when his affections sway'd

More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof,

That lowliness is young ambition's ladder,

Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;

But when he once attains the upmost round.

He then unto the ladder turns his back,

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees

By which he did ascend. So Caesar may.

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel

Will bear no colour for the thing he is,

Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,

Would run to these and these extremities:

And therefore think him as a serpent's egg

Which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,

And kill him in the shell.

I’m fascinated here by the mood of Brutus’ verbs.  They are all subjunctive, that is, they indicate not actual facts but hypothetical situations.  They are conditional.  So, for example, 

He would be crown'd

that might change his nature

 he may do danger

So Caesar may

and

what he is, augmented,

Would run to these and these extremities.

Which throws something of a shadow over an earlier incident.  Following the foot race at Lupercal, Casca explains what the recent shouting overheard by Cassius and Brutus concerned:

I saw Mark  Antony offer him a crown (yet ’twas not a crown

 neither; ’twas one of these coronets), and, as I told

 you, he put it by once; but for all that, to my

 thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered

 it to him again; then he put it by again; but to my

 thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it.

 And then he offered it the third time. He put it the

 third time by. 

Casca reports that Caesar refused a kingly crown three times, but he believes that Caesar only did it for show and that he really does covet it.  But crucially, we never witness the scene – and nor does Brutus.  We only hear Casca’s editorializing, and as Brutus agonizes over his course of action, this hearsay evidence weighs heavy in his deliberations.

Brutus’ concerns have nothing to do with his own personal feelings or gain.  Indeed, he admits that he loves Caesar, knows of no material charge against him save that he might threaten the well-being of the entire state.  To maximize the happiness of the general population, Caesar must bleed.  The cost?  Caesar’s life, and perhaps his own, but the benefaction of Rome outweighs these costs and therefore, justifies the assassination.

OK, a sound argument, perhaps, and one we may find more palatable than Cassius’ more venal motivations.  But, of course, consequentialism can only justify actions after the fact.  One can never know what the effects of a cause might be for sure – what economists would call “negative externalities” (drop that sexy phrase at your next cocktail party – you will be regarded as a prescient cultural critic).  What are the unintended consequences of a given action?  And how then can we know, ex-ante, whether or not our action is ethical?

Of course, Brutus rolls the dice.  As Caesar himself said before he fatefully crossed the Rubicon and marched to Rome: “Alea iacta est.”  The die is cast.

We are, I think, meant to find Brutus attractive, sympathetic.  He is honorable, rigidly so.  His Stoic virtues guide him in his life’s course.  That’s what’s brilliant about Shakespeare, isn’t it?  Hardly ever does he present us with unidimensional protagonists or antagonists.  Here, we identify with a man who feels he must kill to preserve the honor and decency of himself and his country.  And, of course, Cassius knows this of his friend, seeks to enlist him as the ethical face, the leader, of this cause.

But yet, I do not think Brutus – admirable as we may find him – would be an effective ruler.  His honor, ironically, renders him incapable of perceiving the political realities necessary to govern for the benefit of the populace.

Put bluntly, I think Brutus has too fundamentalist a faith in his concept of honor – he cannot fathom that others do not regard honor as he does.  He presumes his own normativity.  He says, “let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honor more than I fear death.”  Cassius replies, “I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,” and often throughout the play references to Brutus’ honor abound.  

And I think this obsession blinds him to the real natures, the psychological complexity, of the people around them.  He sees them, in some way, as mirrors of himself – doing what he would do as the honorable thing.  He later chides Cassius: 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,  

For I am armed so strong in honesty

That they pass by me as the idle wind,

Which I respect not. 

Much as we may admire Brutus for his scrupulousness, he can be dismissive, as in this scene, and I’m hard-pressed to remember a time when he ever capitulated to anyone else’s advice.  He does agree to tell Portia what’s troubling him, but we never see him do it.  

