If Sempronius, as previously discussed, functions as Addison’s stand-in for his adversaries the Tories, then Cato’s children – Marcus, Portius, and Marcia – were almost certainly intended to represent his colleagues and allies, the Whigs. This comparison excludes Cato himself, of course, though Addison’s portrayal of his hero was most definitely flattering in the extreme, because Addison’s version of that great statesman of ancient Rome was too perfect to be an echo of any actual human being. As aforementioned, Cato is portrayed as being selfless to a fault, extraordinary in his stoicism, noble beyond measure, and almost entirely devoid of human emotion. He cares for everyone but himself, tires only of struggling against such a cruel and vicious world, and at his death seeks only to ensure that his allies and his family are safe and comfortable. Not only would this have represented an insupportable exaggeration of anyone actually involved in contemporary British politics, but the mere fact of their being an individual leader whom so many figures in the play follow and adore runs counter to the basic circumstances of the Stuart/Hanoverian conflict. James Francis Edward Stuart, with some liberties taken, could reasonably be transformed into the unseen but inexorable Julius Caesar. He was an absolutist, a potential dispenser of patronage, and a man for whom loyalty seemed to matter more than honor. But no one on the Hanoverian side of the debate could possibly have been represented by Addison’s version of Cato.
The Whigs had no single leader in 1712, being controlled instead by a “Junto” of statesmen who sought to divide responsibility between them for both controlling their party and forming effective governments. Among them, it was true, were Addison’s patrons, John Somers and Charles Montagu. But neither man, in terms of personality, behavior, or policy, came anywhere close to the selflessness which Addison attributed to Cato. Nor, for that matter, did the Stuart pretender’s opposite number, the Elector of Hanover. His mother, Sophia, of course, was the formal heir to the British throne pursuant to the terms of the Act of Succession (1701). But her probable age upon ascending – eighty-two as of 1712 – more or less ensured that her reign would be a short one. At which point, as declared by Parliament, the Crown would pass to George, a German prince who, though not necessarily a tyrant by inclination, was accustomed to directing far more of his country’s affairs than Parliament would ever permit. No, George wasn’t Addison’s Cato, either. The Whigs most definitely favored his ascension – to the point, indeed, of pinning the fate of the British Constitution on his eventual coronation – but they didn’t look to him as a leader or aspire to emulate him as a statesman. Addison’s Cato was rather the embodiment of an ideal – a physical manifestation of the very concept of virtue. He could be worshiping without ever misleading his followers. Human frailty could not touch him. He was perfect. And for that reason, among others, he represented no one at all.
His children, however, represented actual human beings. Not anyone specific, necessarily – any more than Sempronius represented a specific pro-Stuart Tory – but the membership of the Whig party at large. By following Cato, they follow virtue; by opposing Caesar, they oppose absolutism. They are not perfect, any more than it is possible for humans to be so. Marcus in particular is hot-headed, passionate, and more than a little obsessive. But they aspire to the example of their unimpeachable father. In this sense, their selflessness is made all the more impressive. Unlike Cato, who, because Addison chose not to give him any weaknesses doesn’t really have to master his impulses in order to achieve what he wants to achieve, Marcus, Portius, and Marcia are each shown to struggle in the attempt at reconciling their personal desires with what they feel to be their duty. Marcus feels the weight of being Cato’s son, knows he must live up to his father’s shining example, and wants to, but is continually tortured by his passions. Portius, whom Lucia loves to the exclusion of Marcus, is more stoic than his brother, and continually reminds him of the gravity of their situation, yet also is given to lament the fact that he can never admit his love for the daughter of Lucius for fear of breaking Marcus’s heart. And Marcia, while more like Portius in her resemblance to their father, is similarly torn between behaving as she feels the present circumstances warrant and reciprocating the affections of the ardent Prince Juba. Virtue comes easier to these three than to the likes of Sempronius or Syphax, it seems, but they do still struggle. They are still human.
