Do they still fly to th’ Roman?
Do they still flock to that Roman?
Do they still follow him everywhere?
they still running to him?
The Lieutenant speaks with the candor of a loyal subordinate who knows he's being trusted with dangerous information. Watch for how he never pushes further than Aufidius invites.
I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but
Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat,
Their talk at table, and their thanks at end;
And you are dark’ned in this action, sir,
Even by your own.
I don't know what mysterious power he has, but your soldiers treat him like a prayer before meals, their topic of conversation at dinner, and their thanks after eating. And you're being overshadowed in this campaign, sir, even by your own men.
I don't know what magic he's got, but your soldiers worship him like a prayer before they eat, they talk about him at dinner, and they thank him after. And honestly sir, even your own guys see you as less important than him in this whole thing.
don't know his magic but ur soldiers worship him. they talk about him over dinner. u being overshadowed by ur own men
In this scene Aufidius offers what is arguably the play's most sophisticated analysis of why Coriolanus fell. He offers three hypotheses: (1) pride — 'which out of daily fortune ever taints the happy man'; (2) poor political judgment — failing to deploy his opportunities correctly; or (3) simple nature — the inability to be more than one thing, to shift from the battlefield to the Senate without using the same blunt force everywhere. Aufidius explicitly declines to choose between them: 'he hath spices of them all.' This ambiguity is deliberate — Shakespeare is putting the question into the mouth of Coriolanus's closest observer, and Aufidius doesn't know the answer either. The play refuses to give us a simple tragic flaw. What made Coriolanus is also what destroyed him.
I cannot help it now,
Unless by using means I lame the foot
Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier,
Even to my person, than I thought he would
When first I did embrace him. Yet his nature
In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse
What cannot be amended.
I can't do anything about it now without damaging our whole plan. He carries himself more arrogantly, even toward me personally, than I expected when I first embraced him as an ally. Yet his character hasn't changed in this—it's just his nature—and I must accept what can't be fixed.
I can't change it without messing up everything we're trying to do. He's acting way more full of himself, even around me, than I thought he would be when I first brought him in. But that's just who he is, and I've got to deal with it since there's nothing I can do.
can't change it now. he's acting more arrogant than expected, even 2 me. that's just who he is
Yet I wish, sir—
I mean for your particular—you had not
Joined in commission with him, but either
Had borne the action of yourself or else
To him had left it solely.
Still, I wish, sir—speaking just for your sake—you hadn't shared the command with him. You should have either led the campaign yourself or given him complete control alone.
But honestly sir, thinking about what's best for you, I wish you hadn't split the leadership. You should've either run this whole thing yourself or just handed it all over to him.
wish u hadn't shared command. should've led it yourself or given him total control
I understand thee well, and be thou sure,
When he shall come to his account, he knows not
What I can urge against him, although it seems,
And so he thinks and is no less apparent
To th’ vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly,
And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,
Fights dragonlike, and does achieve as soon
As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone
That which shall break his neck or hazard mine
Whene’er we come to our account.
I understand what you're saying, and be certain of this: when he has to answer for his actions, he doesn't know what accusations I can bring against him, even though it seems—and he thinks and clearly shows to common eyes—that he's handling everything fairly, managing the Volscian state well, fighting like a dragon, and achieving things as fast as he can draw his sword. Yet he has left something unfinished that will either break his neck or put mine at risk whenever we come to settle accounts.
I get what you're saying, and trust me on this: when the time comes for him to answer for what he's done, he has no idea what I can use against him. Even though it looks—and he believes it and everyone can see it—like he's playing everything straight, taking good care of the Volscian interests, fighting like a beast, and getting things done instantly, there's still something he hasn't finished that's going to destroy either him or me when we finally settle up.
i get it. he doesn't know what i can use against him. looks like he's playing fair but he left something unfinished that'll destroy one of us
The theatrical brilliance of the Aufidius arc is the gap between his conduct in 4-5 and his confession in 4-7. In 4-5, he embraced Coriolanus with what seemed like genuine emotional intensity — 'more dances my rapt heart than when I first my wedded mistress saw.' Now, just a few scenes later, he's calmly telling his lieutenant that he's been building a case against Coriolanus and will act the moment the campaign ends. Was the embrace sincere? It may have been — Aufidius is capable of holding genuine admiration and calculating betrayal simultaneously. The point Shakespeare is making is darker: even real feeling is no protection against the logic of power. When, Caius, Rome is yours, you're poorest of all. Then shortly you're mine.
Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?
Sir, I'm begging you, do you think he'll take Rome?
Sir, I'm asking you seriously, do you really think he can conquer Rome?
u think he'll take rome?
All places yield to him ere he sits down,
And the nobility of Rome are his;
The Senators and Patricians love him too.
The Tribunes are no soldiers, and their people
Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty
To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it
By sovereignty of nature. First, he was
A noble servant to them, but he could not
Carry his honours even. Whether ’twas pride,
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man; whether defect of judgment,
To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of; or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From th’ casque to th’ cushion, but commanding peace
Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controlled the war; but one of these—
As he hath spices of them all—not all,
For I dare so far free him—made him feared,
So hated, and so banished. But he has a merit
To choke it in the utt’rance. So our virtues
Lie in th’ interpretation of the time,
And power, unto itself most commendable,
Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair
T’ extol what it hath done.
One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail;
Rights by rights falter; strengths by strengths do fail.
Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,
Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.
Every place surrenders to him before he even sits down to govern it, and all the nobility of Rome belongs to him. The senators and patricians love him too. The tribunes are not military men, and the common people will be just as careless about keeping him as they were hasty in driving him out. I think he will be to Rome like the osprey is to a fish—he will take it by his natural superiority. First, he was a noble servant to Rome, but he couldn't manage his honors evenly. Whether it was pride, which wealth always corrupts in fortunate men; whether it was poor judgment in handling the opportunities he controlled; or whether it was his nature to be one thing only, never moving from military strictness to civil ease, but keeping the same harsh manner in peace as he used in war—but one of these reasons, because he has traces of all of them but not entirely, and I'll say he's not completely guilty of them—made him feared, hated, and banished. Yet he has merit enough to override even his faults when he speaks. So it is that our virtues depend on how people interpret the times, and power, though it seems good in itself, has no greater monument than a throne that shows what it has accomplished. One fire extinguishes another fire, one nail drives out another nail, rights weaken rights, strengths are weakened by strengths. Come, let's leave. When Caius, Rome is yours, you are the poorest of all. Then shortly you become mine.
Every place falls to him before he even takes control, and the whole Roman nobility is on his side. The senators and the patricians love him. The tribunes are just politicians, not soldiers, and the people will be just as careless about supporting him as they were quick to throw him out. I think he'll be like a fish hawk with Rome—he'll take it just because he's naturally superior. Look, he was a great military leader for Rome, but he couldn't balance his success with humility. Maybe it was arrogance, which comes with power; maybe it was bad judgment about what he could do; or maybe he just couldn't change from being a strict military guy to being a civilian leader—just brought the same harsh attitude to peace that he used in war. One of those, though really he's got bits of all three, not totally guilty of everything, that's what made him terrifying, despised, and kicked out. But he's got enough good qualities to cover for those when he opens his mouth. That's how it works with power and virtue—they depend on how the times judge them, and no matter how powerful you are, the only real proof is a throne showing what you've done. You can put out one fire with another, knock out one nail with another, rights cancel each other out, and strength gets broken by strength. Let's go. When you own Rome, Caius, you'll be the poorest person alive. Then you'll become mine.
every place surrenders. all nobility his. tribunes not soldiers. ppl careless keeping him as hasty throwing him out. he'll take rome naturally. he had merit but couldn't handle success. one fire kills another. rome is yours = u poorest. then u become mine
The Reckoning
A short scene, and one of the most chilling in the play: Aufidius, who just embraced Coriolanus with his whole heart, is already planning his destruction. The ending couplet — 'When, Caius, Rome is thine, thou art poorest of all; then shortly art thou mine' — is one of the finest lines in the play. The audience watches the trap close before the prey has any idea it exists.
If this happened today…
The CEO who just brought a legendary turnaround artist into the firm tells his COO that yes, the numbers are good — but the guy is already taking all the credit, the staff worships him, and the board is starting to ask why they need two leaders. The CEO is already thinking about how the moment this is over, the turnaround artist goes. The perfect moment to use him is also the moment to build the case against him.