Part 19
He is afraid to come.
CLEOPATRA.
I will not hurt him. These hands do lack nobility, that they strike A meaner than myself.
* * * *
CLEOPATRA.
In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.
CHARMIAN.
Many times, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I am paid for't now-- Lead me from hence. I faint. O Iras, Charmian--'tis no matter Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him Report the features of Octavia, her years, Her inclination--let him not leave out The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly. [_Exit Alex._
Let him forever go--let him not--Charmian, Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas [_To Mardian._
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian. But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.
I have given this scene entire because I know nothing comparable to it The pride and arrogance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions of temper and feeling, the contest of various passions, and at length--when the wild hurricane has spent its fury--the melting into tears, faintness, and languishment, are portrayed with the most astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and force of coloring which is shed over this extraordinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman beating her menial, presents something ridiculous or disgusting to the mind; in a queen or a tragedy heroine it is still more indecorous;[70] yet this scene is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic. Cleopatra seems privileged to "touch the brink of all we hate" with impunity. This imperial termagant, this "wrangling queen, whom every thing becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not by what strange power it is, that in the midst of all these unruly passions and childish caprices, the poetry of the character, and the fanciful and sparkling grace of the delineation are sustained and still rule in the imagination; but we feel that it is so.
I need hardly observe, that we have historical authority for the excessive violence of Cleopatra's temper. Witness the story of her boxing the ears of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene with the messenger.
The man is afterwards brought back, almost by force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a description of Octavia:--but this time, made wise by experience, he takes care to adapt his information to the humors of his imperious mistress, and gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The scene which follows, in which Cleopatra--artful, acute, and penetrating as she is--becomes the dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay, assists in duping herself; and after having cuffed the messenger for telling her truths which are offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flatters her weakness--is not only an admirable exhibition of character, but a fine moral lesson.
She concludes, after dismissing the messenger with gold and thanks,
I repent me much That I so harry'd him. Why, methinks by him This creature's no such thing?
CHARMIAN.
O nothing, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know!
Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself up with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty as she pronounces this last line? and is not this the very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis,--who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent enough for her children but those of _the Sun_ and _the Moon_?
The despotism and insolence of her temper are touched in some other places most admirably. Thus, when she is told that the Romans libel and abuse her, she exclaims,--
Sink Rome, and their tongues rot That speak against us!
And when one of her attendants observes, that "Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but when she were well pleased," she immediately replies, "That Herod's head I'll have."[71]
When Proculeius surprises her in her monument, and snatches her poniard from her, terror, and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being.
CLEOPATRA.
Where art thou, death? Come hither, come! come, come and take a queen Worth many babes and beggars!
PROCULEIUS.
O temperance, lady?
CLEOPATRA.
Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir: If idle talk will once be necessary. I'll not sleep neither; this mortal house I'll ruin, Do Caesar what he can! Know, sir, that I Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court, Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, And show me to the shouting varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave to me! Rather on Nilus' mud Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies Blow me into abhorring! Rather make My country's high pyramids my gibbet, And hang me up in chains!
In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer still, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuberance of fancy and imagery, is her famous description of Antony, addressed to Dolabella:--
Most noble empress you have heard of me?
CLEOPATRA.
I cannot tell.
DOLABELLA.
Assuredly, you know me.
CLEOPATRA.
No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys, or women, tell their dreams Is't not your trick?
DOLABELLA.
I understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I dream'd there was an emperor Antony; O such another sleep, that I might see But such another man!
DOLABELLA.
If it might please you--
CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck A sun and moon; which kept their course, and lighted The little O, the earth.
DOLABELLA.
Most sovereign creature--
CLEOPATRA.
His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail or shake the orb He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas, That grew the more by reaping. His delights Were dolphin like; they show'd his back above The element they liv'd in. In his livery[72] Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands were As plates[73] dropp'd from his pocket.
DOLABELLA.
Cleopatra!
CLEOPATRA.
Think you there was, or might be, such a man As this I dream'd of?
DOLABELLA.
Gentle madam, no.
CLEOPATRA.
You lie,--up to the hearing of the gods!
There was no room left in this amazing picture for the display of that passionate maternal tenderness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in Cleopatra's historical character; but it is not left untouched, for when she is imprecating mischiefs on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of possible evils, that "thunder may smite Caesarion!"
In representing the mutual passion of Antony and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has adhered to the truth of history as well as to general nature. On Antony's side it is a species of infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling: it is, in short, the love of a man declined in years for a woman very much younger than himself, and who has subjected him to every species of female enchantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed nature, made up of real attachment, combined with the love of pleasure, the love of power, and the love of self. Not only is the character most complicated, but no one sentiment could have existed pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers; her passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre; but like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters and veers with every breath of her variable temper: yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies, and even vices, womanly feeling is still predominant in Cleopatra: and the change which takes place in her deportment towards Antony, when their evil fortune darkens round them, is as beautiful and interesting in itself as it is striking and natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provoking petulance she displays in the first scenes, we have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior, for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural feeling.
