It’s Treason Season

It’s the most treasonous part of the year! Remember, remember the 8th of November, which is of course the anniversary of the First Catilinarian Oration, and Catilina subsequently fleeing Rome to go and do treason elsewhere. Who cares about Guy Fawkes? Or maybe, who cared enough in 2005 to put on a Treasonous Play for the 400th Anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot? The Royal Shakespeare Company did, when they decided to put on Ben Jonson’s rarely performed tragedy, Sejanus His Fall.

I think this was terrible, because they had the perfect opportunity to put on Ben Jonson’s even more rarely performed yet even more treasonous other tragedy, Catiline His Conspiracy. Catiline has a long performance history of either not being performed at all, or of being Weird And Unpopular. Gregory Doran, who directed the RSC’s Sejanus, mentioned that he would like to produce it… and in 2018 did direct the RSC adaption of Robert Harris’ Cicero trilogy, in which the double-casting of Catiline and Mark Antony made the characterisation of both seem caricature-ish. In 1963 there was a single, 60 minute production of Catiline at the RSC Swan Theatre. And the only professional productions (or the only productions!) I can find before that are from the 17th century. Samuel Pepys saw a performance in 1668, but called it “a play of much good sense and words to read, but that do appear the worst upon the stage […] the play is only to be read.”

Even the original performance in 1611 didn’t seem to go well: it was (possibly) booed off stage, and Jonson felt the need to include defences of the play in the published version, saying he “must call is [a legitimate poem], against all noise of opinion: from whose crude and angry reports I do appeal.” He also wrote to “the reader in ordinarie” that “neither praise, nor dispraise from you can affect me. Though you commend the two first Acts, with the people, because they are the worst; and dislike the Oration of Cicero, in regard you read some pieces of it, at School, and understand them not yet; I shall find the way to forgive you.”

It’s this “Oration of Cicero” which I think it the problem. Ben Jonson decided to include the entirety of Cicero’s First Catilinarian Oration in the play, translated not only into English, but into iambic pentameter blank verse. The speech starts properly with “whither at length wilt thou abuse our patience?”, is 2455 words or 219 lines long, and is barely broken up by Cato occasionally interjecting to call Catiline a traitor. I think it’s quite fun.

Here It Is:

Dost thou not blush, pernicious Catiline?

Or hath the paleness of thy Guilt drunk up

Thy Blood, and drawn thy Veins as dry of that

As is thy Heart of Truth, thy Breast of Virtue?

Whither at length wilt thou abuse our patience?

Still shall thy Fury mock us? To what licence

Dares thy unbridled boldness run it self?

Do all the nightly Guards, kept on the Palace,

The Cities Watches, with the Peoples Fears,

The Concourse of all good men, this so strong

And fortified Seat here of the Senate,

The present looks upon thee, strike thee nothing?

Dost thou not feel thy Counsels all laid open?

And see thy wild Conspiracy bound in

With each man’s knowledge? which of all this Order

Canst thou think ignorant (if they’ll but utter

Their Conscience to the right) of what thou didst

Last Night, what on the former, where thou wert,

Whom thou didst call together, what your Plots were?

O Age and Manners! This the Consul sees,

The Senate understands, yet this man lives!

Lives? I, and comes here into Counsel with us;

Partakes the Public Cares: and with his Eye

Marks and points out each Man of us to slaughter.

And we, good Men, do satisfy the State,

If we can shun but this Man’s Sword and Madness.

There was that Virtue once in Rome, when good men,

Would, with more sharp Coercion, have restrain’d

A wicked Citizen, than the deadliest Foe.

We have that Law still, Catiline, for thee;

An Act as grave, as sharp: The State’s not wanting,

Nor the Authority of this Senate; we,

We that are Consuls, only fail our selves.

This twenty days the Edge of that Decree

We have let dull and rust; kept it shut up,

As in a Sheath, which drawn, should take thy Head.

Yet still thou liv’st: and liv’st not to lay by

Thy wicked Confidence, but to confirm it.

I could desire, grave Fathers, to be found

Still merciful, to seem, in these main perils

Grasping the State, a Man remiss and slack;

But then I should condemn my self of Sloth

And Treachery. Their Camp’s in Italy,

Pitch’d in the Jaws here of Etruria;

Their Numbers daily increasing, and their General

Within our Walls: nay, in our Counsel! plotting

Hourly some fatal mischief to the Public.

If, Catiline, I should command thee now,

Here to be taken, kill’d; I make just doubt,

Whether all good men would not think it done

Rather too late, than any man too cruel.

(Cato: Except he were of the same Meal and Batch.)

Cicero: But that which ought to have been done long since,

I will, and (for good Reason) yet forbear.

Then will I take thee, when no Man is found

So lost, so wicked, nay, so like thy self,

But shall profess, ’tis done of need and right.

While there is one that dares defend thee, live;

Thou shalt have leave, but so as now thou liv’st;

Watch’d at a hand, besieged, and opprest

From working least Commotion to the State.

I have those Eyes and Ears shall still keep guard,

And spial on thee, as they have ever done,

And thou not feel it. What then canst thou hope?