The arc traced by Marcus over the course of
Addison’s Cato is perhaps the most tragic of
any in the cast. Cato’s death, it is true, is a tragic thing in itself, and is
very much the focal point of all the drama that proceeds it. That said, because
Cato is drawn by Addison as barely being human, his demise ends up lacking a
genuine emotional impact. Marcus, by contrast, is such a flawed character to
begin with that his eventual fate cannot help but elicit sympathy. Introduced,
alongside his brother, in the first scene of Act 1, he is presented to the
audience from the very beginning as the more anguished of Cato’s dutiful sons,
given to teeth-gnashing and lengthy laments while Portius looks on with patient
equanimity. Hearing his brother summarize the state of their shared fortunes
thus far with a degree of cool detachment – “The great, the important day, big
with fate / Of Cato and of Rome---Our father’s death / Would fill up all
the guilt of civil war / And close the scene of blood” – Marcus cannot help but
marvel at Portius’s “steady temper.” Surveying the same set of circumstances,
he bemoans,
I’m tortured e’en to madness, when I think
On the proud victor—ev’ry time he’s named,
Pharsalia rises to my view!—I see
Th’insulting tyrant, prancing o’er the
field,
Strew’d with Rome’s citizens, and drench’d
in slaughter;
His horse’s hooves wet with patrician blood!
As a matter of temperament, it seems, the namesake son of Cato the
Younger is not nearly as stoic as either his father or brother. The events
which they observe with a degree of cool detachment – not unfeeling, mind, but
rational – Marcus treats as a kind of psycho-emotional injury. The name of
Caesar hurts him to hear. Visions of his countrymen cut down by their fellow
Romans at Pharsalus assault his senses. It is almost enough, he claims, to
drive him to madness.
Worse yet, while
Portius attempts to console his bother by reminding him that their misery has
not been in vain – “His sufferings shine,” he says of their father, “And spread
a glory round him; / Greatly unfortunate, he fights the cause / Of honour,
virtue, liberty, and Rome” – Marcus goes so far as to question aloud the wisdom
of carrying on. “But what can Cato do [,]” he grieves,
Against a world, a
base, degenerate world,
That courts the yoke,
and bows the neck to Caesar?
[…]
By Heav’n, such
virtue, join’d with such success,
Distracts my very
soul! Our father’s fortune,
Would almost tempt us
to renounce his precepts.
The scene proceeds thereafter as these first exchanges would indicate: Marcus is tortured, Portius is composed; Marcus remarks upon all the griefs that “wring his soul” while Portius exhorts him to stand fast and remember what their father has taught them about the inextricable connection between virtue and suffering. Ultimately, they reconcile, Marcus at long last moved by his brother’s compassion for his anguish and given even to apologize for his frequent bouts of angst. “Pardon a weak, distemper’d soul,” he begs of Portius, “That swells / With sudden gusts, and sinks as soon in calms, / The sport of passions.” Fittingly, just as Marcus takes this opportunity to depart, Sempronius enters and picks up conversing with Portius.
The reason this is fitting is because Sempronius essentially functions as the dramatic opposite of Marcus. Whereas the latter is pained by what he has thus far experienced, views what Caesar has done as the most heinous of crimes, and struggles to contain the anguish thus roiling within them, the former is troubled only by the potential loss of his own fortunes. Far from lamenting the slaughter of his countrymen that has but recently been the order of the day, Sempronius is quietly impressed by what Caesar has accomplished, and only acts enraged so as to cover his true intention to defect at the earliest convenience. Both men speak in the language of the aggrieved – calling Caesar a knave, recalling the Romans dead by his hand, etc. – and both are gently chided by their companions – Portius and Cato, respectively – for being excessively zealous, but only one is being sincere. Sempronius, it becomes clear soon enough, is a master dissembler, very careful to whom he shows his true face and deepest desires, and one for whom passion is a but a convenient mask. By way of contrast, the legitimate sorrow given voice by Marcus – while not necessarily ideal by the standard set by his father – becomes that much easier to forgive. His is overly emotional, to be sure, and too easily distracted from the matter at hand. But Marcus is nothing if not genuine, honest, and compassionate. He does not play at suffering for effect, but truly feels the harm that has come to Rome and to his countrymen as though it has been inflicted upon himself.
The purpose of this juxtaposition on Addison’s part was almost certainly to emphasize for the audience one of the central differences which the Whigs earnestly believed served to separate themselves from their redoubtable Tory rivals. As far as the Whigs were concerned – in view of how the Tories had historically comported themselves – the Tory party were little more than a train of sycophantic courtiers following in the wake of whichever monarch happened to occupy the throne. They claimed to desire the preservation of British liberties and the promotion of the constitutional status quo wrought by the events of the tumultuous 17th century, but what had their actions shown them to be? Appeasers. Dissemblers. Time and again they favored the prerogatives of the Crown over the rights of Parliament. They claimed, of course, to believe that the authority of the monarchy should be strong enough to balance the authority of the Commons and the Lords, and that from this balance a stable order might be achieved. But hadn’t they always stood to gain from this arrangement? Hadn’t they been rewarded during the Restoration (1660-1688) for their zealous pursuit of the men who had signed the death warrant of Charles I (1600-1649)? And for co-operating with Charles II (1630-1685) when he sought to prevent Parliament from disinheriting his Catholic brother and heir, the Duke of York? Were they not granted pensions for these services? Royal offices? Places at court? Bearing this history in mind – and the more recent ennoblements of the aforementioned Harley and Bolingbroke for their own services to the Crown – the significance of Addison’s characterization of Sempronius would seem to be quite clear.
Whereas Marcus, the son of Cato, is sincerely troubled by the turmoil Caesar has loosened on the Roman Republic, Sempronius merely mouths the words. And while Marcus seems to want nothing more than justice for his slain countrymen and peace for his benighted country – as well, perhaps, as the favor of fair Lucia – Sempronius wants to be favored by whomever he aids. The latter is thus shown to be little better than a mercenary. His services are for sale; his loyalty is a marketable good. Marcus, ironically, is not stoic enough to successfully adopt such a tack. He cares too much, feels too deeply. But at least he does feel. And while at times his heart might cause him to speak foolishly, he never gives anyone reason to believe that he does not loves what he claims to love. This guilelessness is part of what makes him sympathetic. Indeed, it powerfully contributes to the sense of tragedy which accompanies his eventual demise.
Marcus’ next appearance – which turns out to be his last appearance – is in Act 3, during which he once more converses with his bother about his abiding passion for Lucia. As before, Portius attempts to counsel his sibling that excesses of passion often lead men to folly. And as before, Marcus will hear none of it, and at length even asks his bother to search out Lucia and determine the nature of her feelings. The lamentations put forward by Marcus during this exchange are more tortured than before, giving notice of the young man’s growing agitation. “Believe me, Portius,” he thus attempts to explain,
In my Lucia’s absence
Life hangs upon me, and becomes a burden;
And yet, when I behold the charming maid,
I’m ten times more undone; while hope and
fear,
And grief and rage, and love, rise up at
once,
And with variety of pain distract me.
To be sure, this does not sound like the principled declaration of
someone who is certain of their cause and knows what must be done to serve it.
Has he lost sight of what his father is fighting for? Will he be of any use
should a final confrontation occur? His response when Portius returns from
Lucia further casts his attitude in doubt. Having been told by his brother –
whom, again, Lucia truly loves – that the object of his obsession, “Though
sworn never to think of love, / Compassionates your pains, and pities you [,]”
Marcus once more gives vent to the full depth of his anguish. “What is
compassion,” he bemoans, “When ‘tis void of love? […] She pities me! / To one
that asks the warm returns of love, / Compassion’s cruelty, ‘tis scorn, ‘tis
death— [.]” While his next breath is spent in another apology to his brother –
and while the two of them are soon thereafter called away in answer to the
mutiny which Sempronius has organized against Cato – one is nonetheless left to
wonder what will become of Marcus by the time the drama at hand has concluded.
Will he stay true to the ideals of his father, or have the torments of an
unrequited passion left him susceptible to folly?
The answer, it turns
out, is as clear as to the question of whether Cato himself would ever give in
to Caesar. That is to say, of course he will not. Marcus is Cato’s son and namesake.
