TRANSLATED BY M. E. POINDEXTER
CLEOPATRA
BY
CLAUDE FERVAL
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC.
COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE
& COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
FOREWORD
Cleopatra, that curiously perverse figure, that incarnation of fatal
passion, what was she like? A combination of pride and frailty,
adored and despised. Plutarch said that "Her charm entered into
men's very souls," and Horace thanked the gods for delivering the
earth from that "_Fatale Monstrum_."
It is not the gigantic outlines graven on the dusty walls of the
temple at Dendera that will reveal the mystery of Cleopatra; nor yet
those bronze medals from Syracuse, with their curious hieratic
profiles; disguised by these gross images who would recognize the
intelligence, the passion, the daring, the flame, the storm, the
witchery, that were united in that "serpent of old Nile"?
If only some masterpiece of Greek sculpture had been preserved! If we
possessed that statue made at Cæsar's orders by the sculptor,
Timomachus! or that cherished treasure which a rich citizen of
Alexandria offered Cæsar Augustus two thousand talents to leave
untouched! But all these portraits have disappeared.
Poor as we are in material we can only divine what she really was in
appearance and in character. It is not certain that she was
beautiful, at least not of that sensuous type of beauty which has
been generally attributed to her. But, if tradition which has come
down the ages has any weight, with her burning mouth, her radiant
eyes, her slender body, which her country's fiery sun had polished
till it shone like gilded marble, what creature born of woman was
ever more fitted to inspire delight and adoration?
"The kings who crossed her threshold died from excess of love."
But physical beauty alone could not have so ensnared and deprived of
reason such warriors as Cæsar and Antony, brave, indefatigable,
honourable men, who fell at her feet, forgetting duty, honour, the
very memory of their country, for love of her.
We must look further. Her rare intellect, which made her every word
of interest; her incomparable, magnetic charm, which banished ennui
and held her listeners enthralled; her ardent, passionate nature;
these have made her peerless among the fascinators of the world,
Circe, Delilah, Heloise, Yseult, Carmen, Sirens or Walkyrie--living
women, or creatures of the poets' fancy--all the enchantresses who
have driven men to madness have had the one gift in common, that of
arousing passion, stirring emotion, fanning the flame of love.
Whether their eyes had the blue of the heavens, or shone like stars
at midnight, whether their noses were long or short, their mouths
delicate or voluptuous, all the world-heroines have had burning
hearts that touched their lovers' hearts with kindred fire.
If Cleopatra stands above all others it is because she possessed in a
higher degree that sovereign gift that transforms the dullness of
every-day life and creates an atmosphere of rose and gold.
History shows her as crafty, diplomatic, frivolous, generous; capable
of horrible cruelties; coveting the whole world; a prey to ambition,
yet flinging it all away for the sake of her lover's kiss. But
history gives us only half the picture. Its frame is too narrow to
hold it all. It is to Imagination and her winged daughters, Poetry
and Legend, that we have to look for the whole.
The asp with which Shakespeare encircled Cleopatra's arm has made her
more famous than her own great plan to wipe out Rome and put
Alexandria in its place. The noted sonnet, which shows her in her
silver trireme, on the waters of the Cydnus,
Dont le sillage laisse un parfum d'encensoir,
Avec les sons de flutes et des frissons de soie.
shows us more vividly her manner of living, than do all the erudite
volumes concerning her life.
Notwithstanding all the splendid efforts to portray her that have
been already made, will the Public pardon my attempt to add another
taper to light the mysterious ways of that wonderful woman, who, with
a lotus flower in her hand, still stands with Antony, weaving the
enchanting mists of romance and breathing the warm breath of passion
over the crumbling ruins of the world?
CONTENTS
I. Julius Cæsar
II. Alexandria
III. Mark Antony
IV. Cleopatra
V. The Inimitables
VI. Antony's Wives
VII. The Marriage at Antioch
VIII. The Two Rivals
IX. Actium
X. The Death
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF CLEOPATRA
I
JULIUS CÆSAR
It was about seven o'clock. On the crowded docks of Alexandria the
sailors were unloading the last bales of merchandise. Swiftly, like
belated birds, the fishing boats dropped anchor at the old wharves in
Eunostus harbour. It was almost dark when the last vessel slipped in
stealthily. A man stepped down, broad-shouldered, covered from head
to foot with a dark cloak, his traveller's cap pulled down to his
ears. With the utmost care he helped a woman to land, a woman so
young, so light-footed, that she seemed almost a child.
But, though barely seventeen years of age, would any one have called
Cleopatra a child? The wife for two years of the brother, whom the
dynastic law had compelled her to marry on the death of her father;
cast off by her perfidious consort, sent into exile and, coming back
to-night under the care of Apollodorus, she had undoubtedly a store
of experience extraordinary for her age. One wonders how her
impressions would have compared with those of the average girl, for
Cleopatra had grown up in a shamelessly corrupt court and was the
daughter of Ptolemy Auletes, that remarkable dilettante king who had
met the uproar of revolution and foreign invasion with the persistent
playing of his flute.
Descendant of a race cultivated to the last degree, proficient
herself in literature and art, with a thorough education, this young
girl's outlook on life was one of unusual breadth. At the time when
other girls, just released from the women's quarters, still revered
virtue and dreamed of pleasure, she had already the inclination to
beguile and to rule. With liberal views, she looked things squarely
in the face; she fully recognized the value of men, and whether in
serving or in pleasing them, had a spirit of rare understanding, keen
and comprehensive.
Even in the depths of the Thebaid--whither she had been exiled by the
king on the advice of the agitator Photinus--when she heard that
Cæsar had arrived in Alexandria, she knew, by that curious intuition
of super-sensitive minds, that unexpected good fortune was in store
for her. But how could she reach this great man? By what means
could she secure from his omnipotence that aid which would transform
her from a prisoner to a queen?
It was the Greek savant, Apollodorus, her professor of rhetoric, and
warmly attached to her, who opened the negotiations. As Cæsar from
the very first interview had shown his interest in behalf of the
persecuted young girl rather than in Ptolemy and his crafty minister,
Cleopatra had no misgivings. Although she was closely watched and
ignorant of the roads, which were infested by gangs of robbers and
murderers, she managed to escape with only two slaves for escort, and
took passage down the Nile to Canopus, where Apollodorus awaited her.
Trusting in his faithful devotion, she was confident of gaining her
end.
The voyage, however, was not without danger. In order to escape
notice, one of the smallest boats had been selected and the wretched
little fishing craft came very near being swallowed up by the waves.
Consequently it was with the joy and relief of the rescued voyager
that the young Lapida felt the solid ground of her capital under her
trembling little feet; that dear Alexandria which by right of birth
she looked upon as her own.
The next thing was to gain admission to the palace, and this was by
no means easy. In spite of the Roman occupation, soldiers, agents of
the Egyptian king, had watchful eyes for all that was going on. If
she were recognized Cleopatra would be again in her brother's power.
Fortunately Apollodorus was both ingenious and sturdy. With the
exquisite care due such a precious object, he wrapped up the young
fugitive and, concealing her in a roll of rugs, hoisted the bundle on
his shoulders like an ordinary parcel. Who, seeing this porter
walking along the wharf, laden like so many others, would have
suspected the mystery hidden in his burden? At the Bruchium he was
recognized, but on his declaring that, in response to an order from
Cæsar, he was bringing him carpets, the palace guards allowed him to
enter.
Julius Cæsar was no longer a young man. All that life could give of
glory, power, and pleasure he had had, and at times his nerves showed
the effects. Prematurely bald, the deep lines in his face indicated
his weariness; but, at the least stimulus the brilliant splendour of
his glance shone out. No one could come near the divine Cæsar
without immediately recognizing his supremacy; without feeling that
magnetic quality of power and charm which could only be explained by
remembering his descent by Æneas direct from Venus herself. When he
spoke, his gracious gesture, the resonance of his voice, won, at
least while he was talking, the sympathy of his listeners. If he
were silent, his very silence was eloquent, for people recalled his
orations, those memorable words which had made an echo around the
world.
Wherever he went, the fame of his astounding deeds surrounded him.
Not only was he pictured at the head of his legions, guiding them
from one end to the other of that Gaul which he had conquered; not
only did the people actually see him, descending on Italy through the
terrible ravines of the Alps, crossing at a bound the narrow Rubicon,
and sweeping down on Rome in the throes of revolution, which, the
instant the conqueror appeared, crouched meekly at his feet; but
legend glorified him. The Germans, whom he had defeated, were
represented as a race of giants, whose mere glance was death.
Britain, where he had been the first to dare set foot, was said to be
in total darkness three months of the year and inhabited by spirits.
All these fantastic tales added to his real victories made them
appear yet more marvellous.
In appealing to a man like this, in coming to him to seek counsel and
help, Cleopatra relied to a certain extent on her natural rights; but
she was not so foolish as to believe that being in the right was a
woman's surest appeal.
As she got out of the sack, where her charms had been hidden for the
past hour, she felt the thrill of a young animal which has just been
set free; then, with typical feminine eagerness, she grasped the
burnished silver mirror which hung by a chain from her belt. What
appalling disorder she beheld! Her dainty overdress was all rumpled;
her dishevelled hair fell on her neck in brown waves; of the antimony
around her eyes, or the rouge on her lips and cheeks, not a trace was
left. But thus simply clad, adorned only with the beauty of youth,
was she any less blooming, less expressive, less distracting, this
fascinating plaintiff who in a few moments would appear before her
judge?
She was anxious, however. She wondered how she would be received by
this man who was accustomed to the guile of the Romans, this powerful
ruler to whom everyone, the most virtuous as well as the most
corrupt, was compelled to yield. For Cæsar's reputation was
world-wide, and everyone knew that the great captain, writer, jurist,
and orator was a libertine at heart. In addition to those excesses
common to all young men, in which he had indulged amidst the gaieties
of the world, it was well known that his adventures had brought grief
to many households, not excepting those of his best friends; and it
was in no kindly spirit that his name was coupled with the phrase:
_omnium mulierum vir_--the husband of all women.