If neither Night can with her Darkness hide

Thy wicked Meetings, nor a Private House

Can in her Walls contain the guilty whispers

Of thy Conspiracy: If all break out,

All be discover’d, change thy mind at last,

And lose thy thoughts of Ruin, Flame and Slaughter.

Remember how I told, here to the Senate,

That such a day thy Lictor, Caius Manlius,

Would be in Arms. Was I deceived, Catiline?

Or in the Fact, or in the Time? the Hour?

I told too in this Senate, that thy purpose

Was on the Fifth (the Kalends of November)

T’ have slaughter’d this whole Order: which my caution

Made many leave the City. Canst thou here

Deny, but this thy black Design was hindered

That very day by me? Thy self clos’d in

Within my strengths, so that thou could’st not move

Against a public Reed? When thou wert heard

To say upon the parting of the rest,

Thou would’st content thee with the Murder of us

That did remain. Hadst thou no hope beside,

By a surprise by Night, to take Prænestæ?

Where when thou cam’st, didst thou not find the place

Made good against thee with my Aids, my Watches?

My Garrisons fortified it. Thou dost nothing, Sergius;

Thou canst endeavour nothing, nay, not think,

But I both see and hear it; and am with thee,

By and before, about and in thee too.

Call but to mind thy last Nights business. Come,

I’le use no Circumstance: at Lecca’s House,

The Shop, and Mint of your Conspiracy,

Among your Sword-men, where so many Associates

Both of thy Mischief and thy Madness met.

Dar’st thou deny this? Wherefore art thou silent?

Speak, and this shall convince thee: Here they are,

I see ’em in this Senate, that were with thee.

O, you Immortal Gods! in what Clime are we?

What Region do we live in? in what Air?

What Commonwealth or State is this we have?

Here, here, amongst us, our own Number, Fathers,

In this most holy Council of the world

They are that seek the Spoil of me, of you,

Of ours, of all; what I can name’s too narrow:

Follow the Sun, and find not their Ambition.

These I behold, being Consul; nay, I ask

Their Counsels of the State, as from good Patriots:

Whom it were fit the Axe should hew in pieces,

I not so much as wound yet with my Voice.

Thou wast last Night with Lecca, Catiline,

Your Shares of Italy you there divided;

Appointed who, and whither each should go;

What Men should stay behind in Rome, were chosen;

Your Offices set down; the parts mark’d out,

And places of the City, for the fire;

Thy self (thou affirm’dst) wast ready to depart,

Only a little let there was that stay’d thee,

That I yet liv’d. Upon the word, stept forth

Three of thy Crew, to rid thee of that Care;

Two undertook this Morning, before Day,

To kill me in my Bed. All this I knew,

Your Convent scarce dismiss’d, arm’d all my Servants,

Call’d both my Brother and Friends, shut out your Clients

You sent to visit me; whose Names I told

To some there, of good place, before they came.

(Cato: Yes, I, and Quintus Catulus can affirm it.

Cæsar: He’s lost and gone. His Spirits have forsook him.)

Cicero: If this be so, why, Catiline, dost thou stay?

Go where thou mean’st. The Ports are open; forth.

The Camp abroad wants thee, their Chief, too long.

Lead with thee all thy Troops out. Purge the City.

Draw dry that noisome, and pernicious Sink,

Which left behind thee, would infect the World.

Thou wilt free me of all my Fears at once,

To see a Wall between us. Dost thou stop

To do that now commanded; which before,

Of thine own choice, thou’art prone to? Go. The Consul

Bids thee, an Enemy, to depart the City.

Whither, thou’lt ask? to Exile? I not bid

Thee that. But ask my Counsel, I persuade it.

What is there, here, in Rome, that can delight thee?

Where not a Soul, without thine own foul knot,

But fears and hates thee. What Domestick Note

Of private filthiness, but is burnt in

Into thy Life? What close and secret shame

But is grown one with thine own Infamy?

What Lust was ever absent from thine Eyes?

What lewd Fact from thy Hands? what wickedness

From thy whole Body? where’s that Youth drawn in

Within thy Nets, or catch’d up with thy baits,

Before whose Rage thou hast not borne a Sword,

And to whose Lusts thou hast not held a Torch?

Thy latter Nuptials I let pass in silence;

Where sins incredible on sins were heapt:

Which I not name, lest in a Civil State

So monstrous Facts should either appear to be,

Or not to be reveng’d. Thy Fortunes too

I glance not at, which hang but still next Ides.

I come to that which is more known, more public;

The Life and Safety of us all by thee

Threatened and sought. Stood’st thou not in the Field

When Lepidus and Tullus were our Consuls,

Upon the day of Choice, arm’d, and with Forces,

To take their Lives, and our chief Citizens?

When not thy Fear, nor Conscience chang’d thy Mind,

But the mere Fortune of the Commonwealth

Withstood thy active malice? Speak but right.

How often hast thou made attempt on me?

How many of thy Assaults have I declin’d

With shifting but my Body (as we’ld say),

Wrested thy Dagger from thy Hand, how oft?

How often hath it faln, or slipt by chance?

