Such a woman is made to be the mother of heroes. It is no wonder that she has bred that colossal Übermensch, her son. But she has the defects of her qualities. Her devotion is narrow in its intensity, and in normal circumstances spares little recognition or tolerance for those beyond its pale. Her contempt for the plebeians is open and unrestrained. She was wont, says Coriolanus,
To call them woollen vassals, things created
To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads
In congregations, to yawn, be still and wonder,
When one but of my ordinance stood up
To speak of peace or war.
(III. ii. 9.)
Even when trying to pacify her son, she cannot bridle her own resentment. When he recklessly cries of his opponents: “Let them hang!” she instinctively approves: “Ay, and burn too.”[262] The energy of her love of glory has nothing sentimental about it, but often becomes savage and sanguinary. She gloats over her robust imaginings of the fight:
Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum,
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair,