handkerchief with some drops of stimulant to Cleopatra's lips.
Gradually she grew calmer; she regained her self-control, but the
wild frenzy was succeeded by a stupor. She felt as though a
bottomless abyss had opened suddenly at her feet. "How can this be?"
she murmured dully. "I trusted him and he told me that I meant all
the world to him!" Her thoughts turned to the woman who had stolen
her happiness. That sister of Octavius, Octavia--what kind of
creature was she? The fierce desire to know the whole truth, in all
its bitter details, surged in her breast, with the same violence that
had caused her to pour out the stream of threats and curses so short
a while before.
But the traveller was nowhere to be seen. Taking advantage of the
confusion that followed the Queen's fainting fit he had fled. A
diligent search revealed him, hidden in the hold of a ship. He had
taken refuge there, deciding to give up the affairs that had brought
him to Alexandria and, thankful to escape with his life, was hoping
to get away on the ship without being detected.
He was terrified at being caught and it took repeated assurances that
he would not be further punished to induce him to speak again. Fear
had taught him discretion; he had learned that when speaking to the
great and mighty it was wise to say only what they desired to hear.
The plain truth was a crime. He showed the manners of a practised
courtier when he had his second audience with Cleopatra.
The Queen, too, had undergone a great change. A sad, compelling
curiosity dominated all other feelings. She was like a wanderer,
lost in a dark wood, who seeks only light.
"Tell me something about Octavia," she said, with a gentleness that
veiled the autocratic command. "You have seen her and know whether
she is beautiful. Has she a wonderful expression? Is she dark or
fair? What is the colour of her hair?" But however adroitly her
questions might be put, this man, in whose ears her curses still
rang, who was yet bruised from her shower of blows, would give no
direct reply. According to him Octavia was a fright. Her eyes were
dull, her hair scanty and fastened with austere, ash-coloured fillets.
"How old is she?" queried Cleopatra, still in the depths of despair,
for however fascinating a deserted mistress may be, in her eyes the
new love, though in reality a scarecrow, has all the attractiveness
of a pure maiden whose unsullied youth is like to a fragrant garden
in which her lover, or her husband, may wander at will to gather the
flowers of happiness.
The merchant's tale was comforting, however. On hearing that Octavia
was a widow, with two children; that she was without beauty and
devoid of charm, with no power to kindle passion in a man's heart,
Cleopatra had a moment of relief. Her anger had not died out, nor
her bitter rancour against the lover who had deceived and betrayed
her; she was, however, beginning to understand that this marriage had
merely been a matter of political stratagem, a means of accomplishing
Antony's designs.
In spite of this conviction, her fits of depression during the first
few weeks after the news had come to her were so terrible that at
times she felt that she must give up the struggle. She had always
thought herself immune from jealousy, because of her conscious
superiority over all other women. Now, little by little, it was
eating into her heart. How could she be sure that Octavia was really
a fright? that she had no power to charm? Was it true that her
thick-set body had no attraction for Antony? After all, she had
nothing to depend on but the word of a common man in the street. She
recalled the affection that Antony had had for the hideous Fulvia;
why should he not care for this new wife who was at least amiable and
virtuous? Day by day this poison was entering into her soul.
At last she was so tortured by this canker of jealousy that she
determined to put it away from her. By stupendous effort she tried
to make herself believe that her love for Antony was dead, that she
had never really cared for him and that consequently his marriage was
a matter of indifference to her. In order to convince both herself
and the world of this indifference she resumed her former life of
dissipation with the young men of her court. Restrained no longer by
those burning bonds that had kept her true to Antony, she went
recklessly from one excess to another. Each involved a new
degradation, each exhausted her by its gross intoxication, but
nowhere could she find that oblivion for which her feverish heart
longed. Crush, profane, trample on it, as she would, the memory of
her cherished idol could not be rooted out. With inexhaustible
persistence it pursued her; even in the warm embrace of her most
ardent adorers, it came to make her shiver with horror at her own
disloyalty to her lover. Wherever she went his dear image would
appear suddenly before her, would cover her with his reproachful
glance, as though he asked: "Why are you acting as though all were
over between us? In spite of this seeming separation we are bound
together in spirit for all eternity. Like ships, scattered for a
time by the tempest, we shall surely come together again."