Cleopatra, however, was needlessly disturbed. To a temperament
craving novelty, originality, fresh experience; to nerves tired as
were those of the Emperor, what vision could appeal so intensely as
that of this queenly young woman? From the first moment, as he gazed
on the rhythmic, harmonious grace of her body; her low, straight
brows, the golden light in her eyes; her delicate nostrils, her
parted, sensuous lips, her radiant, amber-coloured flesh, suggesting
luscious sun-kissed fruit, Cæsar had felt an indescribable thrill run
through his veins. Never, no, never before, had the West, or Rome
itself, with her ardent virgins, her tempting, seductive matrons,
offered him anything so intoxicating. Ready to grant everything that
he might attain the height of his desire, he asked: "What can I do
for you? What do you seek?"
With charming tact, Cleopatra replied in Latin, which she spoke with
the same ease that she did Greek, Egyptian, Syrian, and several other
languages. She described the tyranny of which she had been the
victim, the criminal injustice which had made her a wanderer, and,
with a confiding air which was irresistible, she said that she
trusted in the omnipotence of Cæsar to restore her crown.
Her voice was sweet and winning. The things she said, her claims
against her usurping brother, became, the moment they left her lips,
irrefutable truths. Why should they not have seemed so to the
gallant judge, fascinated by the starry light in her wonderful, dark
eyes?
Cæsar's first impulse was to grant all her demands. But there were
grave difficulties in the way. He had gone to Egypt on a friendly
visit and had only a few troops stationed there. Those of Ptolemy,
on the other hand, were legion and well prepared to defend their
sovereign. Discretion forbade rashness. This was no time to "let
slip the dogs of war."
With enthusiasm, yet with a well-balanced judgment surprising in so
young a woman, Cleopatra tried to touch Cæsar with her own fire. If
he could not start the invasion at once, let him summon his armies as
quickly as possible, and while awaiting their arrival, proclaim her
reigning queen.
While she was speaking the Emperor could not take his eyes from her.
He watched each rhythmic gesture, each word as it fell from her
exquisite lips. "What an adorable mistress she would be!" he
thought, as he breathed the perfume of her hair.
And, feeling that she had conquered him, that he was ready to do
whatever she wished, Cleopatra had a thrill of delicious
assurance--"In a little while I shall be queen!"
On hearing that his sister, whom he believed he had got rid of, had
arrived in Alexandria, and that Cæsar had sworn to restore her to
power, Ptolemy XII had one of those fits of demented rage to which
this offspring of a degenerate race was subject. "The traitress!" he
cried, crushing with his foot a murrhine vase of exquisite beauty.
"She has tricked me. This decision that she has had the impudence to
proclaim is nothing but damnable treason!" And placing Achillas in
command of his troops, he massacred the Roman guard.
This was the beginning of a war which was to last two years. With
all the strength of the Republic behind him it was obvious that Cæsar
would win; but at the outset the insurrections and riots, with which
his soldiers were not in the habit of dealing, were hard to handle.
Rather than continually encounter these street brawls, where the odds
were often against him, Cleopatra's champion decided it was wiser to
shut himself and his garrison up behind the walls of the Bruchium;
this could, in an emergency, be used as a fort, where he could hold
siege while awaiting the arrival of his army.
To be imprisoned with the man whom she was planning to captivate, so
that he should have no interests other than her own--what conditions
could have been more favourable to this young woman's dreams? The
Bruchium, founded by Alexander, and added to by each of his
successors, who, like the Pharaohs, but with a more refined taste,
had a passion for building, was not merely a palace. Situated on a
height, at a point where the hills which skirt the coast go down to
the sea, its elaborate structures made it a city in itself; a
magnificent enclosure of varied and unsurpassed splendour, where
examples of massive Egyptian architecture stood side by side with
graceful monuments of Greek art. The part of the palace set aside
for Cleopatra had been specially arranged by Ptolemy Auletes, anxious
to provide suitable surroundings for his favourite daughter. Lover
of all that was rare and beautiful, this musician, no less sensitive
to purity of line than to harmony of sound, had delighted in adorning
it with the most perfect creations of art. At every turn were the
exquisite works of Myron, Praxiteles, and Phidias; finely carved
candelabra, chairs of graceful outline, ivory coffers heavily
encrusted with gold; jewelled tripods in which rare incense burned,
and a wealth of carpets of marvellous and intricate design. There
was no room in the gorgeous domain which did not afford a feast of
form and colour to the eyes. All things seemed planned to enhance
the joy of living.
But the real wonder which surpassed all else, and which could only
have been found under Egyptian skies, was the stretch of gardens.
Fanned by the sea breeze the air there was delicious. Terrace after
terrace, connected by great marble steps, were dotted with fountains
where crystal water flowed. Under the benign influence of this
water, brought by aqueducts from the Nile, the vegetation was of
unusual luxuriance. The green plants from more temperate climates,
as well as the fig trees and palms which flourish in the tropics,
grew everywhere. Flowers bloomed in profusion; rosebushes from
Persia in such abundance that even the garden plots of Ecbatana
seemed poor compared with those whose fragrance mounted to the
windows of the Queen.
Was it strange that this son of Venus, whom the needs of war had so
often compelled to endure the cold of barbarous countries, should
have revelled to the point of intoxication in the delights of such an
abiding-place? Everything united to bring about perfect felicity,
and the grace and youth of the hostess crowned it all. From the very
first he had loved her with one of those burning passions which are
like the glowing sunset skies of early autumn, when summer is over
and the trees are about to put on brilliant robes to surpass in
colour all that has gone before.
Cleopatra gave herself unreservedly to the joys of love. Privation,
exile, the dread of further persecution, all these had made her eager
for happiness. Without questioning for a moment the nature of his
affection, with no thought of the selfish motive behind it, she was
enchanted at her triumph. Indeed, on second thoughts even, she had
every reason to be satisfied. She had sought only a protector; she
had found a most passionate and tender lover. Safe on board the
great ship which had anchored near her coast, she had yielded to his
powerful protection as to a force whose elements were not to be
analyzed. If his devotion aroused no kindred sentiment in her bosom,
the love of this mighty conqueror filled her with such pride,
awakened such anticipations, that her heart felt no need of anything
more vital. With dreams of a glorious future, she had a thrill of
ecstacy at being borne along toward a destiny which, though unknown,
with Cæsar for a pilot, could not fail to be one of untold splendour.
Although frequently disturbed by the noise of the catapults and the
clamour of the engines, with which the besiegers were riddling the
approaches to the Bruchium, the days that this pair of lovers spent
there as prisoners were filled with rare delight. With no intruders
to annoy them, with no other care than a continuous effort to give
each other pleasure, their conversation broken only by renewed
caresses, they fully realized that ideal of _solitude à deux_ which
so many lovers have vainly sought.
And now the armies that Cæsar had summoned began to arrive. From
Cilicia and Rhodes came ships laden with provisions. This put the
situation in the control of the captives and everything was in their
power. Gaul sent bodies of infantry; Rome supplied the ammunition;
and the cavalry, under the command of Calvinus, completed the
effective force. The siege, which had lasted for six months, was now
lifted and the war was carried into the open country.
Achillas's army, however, was more powerful than they had thought,
and owing to its skilful tactics Cæsar was often forced into awkward
positions, but with the strength and courage of Rome behind him his
final success was a thing of certainty, and the beginning of the end
was shown when he marshalled his men on the field of the Delta. Here
the decisive battle was fought and, beaten, routed, driven into the
waters of the Nile, the troops of Ptolemy were annihilated. That
king met death as, on an improvised dam, he sought to leap across the
flood. Cæsar, more merciful than Fate, spared the life of his
opponent, Achillas, when he was brought to him in chains. He was
content to receive the required reprisals, and departed in hot haste
for Alexandria.
There, in the seventh story of her tower, Cleopatra was awaiting his
return. When she caught the flash of his Roman eagles, amidst a
cloud of dust, her heart began to throb fiercely. Unable to restrain
her eagerness to see him, she ordered her litter at once. "Run
quickly," she commanded her carriers, twelve Ethiopians, whose bronze
legs shone as they sped swiftly over the road.
The golden hawk which soared above its roof, the gorgeous purple
curtains which hung at its sides, made the royal litter visible at a
great distance. At the first signal of its approach, Cæsar leaped
from his horse and, with the delicate chivalry which distinguished
him, greeted his beloved. He had been parted from her for several
days and was longing to embrace her.
"Egypt is yours!" he exclaimed. "I have conquered it only to lay it
at your feet. Accept it." And he handed her the keys of Alexandria
which Achillas, in surrendering, had given up to him.
From that hour the rebels recognized the strength of the Roman power
and realized the ruin that Photinus had brought upon them. From the
ambitious heights of yesterday they had fallen to the desperate
depths of to-day. They who had counted on reprisals were to have
only amnesties; but who could have disputed the claims of the Queen
that such a magnanimous conqueror had placed upon the throne? On her
first appearance in public Cleopatra was acclaimed with an enthusiasm
which would have been accorded her had she been the
universally-designed sovereign.
Thanks to this war, which had been gained because of Cæsar's
adoration, she was once more in possession of the crown of her
ancestors. In order, however, to secure the good will of the people,
she submitted once again to the old dynastic rule, which required
children of the same parents to share the throne, and agreed to wed
her younger brother, Ptolemy XIII.
All being arranged to his satisfaction, it was now time for Cæsar to
leave Egypt and return to Rome where his party was clamouring for
him. But Cæsar was no longer his own master. Given over to that
passion which, to the end of his life, was to be the mainspring of
all his actions, to come before duty, ambition, self-interest, and
lead to his final downfall, he delayed his departure. Deaf to the
warning that each new messenger brought, he heeded only the voice of
the dear enchantress who, in addition to all the other spells with
which she had held him, now suggested the delight of a voyage
together.
In those days, as in our own, sailing along the borders of the Nile,
with the monuments of the Pharaohs on either side, was a fascinating
experience. Aristocrats of wealth, princes from the Orient, artists
from Asia Minor and Greece--after exploring the treasures of
Alexandria--alike found rare pleasure in sailing in the luxurious
Egyptian barges under the smiling skies. These voyages meant weeks
of restful leisure and enjoyment.
The barge of Cleopatra was a floating palace. The charming
apartments of the Bruchium were reproduced in miniature. The various
vessels which accompanied it accommodated a large staff, not of
servants alone, but bands of dancers, poets, musicians, who were
engaged to while away the time and make life an enchanting dream.
Winter was at hand; that season of snow and frost which, in less
fortunate lands, plunges people in gloom; when all the fields are in
mourning and the shivering trees wave their naked branches in
distress. But there was no depression along the sunny route chosen
by our travellers. Propelled by the steady rowing of fifty Nubians
pulling on oars of ebony, they glided along, intoxicated with
freedom, happiness, space, as toward a Promised Land, and at each
stopping-place the golden sun seemed to shine with a richer glow.
All at once, after the leagues of emerald foliage of the first few
days, the vegetation grew scanty, the barge slipped along between
barren shores, and the country, as far as the distant horizon, was a
vast stretch of sand covered with arid hillocks, like volutes of
silver, which melted away in the mist. Here and there groups of
aloes waved their sharp, blade-like branches, or clusters of date
trees shook their feathery plumes, like giant torches about to burst
into flame.
As the barge approached Memphis more buildings were seen: temples
with broad columns, shining palaces of glittering whiteness, giant
gateways like mighty mountains, all mirrored in the waters of the
sacred river.
The barge dropped anchor opposite the Pyramids. Cæsar was filled
with wondering admiration at the mighty skill which had reared these
colossal tombs. He who, as a disciple of Plato, attached so little
importance to the needs of the body, and who believed that
immortality was attained only by the beauty which came from the soul,
asked himself what thoughts had stirred the mind of a Cheops or a
Chephren concerning the mystery of Death? Had they regarded it as
the true life, and the earthly one merely as a passage leading to it?
Had they raised these temples in honour of Death, or, indignant at
its devastations, was it in defiance of it that they had erected
these formidable triangles?
Among the countless mysterious monuments on the plains about Memphis,
the great Sphinx of Gizeh has always aroused the keenest wonder and
curiosity. Cleopatra had caught a glimpse of it in the distance on
her adventurous flight and now she was overjoyed at letting Cæsar
compare her delicate grace with its tremendous proportions. The sun
was setting behind the Libyan hills when they drew near the Sphinx.
Lying on her bed of sand, the monster seemed about to emerge from a
vast beach beside a congealed ocean. Although looking toward the
East, her enigmatic smile already hidden in the shadow, her tawny
back was touched by the last rays of the setting sun, which made her
like a living creature.
Recalling the question that OEdipus, anxious concerning his future,
had put to that other Sphinx long ago, the Dictator, whose destiny
also was uncertain, was tempted to interrogate this one. Would she
reply? Mystery of mysteries! Quivering at the touch of the warm
young body at his side, looking at the reddish moon, breathing in the
strange soul of the night, even had some wise counsel been whispered
in his ear he was hardly in a state to heed it. The voice of love
was too overpowering, he was deaf to all else.
On the thirtieth day of their voyage the lovers reached Philæ, that
pearl in its double setting of blue sky and blue water, both so pure,
so transparent, that it was difficult to tell which was the
reflection of the other, which has inspired the poets of every age.
Those who once entered there went no further to seek an earthly
paradise. To tarry, pitch their tent, and forget in the worship of
its beauty all that had fretted and distracted them elsewhere, was
the ardent desire of every artist who landed there. Only a few,
however, were allowed to carry it out.
From remote ages the island had been in possession of the priests of
Isis, who did not tolerate the intrusion of profane outsiders.
Guardians of a temple which the religious fervour of its worshippers
had made the richest in all Egypt, these priests of the holy goddess
allowed no interference with their rights; no one else was permitted
to share the revenue, which was the largest in the land.
In many of the sanctuaries, however, the religious rites were in no
way disturbed by the addition of worldly goods; consequently the
arrival of the royal visitors was regarded as a godsend. Barges,
filled with musicians, were sent down the river to welcome them, and
along the banks a procession of priests greeted them with sacred
songs. They were forced to attend the services in the temple, listen
to orations, and receive committees bearing gifts. To celebrate
their coming, goats were sacrificed and the blood of doves ran red.
The official reception over, Cleopatra requested that she and Cæsar
be left alone, quite undisturbed by any formalities, since that was
their chief desire. During the heat of the day they remained
indoors, where the spray from numerous fountains made the air
comparatively cool. They amused themselves watching the blue, white,
and pink lotus buds open their delicate petals, both lost in a
delicious languor in which cares, plans, ambitions, were all
forgotten.
The young Queen, however, never for a moment forgot the secret object
of this voyage, which was to bind her great protector to her by
indelible memories and make Egypt's interests his own. In the
evenings they loitered along the garden paths, breathing the
honey-scented fragrance of the tropical violets, or lingered in the
shadowy groves whose branches sent showers of gold dust on their
heads. Here, in response to her lover's tender speeches, she would
reply, in a tone of almost childish terror: "Oh! yes, of course my
country is the most beautiful in all the world, but it is so
difficult to govern it." And Cæsar, moved by the frailty of the
slender arm about his neck, would with deep earnestness pledge her
the perpetual and all-powerful support of his own country.