CLEOPATRA.
O my lord, my lord, Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought You would have follow'd.
ANTONY.
Egypt, thou know'st too well My heart was to the rudder tied by the strings, And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou know'st; and that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me.
CLEOPATRA.
O, my pardon?
ANTONY.
Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And palter in the shifts of lowness; who With half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd, Making and marring fortunes. You did know How much you were my conqueror; and that My sword, made weak by my affection, would Obey it on all cause.
CLEOPATRA.
O pardon, pardon!
ANTONY.
Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss; Even this repays me.
It is perfectly in keeping with the individual character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral strength and physical courage, should cower terrified and subdued before the masculine spirit of her lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations, and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to tears.
Lascia gl' incanti, e vuol provar se vaga E supplice belta sia miglior maga.
Though the poet afterwards gives us to understand that even in this relinquishment of art there was a more refined artifice.
Nella doglia amara Gia tutte non oblia l' arti e le frodi.
And something like this inspires the conduct of Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes. The reader should refer to that fine scene, where Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, "that kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and rages like a thousand hurricanes.
The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by Shakspeare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules. There is an ostentatious display of power, an exaggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of the language, which seems, as it flows along, to resound with the clang of arms and the music of the revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic portrait are a little kept down; but every word which Antony utters is characteristic of the arrogant but magnanimous Roman, who "with half the bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) passions, and the slave of a woman.
History is followed closely in all the details of the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully grand in the hurried march of events towards the conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty, tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse or contradiction.
Her speech, after Antony has expired in her arms, I have always regarded as one of the most wonderful in Shakspeare. Cleopatra is not a woman to grieve silently. The contrast between the violence of her passions and the weakness of her sex, between her regal grandeur and her excess of misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with the fearful destiny which has compassed her, and the mixture of wild impatience and pathos in her agony, are really magnificent. She faints on the body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the cries of her women:--
IRAS.
Royal Egypt--empress!
CLEOPATRA.
No more, but e'en a woman![74] and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks, And does the meanest chares.--It were for me To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods: To tell them that our world did equal theirs Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught, Patience is sottish, and impatience does Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? What, what? good cheer! why how now, Charmian? My noble girls!--ah, women, women! look Our lamp is spent, is out. We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble, Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take us.
But although Cleopatra talks of dying "after the high Roman fashion" she fears what she most desires, and cannot perform with simplicity what costs her such an effort. That extreme physical cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her historical character, which led to the defeat of Actium, which made her delay the execution of a fatal resolve, till she had "tried conclusions infinite of _easy_ ways to die," Shakspeare has rendered with the finest possible effect, and in a manner which heightens instead of diminishing our respect and interest. Timid by nature, she is courageous by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up with high-sounding words into a kind of false daring. Her lively imagination suggests every incentive which can spur her on to the deed she has resolved, yet trembles to contemplate. She pictures to herself all the degradations which must attend her captivity, and let it be observed, that those which she anticipates are precisely such as a vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would especially dread, and which only true virtue and magnanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have endured the loss of freedom; but to be led in triumph through the streets of Rome is insufferable. She could stoop to Caesar with dissembling courtesy, and meet duplicity with superior art; but "to be chastised" by the scornful or upbraiding glance of the injured Octavia--"rather a ditch in Egypt!"
If knife, drugs, serpents, have Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes, And still conclusion,[75] shall acquire no honor Demurring upon me.
Now Iras, what think'st thou? Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves, With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths, Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, And forc'd to drink their vapor.
IRAS.
The gods forbid!
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors Will catch at us like strumpets; and scald rhymers Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us, and present Our Alexandrian revels. Antony Shall be brought drunken forth; and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.
She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state, and attires herself as if "again for Cydnus, to meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she must make Death proud to take her, and die, "phoenix like," as she had lived, with all the pomp of preparation--luxurious in her despair.
The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and others who died "after the high Roman fashion," is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, and yet none of them so powerfully affect the imagination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying with heroism from the mere force of passion and will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and the sumptuous and picturesque accompaniments with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to its extreme height that effect of contrast which prevails through her life and character. No arts, no invention could add to the real circumstances of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare has shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the classical authorities; and to say that the language and sentiments worthily fill up the outline, is the most magnificent praise that can be given. The magical play of fancy and the overpowering fascination of the character are kept up to the last, and when Cleopatra, on applying the asp, silences the lamentations of her women:--
Peace! peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse to sleep?--
These few words--the contrast between the tender beauty of the image and the horror of the situation--produce an effect more intensely mournful than all the ranting in the world. The generous devotion of her women adds the moral charm which alone was wanting: and when Octavius hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, when gazing on her--
She looks like sleep-- As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace,
the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, triumphant even in death, is at once brought before us, and one masterly and comprehensive stroke consummates this most wonderful, most dazzling delineation.