Yet can thy side not want it: which how vow’d,

Or with what Rites, ’tis sacred of thee, I know not,

That still thou mak’st it a Necessity,

To fix it in the Body of a Consul.

But let me lose this way, and speak to thee,

Not as one mov’d with hatred, which I ought,

But pity, of which none is owing thee.

(Catulus: No more than unto Tantalus or Tityus.)

Cicero. Thou cam’st e’re while into this Senate. Who

Of such a frequency, so many Friends

And Kindred thou hast here saluted thee?

Were not the Seats made bare upon thy entrance?

Riss’ not the Consular Men, and left their places

So soon as thou sat’st down? and fled thy side,

Like to a Plague or Ruin? Knowing how oft

They had been by thee mark’d out for the Shambles?

How dost thou hear this? Surely, if my Slaves

At home fear’d me with half th’ affright and horror,

That here thy Fellow-Citizens do thee,

I should soon quit my House, and think it need too.

Yet thou dar’st tarry here? Go forth at last,

Condemn thy self to flight and solitude.

Discharge the Commonwealth of her deep Fear.

Go; into banishment, if thou wait’st the word.

Why dost thou look? They all consent unto it.

Dost thou expect th’ Authority of their Voices,

Whose silent wills condemn thee? While they sit,

They approve it; while they suffer it, they decree it;

And while they are silent to it, they proclaim it.

Prove thou there honest, I’le endure the Envy.

But there’s no thought thou shouldst be ever he,

Whom either shame should call from filthiness,

Terror from danger, or discourse from Fury.

Go; I intreat thee: yet why do I so?

When I already know they’re sent afore,

That tarry for thee’in Arms, and do expect thee

On th’ Aurelian way. I know the day

Set down ‘twixt thee and Manlius; unto whom

The Silver Eagle too is sent before:

Which I do hope shall prove to thee as baneful

As thou conceiv’st it to the Commonwealth.

But may this wise and sacred Senate say,

What mean’st thou Marcus Tullius? If thou know’st

That Catiline be look’d for, to be chief

Of an intestine War; that he is the Author

Of such a wickedness; the caller out

Of men of mark in mischief, to an action

Of so much Horror; Prince of such a Treason;

Why dost thou send him forth? why let him scape?

This is to give him Liberty and Power:

Rather thou should’st lay hold upon him, send him

To deserv’d death, and a just punishment.

To these so holy Voices thus I answer.

If I did think it timely, Conscript Fathers,

To punish him with death, I would not give

The Fencer use of one short Hour to breathe;

But when there are in this grave Order some,

Who with soft Censures still do nurse his Hopes;

Some that with not believing have confirm’d

His Designs more, and whose Authority

The weaker, as the worst Men too have follow’d:

I would now send him where they all should see

Clear as the Light, his Heart shine; where no man

Could be so wickedly, or fondly stupid,

But should cry out, he saw, touch’d, felt and graspt it.

Then, when he hath run out himself; led forth

His desp’rate party with him; blown together

Aids of all kinds, both shipwrack’d Minds and Fortunes:

Not only the grown Evil that now is sprung

And sprouted forth, would be pluck’d up and weeded;

But the Stock, Root, and Seed of all the Mischiefs,

Choaking the Commonwealth. Where should we take

Of such a swarm of Traitors only him,

Our Cares and Fears might seem a while reliev’d,

But the main peril would bide still inclos’d

Deep in the Veins and Bowels of the State.

As Humane Bodies labouring with Fevers,

While they are tost with heat, if they do take

Cold water, seem for that short space much eas’d,

But afterward are ten times more afflicted.

Wherefore, I say, let all this wicked Crew

Depart, divide themselves from good Men, gather

Their Forces to one Head; as I said oft,

Let ’em be sever’d from us with a wall;

Let ’em leave off attempts upon the Consul

In his own House; to circle in the Prætor;

To girt the Court with weapons; to prepare

Fire and Balls, Swords, Torches, Sulphur, Brands:

In short, let it be writ in each Man’s Forehead

What thoughts he bears the Public. I here promise,

Fathers Conscript, to you, and to my self,

That Diligence in us Consuls, for my Honour’d

Colleague abroad, and for my self at home;

So great Authority in you; so much

Virtue in these the Gentlemen of Rome;

Whom I could scarce restrain to day, in Zeal,

From seeking out the Parricide to slaughter;

So much consent in all good Men and Minds,

As on the going out of this one Catiline,

All shall be clear, made plain, oppress’d, reveng’d.

And with this Omen go, pernicious Plague,

Out of the City, to the wish’d Destruction

Of thee and those that, to the Ruin of her,

Have tane that bloody and black Sacrament.

Thou Jupiter, whom we do call the Stayer

Both of this City and this Empire, wilt

(With the same Auspice thou didst raise it first)

Drive from thy Altars, and all other Temples,

And Buildings of this City; from our Walls,

Lives, States and Fortunes of our Citizens,

This Fiend, this Fury, with his Complices.

And all th’ offence of good Men (these known Traitors

Unto their Country, Thieves of Italy,

Join’d in so damn’d a League of Mischief) thou

Wilt with perpetual Plagues, alive and dead,

Punish for Rome, and save her innocent Head.

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