Riven by passion though he may be, he loves nothing and no one so much as his
honor. Cato, for one, never seems to doubt this. Told by Portius that Syphax is
attempting to flee the camp at Utica, and that the watch held by Marcus lies
squarely in his path, Addison’s eponymous hero shows not the slightest glimmer
of apprehension, dread, or uncertainty. “But haste, my son,” he rather says to
Portius, “And see / Thy brother Marcus acts a Roman’s part.” His trust in his
son is quickly born out when Portius returns but a few lines later to report
that his brother has indeed been slain. Not only did Marcus stand, “The shock
of a whole host of foes, / Till, obstinately brave, and bent on death, /
Oppress’d with multitudes, he greatly fell” – to which Cato’s only response in
an uninflected, “I’m satisfied” – but he managed to kill Syphax before he was
himself cut down. Cato’s further reaction is yet again somewhat alarming in its
stoicism. “Thanks to the gods,” he says, “My boy has done his duty. / —Portius,
when I am dead, be sure you place / His urn near mine.” He does expand upon his
feelings as the body of his son is brought forth and his fellow Senators gather
to offer their condolences, but his manner of mourning for Marcus is not much
warmer. “—How beautiful is death,” he remarks,
When earn’d by virtue!
Who would not be that youth? What pity is
it,
That we can die but once, to serve our
country!
[…]
Portius, behold thy brother, and remember,
Thy life is not thy own when Rome demands
it.
The reaction which his
death elicits is in large part what makes the dramatic arc of Marcus such an
eminently tragic one. Over the course of the play, the audience is shown
repeatedly how profoundly he struggles with his emotions. At various moments,
indeed, he is pushed almost to the point of madness. And yet, when the moment
of truth arrives, he somehow finds a way to rise to the occasion. He lives up
to his father’s pride, gives his life for his father’s ideals, and goes to the
grave knowing that he has spent his all. And how, after all this, is he
mourned? Does his father cry, tear out his hair, or fall prostrate to the floor
in shock and anguish? No. He rather appears eminently satisfied that his son
has died rightly. And while, at length, he does go on to wish that he could
have taken the young man’s place – as many a parent has done upon being told of
the death of their child – his intention is not to spare Marcus his demise. On the
contrary, Cato envies his son. He desires to die as Marcus has died because he
thinks such an ending is glorious. Then, where this not a strange enough
remembrance, he tells the gathered Senators not to take the matter too much to
heart. “Let not a private loss / Afflict your hearts [,]” he says. ‘Tis Rome
requires our tears.” Such is the fate that awaits even the dutiful and beloved
sons of Cato, it seems. They push aside their personal feelings, they die in
service of some abstract ideal, and they are buried by a father who would
presumably be dissatisfied had they not been willing to give what one noted
American statesmen famously referred to as, “The last full measure of
devotion.”
This, of course, was
exactly Addison’s point. To live rightly – which, from his perspective, meant
to be a Whig – entailed a willingness to give one’s all for the so-called
“greater good.” There were rewards that came with being a Tory: high office, ennoblement,
pensions. But a Whig was not supposed to be moved by these things. Like the
erstwhile sons of Cato the Younger, Whigs were supposed to master their
impulses, lay aside their personal desires, and fight with every resource at
their disposal for the rights of the British people in Parliament. Might they
not also gain from their successes? Would not a stronger Parliament make them
stronger in turn? Naturally. But these were not supposed to be the reasons that
they labored as they did. Just as Marcus and Portius were supposed to willingly
give up their lives if the fate of the Roman Republic demanded they do so, a
Whig – again, by Addison’s undeniably biased reckoning – was supposed to
willingly sacrifice their wealth, their honor, and their political careers if it
meant protecting and expanding the authority of Parliament. They were supposed
to be selfless, and honorable, and to risk ruin at a moment’s notice. And if
ruin came? No official praise, no monuments, no memorialization of their
glorious name. They gave all they had for a cause they knew to be just; what
greater reward could there be? As Cato said exactly this of his slain son,
Marcus, so Addison was most definitely saying of his fellow Whigs in
contemporary Britain. The Tories seems keen, just then, of flouting the Act of
Settlement (1701). It would accordingly fall to their partisan rivals to defend
the rights of the Parliament, no matter their personal uncertainties and come
what may.
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