I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's historical character, nor of such women as resemble her: I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait of astonishing beauty, spirit, and originality. She has furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen French, six English, and at least four Italian tragedies;[76] yet Shakspeare alone has availed himself of all the interest of the story, without falsifying the character. He alone has dared to exhibit the Egyptian queen with all her greatness and all her littleness--all her frailties of temper--all her paltry arts and dissolute passions--yet preserved the dramatic propriety and poetical coloring of the character, and awakened our pity for fallen grandeur, without once beguiling us into sympathy with guilt and error. Corneille has represented Cleopatra as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity, constancy, and every female virtue; and the effect is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra: in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem, and which he himself considered his masterpiece, Cleopatra is a mere common-place "all-for-love" heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments. For instance:--
My love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife--a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit. But fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wild world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy.
Is this Antony's Cleopatra--the Circe of the Nile--the Venus of the Cydnus? _She_ never uttered any thing half so mawkish in her life.
In Fletcher's "False One," Cleopatra is represented at an earlier period of her history: and to give an idea of the aspect under which the character is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout the play,) I shall give one scene; if it be considered out of place, its extreme beauty will form its best apology.
Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to Caesar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumulated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleopatra, and treats her with negligence. The following scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occurs immediately afterwards.
ARSINOE.
You're so impatient!
CLEOPATRA.
Have I not cause? Women of common beauties and low births, When they are slighted, are allowed their angers-- Why should not I, a princess, make him know The baseness of his usage?
ARSINOE.
Yes, 'tis fit: But then again you know what man--
CLEOPATRA.
He's no man! The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him, And not the virtue; he is no conqueror, Has suffered under the base dross of nature; Poorly deliver'd up his power to wealth. The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason. Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellion Defied his holy flames.
EROS.
He will fall back again And satisfy your grace.
CLEOPATRA.
Had I been old, Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'd Some shadow of dislike: but to prefer The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe, And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels Before the light of love, and soul of beauty-- O how it vexes me! He is no soldier: All honorable soldiers are Love's servants. He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant, Servile to gain; he trades for poor commodities, And makes his conquests thefts! Some fortunate captains That quarter with him, and are truly valiant. Have flung the name of "Happy Caesar" on him; Himself ne'er won it. He's so base and covetous, He'll sell his sword for gold.
ARSINOE.
This is too bitter.
CLEOPATRA.
O, I could curse myself, that was so foolish. So fondly childish, to believe his tongue-- His promising tongue--ere I could catch his temper. I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal, (His covetous eyes,) such as I scorn to tread on, Richer than e'er he saw yet, and more tempting; Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor-- I had been happy still! But let him take it. And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded; Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies; Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly, And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest-- I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,-- An old blind fool too! I lose my health; I will not, I will not cry; I will not honor him With tears diviner than the gods he worships; I will not take the pains to curse a poor thing.
EROS.
Do not; you shall not need.
CLEOPATRA.
Would I were prisoner To one I hate, that I might anger him! I will love any man to break the heart of him! Any that has the heart and will to kill him!
ARSINOE.
Take some fair truce.
CLEOPATRA.
I will go study mischief, And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings. Shall meet him like a basilisk, and strike him. Love! put destroying flame into mine eyes, Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him-- That I may make him love to death, and laugh at him
_Enter_ APOLLODORUS.
APOLLODORUS.
Caesar commends his service to your grace
CLEOPATRA.
His service? What's his service?
EROS.
Pray you be patient The noble Caesar loves still.
CLEOPATRA.
What's his will?
APOLLODORUS.
He craves access unto your highness.
CLEOPATRA
No;-- Say no; I will have none to trouble me.
ARSINOE.
Good sister!--
CLEOPATRA.
None, I say. I will be private. Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper, When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body To this unthankful Caesar!
APOLLODORUS.
'Twas your will, madam. Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor'd you. You know what danger I endur'd.
CLEOPATRA.
Take this, [_giving a jewel_, And carry it to that lordly Caesar sent thee; There's a new love, a handsome one, a rich one,-- One that will hug his mind: bid him make love to it: Tell the ambitious broker this will suffer--
_Enter_ CAESAR.
APOLLODORUS.
He enters.
CLEOPATRA.
How!
CAESAR.
I do not use to wait, lady Where I am, all the doors are free and open.
CLEOPATRA.
I guess so by your rudeness.
CAESAR.
You're not angry? Things of your tender mould should be most gentle. Why should you frown? Good gods, what a set anger Have you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper you. What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful! How like an ominous flash it broke out from you! Defend me, love! Sweet, who has anger'd you?
CLEOPATRA.