Although this absence from public life could not be prolonged
indefinitely, these lovers wished at least to commemorate the happy
memory of these days together. A plan for a temple was drawn up,
and, before leaving the island, in a space surrounded by oleander
trees, where birds of brilliant plumage flitted in and out, they laid
the corner-stone. Two thousand years have gone by, and the pilgrims
who in each succeeding age have visited the paradise of Philæ have
gazed in admiration on the exquisite marble colonnade of pure
Corinthian design which stands there in delicate beauty. The name of
no goddess is carved upon its stone, but each pilgrim knows to whom
it is dedicated.
At Alexandria a delegation awaited Cæsar. When Rome heard that the
conqueror of the Pharaohs, the hero on whom his country's hopes
relied, was dallying with a new Circe, there was general
consternation. Did he think that he could defy Fate? What his good
fortune and his genius had built, his neglect could destroy. What
would happen if the allies of Pompey, knowing that Cæsar was
distracted by a love affair, should mobilize new troops? The more
daring among these were already on the alert and threats were in the
air.
However sweet a pillow a woman's breast may be, a man of Cæsar's
stamp is roused by the call of his friends: "Your honour is at
stake." At the sound of the voice of those who had come to seek him,
the lover started from his sleep. He knew that all his mighty deeds
would count for nothing if he did not respond to the appeal of the
hour. He must go at once. He would go, but he must have time to
break the tidings to the woman who had put her trust in him. With
all possible tenderness he told Cleopatra of the coming separation.
"Ah!" she cried, "you wish to unwind my arms from about your neck?"
and with a passionate gesture she held him closer, and Cæsar, strong
against the world, was weak against his loved one. He hesitated;
then, happily remembering the maxim which had guided him through
life: "The first, always, and everywhere," his courage came again.
He was not an ordinary voluptuary whose instinct was his master. His
noble temperament demanded action and the strain of public life was
essential to him. "Shall I," he muttered, "who have looked on
mankind as a vile herd, become by cowardly inertia like unto those I
scorn?"
Cleopatra was overcome with grief at the thought of losing him. How
would she fare with Cæsar far away? Who would protect and defend
her? Who would help her to govern her capricious and deceitful
people? She was about to become a mother and, relying on this new
tie which would bind her lover to her, she made him promise not to
leave her before the birth of her child.
And Cæsar was much interested in the expected birth; what he had said
to her regarding the coming child had given Cleopatra ground for the
most exalted hopes. It had been a source of keen regret to him that
none of his three wives had given him an heir. He had been
particularly anxious since the death of his daughter Julia, and the
consequent loss of her fortune. To whom should he leave his
boundless wealth, that vast estate that he owned in Umbria? Who
would carry on the divine race of the Cæsars?
To be sure, his sister Atia had a son, Octavius, but this nephew was
in delicate health, of a weak, undecided character, which did not
promise a brilliant future. Who could tell whether the coming
bastard would not be a more worthy heir to the glorious fortunes of
the Emperor?
The baby was born on the very eve of the day that the friends of
Cæsar, worn out with waiting, had made him agree to set sail. It was
a boy! By wonderful chance the scarcely-formed features of the tiny
creature showed an undeniable resemblance to those of his father.
The hearts of those who are beginning to grow old are naturally
easily moved, and the Emperor's joy in his new-born son was very
evident. He decided to call him Cæsarion and promised to adopt him.
In a touching farewell scene, filled with reproaches and
protestations, Cleopatra expressed the cherished desire of her heart:
"Make me your wife, O Cæsar!" Her dainty head, adorned with her
restored crown, was filled with new aspirations. She was no longer
content with ruling the country of her ancestors. It had lost
prestige and was now scarcely more than a commercial power. Her
secret dream was to link her destiny with that of the master of the
Roman Empire.
At first Cæsar was alarmed at this suggestion. In the royal palace
on the Aventine, Calpurnia, his lawful wife, awaited his return.
Cleopatra herself was married, bound by the tradition of her line.
But what were such obstacles to the youthful heroine who had measured
the world and found it none too large for her ambitions? She laid
stress on what it would mean to them both, this contract which,
uniting the vast riches of the one with the warlike genius of the
other, would make all things possible for them.
The prospect was magnificent and Cæsar was tempted. He understood
how well it fitted in with his own passion for his royal mistress.
But would Rome allow him to carry it out? One of the strictest laws
of the Roman Senate forbade the marriage of Patricians with
foreigners. "But are you not above the law?" said the loved voice of
the temptress. What man could resist being placed in the ranks of
the gods?
It was the moment of farewell. Overcome, Cæsar took Cleopatra in a
final embrace. There was no formal engagement but, with the
departure of her lover, she felt the solemnity of a betrothal.
Left alone, her imagination ran riot; and she was lost in fantastic
dreams. She had visions of a Rome humiliated, submissive to the will
of Alexandria. Vassals crouched at her feet, coming to lay down
their arms and present the keys of their different capitals.
Multitudes passed before her, and she fancied she heard her name
coupled with that of Cæsar, amidst general acclamation. Happy in
such dreams, her solitude was transformed, it was no longer a
desolate, arid plain; the stage changed and the coveted goal seemed
more real than the dull present.