In short, I think Brutus misreads people.  For instance, to go back to the garden scene, he says, “And, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections swayed more than his reason.”  But we see on several occasions how Caesar is not “constant as the northern star.”  Most fatefully, he dithers in his response to Calpurnia and elects to follow Decius to the Senate on the Ides of March.  Decius himself earlier recognizes Caesar’s trusting and pliant nature, saying

I can o'ersway him; for he loves to hear

That unicorns may be betray'd with trees,

And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,

Lions with toils and men with flatterers;

But when I tell him he hates flatterers,

He says he does, being then most flattered.

But Brutus sees it not.  Additionally, Brutus is later angered to find that Cassius is involved in some corruption with his army.  Should he not have known that Cassius has such an opportunistic streak?  And, of course, most foolishly, he allows Mark Antony to address the Roman people – to give him the last word – after Caesar’s assassination.

Brutus’ own funeral oration is a masterclass in rhetorical failure.  The language is fine, the parallels are good, the repetitions, the skilful use of contrast and question.  But he has no sense of the audience he addresses.  He imagines that the mob – a mob that once celebrated Pompey as vociferously as they later celebrate Caesar – can be won with appeals to reason and honor.  When Cassius advises against allowing Antony to speak, Brutus dismisses him: “I will myself into the pulpit first and show the reason of our Caesar’s death.”  He then appeals to the people on his honor: “believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe.”  Sounds lovely and at first it does work.  The crowd calms and proclaims his the most honorable man.

Interestingly, Shakespeare writes Brutus’ speech in prose, not in blank verse, which at first seemed odd to me.  Surely someone of his rank and character would speak in the noble cadence, especially in an appeal to righteousness.  But I wonder if the prose indicates a bit of condescension on Brutus’ part – that he must stoop to explain what should be self-evident.  Or that his earnest attempt to speak to the people, misses the mark and becomes a speech at them.  For all the rhetorical flourishes and his ethical appeal, and perhaps the pretense of speaking to the people in their idiom, Brutus fails to understand exactly what it is that moves a crowd, and its not the ethic, but the pathetic.

Anyone who’s ever had to do any public speaking – an oral report, a presentation to a board, or a eulogy – has learned the necessity of visual aids.  You need props – especially a eulogy, otherwise what’s the point?  Mark Antony knows this and enters the public square dramatically, cutting into Brutus’ speech, carrying the wrapped and bloody corpse of Caesar.  

So begins his famous “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” oration, in which he masterfully seduces a hostile crowd back to their love of Caesar.  He controls the stage like a star, repeating “Brutus was an honorable man” over and over, each time layering it with more irony until the mob is incensed.  Antony makes few appeals to abstract ideals – he speaks as a bereaved friend.  Personally.  He weeps openly, apologizes that his speech is not elegant like that of Brutus (though, notably, Antony is in blank verse throughout).  He removes the bloodstained cloak and invents stories for each of the wounds on Caesar’s exposed body.  This by Cassius, this by Casca, this by Brutus: 

And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,

 Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it,

 As rushing out of doors to be resolved

 If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no;

 For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel.

 Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!

 This was the most unkindest cut of all.

Each rhetorical move Antony makes, he deftly makes it seems the crowd is forcing him to do it.  He introduces Caesar’s will (is it really? or just a prop? – doesn’t matter, it’s effective) and convinces the crowd of Caesar’s generosity and Brutus’ venality, all while never saying a word against Brutus.  As the mob riots through the city, pillaging and murdering, Antony whispers to himself: “Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot.”

When next we see Antony, he is with Octavius, Caesar’s nephew and adopted son, as they draw up the list of those enemies who must be executed, including Antony’s own nephew.  He disparages Lepidus, with whom he and Octavius have temporarily aligned, as a donkey, a mere beast of burden and not to be respected.  He clearly commands in the Battle of Philippi, bristling noticeable when Octavius contradicts his order: 

“Why do you cross me in this exigent?” he snaps.
We’ve spoken a couple of times about Niccolo Machiavelli and his political philosophy here on the poddie, so I don’t want to belabor the point here, but I believe that Antony, in addition to his own aggrandizement certainly, genuinely sees the Roman republic as moribund.  Probably he would agree with Cassius that the people are sheep and hinds – evidently they are incapable of ordering themselves.  They are fickle, weak, stupid.  A strong man must organize their lives.  Like Machiavelli, Antony sees stability as the prime directive of the prince and through his control of Octavius, he can bring it.  Octavius becomes Antony’s instrument, his Thrasymachus-like cudgel to bring all to heel.

