I wanted to follow up on the conversation we were having in class last week about the confusion in Act 4, scene 3 of Julius Caesar. The issue at hand: in lines 146-157, an emotional Brutus reveals to Cassius that Portia killed herself, even relating to his friend the details of her grisly method of choice. But in lines 180-195, Brutus acts as if he had no idea she had died, reacting to the “news” Messala brings him with detached acceptance. The question: What gives? More specifically: Why does Brutus react that way? To expand more on the in-class discussion about possible reasons for this seeming contradiction, I think a few of those explanations are working together in this scene—not only to create a complex portrait of, to use Antony’s words, “an honorable man,” but also to further Shakespeare’s own negotiation of fate and free will.

Earlier in 4.3, Brutus is uncharacteristically angry and argumentative—so much so that he surprises his closest friend. In the reading I’m suggesting here the lines immediately proceeding Brutus’ reveal of Portia’s suicide are crucial ones for understanding his actions later in the scene:

CASSIUS: I did not think you could have been so angry.

BRUTUS: O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

CASSIUS: Of your philosophy you make no use

If you give place to accidental evils. (4.3.142-145) [emphasis mine]

What Cassius is referring to there is, according to the Norton Anthology, Brutus’ admiration of the Stoics, “who taught that the wise man should remain unaffected by circumstances outside himself” (1737). Cassius is saying that, by becoming so affected by the unforeseen tragedy of his wife’s death, Brutus is denying the philosophy he purports to embrace. Expanding beyond the modern associations we have with the word “stoic” that have primarily to do with restraining outward shows of emotion, Stoicism held that moral and perceptual certainty were as true as any law of nature, and that ascertaining those truths is possible through rationality. Reason is therefore the model that humans can follow in order to understand and maintain the calmness of the cosmos. Reason—inherently virtuous—is a governing element within and outside of all things, one that thus orders the universe according to something that looks a heck of a lot like fate. In Stoic thought, humans strive to live according to what they see as the natural, rational design of the universe. I think tying Brutus so explicitly to this lofty, fatalistic school of thought—one very much concerned with proper governance and order—is very intentional, and serves as another touchstone in the constant struggle between fate and free will that runs throughout not only Julius Caesar, but Shakespeare writ large.

To get back to the scene at hand, though, Brutus and Cassius reflect on the horror of Portia’s death and subsequently get their drink on, barely able pour one out for a homie before being interrupted by Messala’s bad news. Before Messala broaches the subject, he asks Brutus if he’s heard anything from or about his wife lately, which Brutus denies. And this is where things get interesting:

BRUTUS: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

MESSALA: Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell,

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

BRUTUS: Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala.

With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

MESSALA: Even so great men great losses should endure.

CASSIUS: I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

BRUTUS: Well, to our work alive. (4.3.186-195) [emphasis mine]

From the beginning of their exchange, two things are clear: 1) Whatever Messala is bringing to the table is bad news bears, and 2) because of the intensely personal nature of said news, Brutus’ reaction will influence his reputation, serving as a reflection of him as a Roman—a human, a man, and a leader. With this context in mind, I find it difficult to think of this scene as a lapse in memory and/or judgement on behalf of either Brutus or Shakespeare. To me, it works spectacularly well as a subtle moment of political theater from Brutus and Cassius. Brutus plays the Stoic to a tee: he doesn’t just refuse to despair, he publicly exercises his rationality, embracing the divine order of the universe even if it means the death of his wife. But the performance doesn’t stop there—the ever-keen Cassius catches on quickly, once again explicitly tying Stoicism to Brutus (“I have as much of this in art as you”), noting that they’re both students of philosophy, but this time praising Brutus for the qualities he was just chiding him for neglecting. It seems to me like a successful, concerted effort on both of their parts to establish Brutus as an effective political leader and a consummate Roman.

I would love to see how different productions handle this scene, because I think that, if this reading has any merit, it would be reflected in the performances of the actors. It comes back to the value of seeing these plays as actual performances beyond words on the page. A moment’s hesitation, a deep breath, a single, well-timed sidelong glance—any number of acting choices could turn our understanding of this scene on its head. The fact is that, try as we might to pin down what the scene Really Means, so much of its significance is based in an aspect of the artform that’s entirely subjective. But I think that this scene offers a unique opportunity to see Brutus in a different—perhaps slightly colder—light, just as 4.1 does for Antony. It’s a significant perspective to consider in a play so deeply concerned with the interaction between philosophy and psychology, between conviction and convenience.