Once free from the sorcery which the dark, velvet eyes of the
Egyptian had thrown over him, Cæsar was himself again; shrewd,
clear-minded, quick at wise decisions. His eagle eye took in things
at a glance. The conditions were far from being what they had been
at Pharsalus. No longer dreading him, the army of Pompey had had
time to reorganize. It was threatening him on every side. The
danger seemed more imminent in the Orient; so, before returning to
Italy, the Emperor set sail for Asia Minor and began by destroying
the enemy's fleet which was blocking the entrance to the Cydnus;
then, with an army of tried veterans, from whom he could demand
miracles, he attacked Caius Cassius at Ephesus, Pharnaces at Zela,
returned to Africa and there won the battle of Thapsus. After having
gained vast sums from the terrified rulers, in exchange for certain
territories which he granted the enemy, he reëntered Rome, laden with
spoils, to calm the malcontents.
Triumph awaited Cæsar, such a triumph as the Via Sacra had never seen
before. Beholding him crowned with laurels, followed by a procession
of captive kings, and greater than them all, by the illustrious
Vercingetorix, who represented the opposing armies of Gaul, the Roman
people forgot their grievances. Around his chariot, on which was
inscribed in letters of gold the famous phrase, _Veni, vidi, vici_,
the crowd flocked with the enthusiasm of children welcoming a
long-lost father. The Aristocracy was more reserved; it was to the
People that the Dictator looked for support; it was to improve their
conditions that his first reforms were brought about. But he
understood this unstable mass, and the sudden changes that their
whims effected, too thoroughly to confine his reforms to serious
benefits alone. To amuse the populace has always been the surest
means of holding it. Consequently Cæsar ordered festivals and
banquets. In every quarter of the city wheat was distributed, and
oil and wine were provided in abundance. There was acting of plays;
the circuses were filled with crowds, eager to watch the slaughter of
gladiators and look on as the blood flowed from the wounded beasts.
The orgy lasted forty days and during all that time there was but one
opinion. Cæsar was the _Illustrious_, the _Invincible_, the _beloved
Father of his Country_. Every title and every honour was bestowed
upon him. He was Consul, Dictator for Ten Years. He received the
insignia of the great Pontiff. His chair of state was placed above
all the other chairs, and on the statue erected to him in the temple
of Jupiter the word "God" was chiselled.
At Alexandria, however, things were not going so smoothly. In spite
of the troops which Cæsar had left, under the command of Calvinus, to
maintain order, seditious outbreaks occurred. More or less openly
the Queen was accused of having decoyed the alien, of having become
the mistress of a Roman, and of compromising the honour of the
kingdom by declaring him to be the father of her child. Did she mean
to put as future king over the Egyptians one who was not of their own
race? Such accusations would have had no weight with any one strong
enough to ignore them. But Cleopatra was not yet the dauntless ruler
who later on was to defy public opinion and lead her own armies to
battle. At twenty years of age she was sensitive; she shuddered at
these whispers of revolution. The protector who had restored her
throne and made her respected thereon was no longer at her side; she
was uneasy. Could she always withstand these snares, these threats,
these uprisings? Until now Cæsar's influence, even in his absence,
had been strong enough to shield her. But if these insurrectionists
should think her deserted, dependent only on her own resources, of
what attempt would they not be capable? Besides, foul rumours were
abroad. It was said that during the expedition in Africa the Emperor
had amused himself with the Queen Eunonia. Was it possible? So soon
after leaving her bosom where he had sworn to be faithful to her
forever? Ah, how powerless is woman when her lover is no longer
within reach of her encircling arms!
But the distance between them was not impassable. If it were true,
as his letters declared, that Cæsar loved her still and was desolate
at being so far away from her, why should she not go to him? The
desire to strengthen, lest it become too lax, the bond which united
them was mixed with a certain curiosity in regard to Rome itself.
Rome, her hereditary foe; that rival against whom perpetual vigilance
was needed. Seen at close quarters a rival is less deadly, for one
can find ways of opposing her. Cleopatra decided to suggest the
visit to Cæsar.
After a year's absence from her, his letters declared that he cared
for her as deeply as ever. If he had been attracted by the Queen of
Numidia, it had been but a passing fancy, or rather the need, through
some diversion, to escape the memories which were taking too much of
his time. Burdened with grave responsibilities, did he have any
right to be so absorbed in his love affairs? Indeed he was always
going back, sometimes with a degree of intensity over which he had no
control, to the affecting scenes at the Bruchium, or recalling the
hours when he had been lulled to slumber by the soothing waters of
the Nile.
Cæsar did not agree immediately, however, to the proposed visit. To
have the Queen of Egypt come to Rome was a serious undertaking. He
would not wish to run the risk until everything had been made smooth
for the trip. The gravest difficulty lay in the natural antipathy of
the Romans to everyone who wore a crown. It might almost be said
that this sentiment was so deeply rooted that the mere approach of
royalty seemed to endanger the monarchy. Now Cleopatra was an
especial object of distrust. She was known to be ambitious, and no
one had forgotten the spell she had cast over Cæsar. The discontent
that had been felt momentarily toward him was now directed against
her. In order to clear the one they accused the other, and the blame
fell upon her. A woman must have had strange powers to have kept the
Emperor away from his own country for such a long time; to have
detained him at such a great distance from those who had the
strongest claims upon him!
