VOLUMNIA.
At thy choice, then:
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor,
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness: for I mock at death
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list—
Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me
But owe thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANUS.
Pray be content;
Mother, I am going to the market place—
Chide me no more.
When the spirit of the mother and the son are brought into immediate collision, he yields before her; the warrior who stemmed alone the whole city of Corioli, who was ready to face "the steep Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels,—vagabond exile—flaying," rather than abate one jot of his proud will—shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty, fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that nothing can more impress us with the real grandeur and power of Volumnia's character, than his boundless submission to her will—his more than filial tenderness and respect.
You gods! I prate,
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth—
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Than that of common sons!
When his mother appears before him as a suppliant, he exclaims,—
My mother bows;
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod.
Here the expression of reverence, and the magnificent image in which it is clothed, are equally characteristic both of the mother and the son.
Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in Volumnia's manner and character, and her supreme contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard expressed by some high-born and high-bred women of our own day.