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.
Show him a glass! That false face has betray'd me--
That base heart wrong'd me!
CAESAR.
Be more sweetly angry.
I wrong'd you, fair?
CLEOPATRA.
Away with your foul flatteries;
They are too gross! But that I dare be angry,
And with as great a god as Caesar is,
To show how poorly I respect his memory
I would not speak to you.
CAESAR.
Pray you, undo this riddle,
And tell me how I've vexed you.
CLEOPATRA.
Let me think first,
Whether I may put on patience
That will with honor suffer me. Know I hate you!
Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.
CAESAR.
But do it mildly: in a noble lady,
Softness of spirit, and a sober nature,
That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows sweetness,
Shows blessed, like herself.
CLEOPATRA.
And that great blessedness.
You first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature,
Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder,
Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller.
You had the spring of my affections,
And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of;
You must expect the winter of mine anger.
You flung me off--before the court disgraced me--
When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty--
Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes
The common strumpet, love of hated lucre,--
Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature,--
Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory,
And minds adorned with noble love, would kick at!
Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;
Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at.
I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,
Called you dear Caesar, hung about you tenderly,
Was proud to appear your friend--
CAESAR.
You have mistaken me.
CLEOPATRA.
But neither eye, nor favor, not a smile
Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely,
And as you had been sold to sordid infamy,
You fell before the images of treasure,
And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted;
Forgotten, and contemned; my soft embraces,
And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium
As letters writ in sand, no more remember'd;
The name and glory of your Cleopatra
Laugh'd at, and made a story to your captains!
Shall I endure?
CAESAR.
You are deceived in all this;
Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness.
CLEOPATRA.
No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen'd;
I love with as much ambition as a conqueror,
And where I love will triumph!
CAESAR.
So you shall:
My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you:
All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods,
The bravery of this woman's mind has fir'd me!
Dear mistress, shall I but this once----
CLEOPATRA.
How! Caesar!
Have I let slip a second vanity
That gives thee hope?
CAESAR.
You shall be absolute,
And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing.
CLEOPATRA.
* * * *
Farewell, unthankful!
CAESAR.
Stay!
CLEOPATRA.
I will not.
CAESAR.
I command.
CLEOPATRA.
Command, and go without, sir,
I do command _thee_ be my slave forever,
And vex, while I laugh at thee!
CAESAR.
Thus low, beauty---- [_He kneels_
CLEOPATRA.
It is too late; when I have found thee absolute,
The man that fame reports thee, and to me,
May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror!
(_Exit._)
Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is not Cleopatra, this is not
"the gipsey queen." The sentiment here is too profound, the majesty too
real, and too lofty. Cleopatra could be great by fits and starts, but
never sustained her dignity upon so high a tone for ten minutes
together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher reminds us of the antique colossal
statue of her in the Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra in
Dryden's tragedy is like Guido's dying Cleopatra in the Pitti Palace,
tenderly beautiful. Shakspeare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful
and fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all anomalous shapes
and impossible and wild combinations of form are woven together in
regular confusion and most harmonious discord: and such, we have reason
to believe, was the living woman herself, when she existed upon this
earth.
OCTAVIA.