Listen to his last lines in the play, following his victory in the field and the honorable suicides of Cassius and Brutus.  Of the latter, he says:
This was the noblest Roman of them all:All the conspirators save only heDid that they did in envy of great Caesar;He only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them.His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mix'd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world 'This was a man!'
Note those key phrases: “noblest Roman,” “general honest thought,” “common good,” “gentle.”  All these, in sum, make up a man, as opposed to the venal and petty animals that populate the emerging empire.
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So Brutus’ honor seems to fail.  His fears of Julius Caesar’s ambition smoothes the way for that of Caesar Augustus and the death of republican Rome.  Did he act appropriately according to the principle of utility?  Did he increase the net amount of happiness?  Hard to think he did, but historians may argue whether the Empire and the Pax Romana were better than the wheezing republic. According to historian Suetonius,  Augustus, assessing his rule, said: "I found Rome a city of bricks and left it a city of marble.”  Well, that’s outside our brief.
Besides, things are seldom simply one way or the other.  Another ethical theory we might apply to the events of the play is called deontology, and it’s largely associated with 18th century German philosopher Immanuel Kant.  If utilitarianism measures consequences to determine a moral action, deontology can be said to measure intentions. The word comes from the Greek meaning “necessary,” so deontology is often thought of as a duty-based ethics.  In short, one must do the right thing as determined by a system of rules and principles.  But can a universal mechanism be applied in any or all situations to make such determinations?  Kant thought there could be.  He called it the “categorical imperative” – that which you must do.  Here he is in all his lucid glory:
what sort of law can that be, the conception of which must determine the will, even without paying any regard to the effect expected from it, in order that this will may be called good absolutely and without qualification? As I have deprived the will of every impulse which could arise to it from obedience to any law, there remains nothing but the universal conformity of its actions to law in general, which alone is to serve the will as a principle, i.e., I am never to act otherwise than so that I could also will that my maxim should become a universal law. Here, now, it is the simple conformity to law in general, without assuming any particular law applicable to certain actions, that serves the will as its principle and must so serve it, if duty is not to be a vain delusion and a chimerical notion.
Helpfully abstruse as usual, Herr Kant.  Let me spitball: when you make a decision to act, ensure you would be comfortable living in a world where everybody else could make the same decision. 
So, coming back to Brutus, if he applied a deontological analysis to the whole Caesar assassination thing: would I consent to a world in which a political leader can be overthrown for potential misuse of power?  What if someone thought you might misuse power?  What if someone thought that an everyday act of the local council was tantamount to tyranny?  What if you had been convinced erroneously about the integrity of an election?  Would assassination be an acceptable decision in those circumstances?  No?  Well, then, maybe you shouldn’t just totally stab Caesar.  In fact, it would violate a duty to do so.
Alas, Brutus is a Stoic and not a Kantian.  See how philosophy and literature can affect the great tide of history?  We are engaged in very serious work here, litterbugs.  Apart from anything else, if Brutus had considered the deontological perspective the play would have been over in the middle of Act 1.  Cassius would ask: “Aye, do you fear that the crowd would have Caesar their king?” and Brutus would reply, “I do.  But it is my categorical duty to behave in such a way that I would be content my maxim should be a general law.”  And Cassius would reply, “Huh?”
Thanks very much for listening.  If you enjoyed the show, please take a moment to give it a 5 star rating on your podcast app – that will raise the poddie’s profile and get more people in the know.  Click the “support the show” button if you can make a financial contribution to help with the expenses of putting this show on.  I appreciate your support.  Check us out on the social medias and do drop an email with any comments or questions.  I love hearing from you.
Till next time, keep well.
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