How far was it wise to bring his mistress amongst such adverse
opinions? Cæsar put the question to himself. He did not dare to
expose her to a hostile reception; still less could he afford to
disregard the enemies who were ready to resent his shortest absence
in order to go to her.
And so the days went by and Cleopatra was filled with grief and
indignation.
It was from her that the final decision came which solved the vexed
question. Pretending that the conditions of her treaty with Rome had
never been settled, she offered to come in person to discuss several
disputable clauses. In order to obtain the title of _socius
republicæ_ (ally of the Republic) it was not in the least necessary
for the Queen to go herself: the different ambassadors could have
attended to the matter; but the Roman Senate, flattered by her
preferring to deal directly with it, extended her an invitation. The
trick had succeeded. There was nothing more to do but to start on
the journey.
The June sun was shining brilliantly. With her Forum alive, her
windows crowded, the multitudes ranged along the principal
thoroughfares, Rome seemed to be holding a festival. Defiance,
however, rather than sympathy, was the spirit of the crowd. Many
strange stories were afloat concerning the coming visitor. To some,
she was a courtesan, glittering with pearls and gold; to others, she
was a sorceress, whose evil influence drove to distraction all those
who came near her. For the majority, Cleopatra was simply the alien,
the woman from the East, that is to say, the thing that the Roman
people despised more than anything on earth. The procession was
composed of black slaves wearing gold ear-rings; of eunuchs clothed
in long robes, like those worn by women; of ministers with their
heavy wigs; of half-naked soldiers (whose heads, adorned with
antennae, resembled huge insects). When it began to file past, there
were shouts of laughter. Derision greeted the appearance of the
astronomers, whose pointed caps seemed reaching toward the sky, and
the priests muffled in panther skins. The jeering grew louder at the
sight of the standards on which sacred images were painted. What,
those jackals, those hawks, those cows! They were meant for gods?
And the Latin commonsense rebelled against a religion debased by such
emblems.
But in the midst of the flashing splendour of spears and shields, the
royal litter was seen. Silence reigned and all eyes were fixed on
Cleopatra with her baby in her arms. This child, a cause of
embarrassment to her at Alexandria, it was on his winning smile, on
his astonishing likeness to Cæsar, that she had relied to gain a warm
welcome from the Romans. And she was not mistaken. At this time
Cæsar was the idol of Rome. Everything he did was approved, and if
there were covert sneers and occasionally harsh criticisms, no one
would have dared openly to attack his invited guests.
However beautiful she might be, the Queen of Egypt could not hope to
please a people so infatuated with themselves as were the Romans, who
looked on their own race as superior to all others. With her golden
complexion, her eyes so painted with antimony that they seemed to
touch her temples, her vivid red lips, her curious headdress, from
which a snake of gold peered forth; her transparent tunic, which left
her bosom bare, Cleopatra shocked and scandalized the Roman people.
But, as Cæsar's orders made graciousness obligatory, they pretended
to be absorbed in the tiny Cæsarion, whose fair skin and quick,
intelligent expression indicated his divine ancestry.
Moreover, in order that there should be no mistake in regard to the
respect due Cleopatra and her son, Cæsar had installed them in the
palace which he had just had built on the left side of the Tiber,
overlooking the magnificent gardens along the edge of the hill of
Janiculum; those gardens which were left to the populace in his will,
which generous gift the day after his death brought the people to
their knees, in tears, to look upon his blood-stained toga.
On finding herself, at last, the honoured guest of Rome, Cleopatra
felt that keen pleasure of achievement which follows a hard struggle
for success. In spite of all obstacles she had, to her entire
satisfaction, accomplished the first part of her undertaking.
But the essential thing, the real triumph, was yet to be carried out.
She must bind her lover by that long-desired marriage which would
make her twice a Queen. For a woman of her talent, accustomed to
using her varied powers of fascination to gain her ends, the present
situation was ideal. Rome, from the very moment that she had entered
its gates, had ceased to be the austere stronghold, where each and
every citizen, faithful to his Lares and Penates, was steadfast in
revering ancient traditions. These traditions, which had made the
strength and greatness of the Republic as well as its formidable
power, were already losing their hold. The old religion was passing;
although still acknowledged by the State, unbelievers were many,
especially among the Aristocracy. If the people had still a certain
fear of the gods, this did not prevent them from breaking the laws of
their deities, or from desecrating their temples in moments of
passion. The story of the cynical soldier who boasted of having
stolen the statue of Diana and of having made a fortune by this
godless act was a common tale. The inviolability of the marriage law
was a thing of the past. On every hand, Senators, Consuls, high
dignitaries, put away their wives on the slightest pretext. Cicero
himself, the best, the gentlest of men, said to Terentia, his wife
for thirty years, the cruel words of divorcement: "Go hence and take
with you whatever belongs to you," in order to put a younger, more
beautiful woman in her place.