Her eyes smarted with tears as she invented excuses for her faithless
lover. Surely he had been forced into this marriage for political
reasons and against his will. Who had gained by this trap save
Octavius? Who else would profit by this unholy alliance? This
scheme had been devised by that cunning fellow that he might make his
sister a sentinel to watch over Antony and report his doings to his
colleague. The brute! Half vexed, half tenderly, she would again
invoke the loved image, addressing him in imagination: "How guileless
you were! You who had every right to rule, who could have chosen
your mate and controlled the world--why should you play such a petty
part, be made to obey like a little child? Oh! the pity of it!"
And then a ray of hope gleamed. That same weakness which had taken
her lover away from her arms might be used to restore him to her.
Her kisses were indelibly printed on his forehead; why should she not
re-kindle that fire which was probably still smouldering? And in one
of those ecstasies, which were like a torch touched by a passing
spark, she cried aloud: "I will tempt him back again! The hour is
not far off when I shall carry him away from Rome, from his wife,
from Octavius, from all who have thought that they were stronger than
I."
She did not trust simply to that thread, which, like a new Ariadne,
she had put in her Theseus's hands. She put all her resources to
work to carry out her purpose. Octavius had his spies; she would
have hers. These she despatched immediately, with orders to keep
close watch over Antony; to learn the innermost secrets of his
household; to leave no stone unturned to discover all that was going
on there.
The first accounts sent back by these agents brought her only added
distress. Apparently the newly wedded couple were happy and living
in perfect harmony. She declined to be discouraged by these reports,
however. "If I exhaust all the men in my kingdom," she said, "I will
place spies in every corner and in time they will surely find the
crack in his armour!"
When she first heard of the disagreements between the
brothers-in-law, especially of the silly quarrel over the cock-fight,
she was delighted. At last she had found the long-looked-for crack,
and that would destroy the whole household, make it fall in ruins.
She knew Antony too well to believe that he would tolerate a rival
for any length of time. Her chief object now was to entice him away
from Rome. With untiring diligence she organized a secret society
composed of courtesans, freedmen, and court attendants. She
instructed these to call Antony's attention to certain familiar
things sent from the Bruchium; to the fragrance of perfumes
associated with his days spent there with her; by a word spoken at
the right moment to set him dreaming of those months in Egypt. The
dealers in oracles also had their mission. They were to encourage
the Triumvir to consult them, and, as though all Nature were speaking
through them with one voice, they were told to repeat the famous
words of his horoscope: "The star of your fortune is at its zenith,
but the star of Octavius seeks to eclipse it. Your glory fears his
glory, your power will diminish when the two stars come together."
Other influences were also working in unison with Cleopatra. If
certain of his friends, like Ahenobarbus and Pollion, had urged
Antony's marriage with Octavia and had jeered at this man of valour
being subject to the yoke of Egypt's queen, others, more far-sighted,
divined that some day she would regain her sovereignty over him.
Among these latter was Quintus Dellius, he who had arranged the
affair at Tarsus. He understood this passionate woman better than
any one else and knew that she was capable of any deed to gain
possession of her lover. There was also Fonteius Capito, a subtle
observer of human nature, who had written before Antony had been
wedded a year: "Yes, Antony's marriage is apparently a happy one, but
that he is beginning to be bored by it is evident to every one."
These two men thought it wise to forestall future developments and
they kept up a close correspondence with the Queen, keeping her in
touch with everything that could be of interest to her. She was not
only informed of the most intimate details of Antony's household, but
of all the governmental complications against which the Triumvir had
to fight. The increasing boldness of the Parthian invasions, the
coast pillage of the pirates of Sextus Pompey, the uprisings of the
poorer classes, their refusals to pay the taxes. All these
disturbances in Roman territory gave her fresh reasons for hope. The
day she heard that Antony was leaving his wife to her maternal duties
and sailing for Athens, she was overcome with joy.
The game was not yet won, but at least she was no longer tormented by
visions of Octavia happy in the arms of her husband. Those two were
separated and Antony's wife, desolate in her loneliness, would now
suffer as she had done. If Cleopatra were not entirely comforted by
this knowledge, it at any rate helped her to bear her own trials more
patiently!
Stirred by alternate emotions, she sometimes felt as though all were
lost; then again she exulted in the thought that her sorrows were
almost over. The most cruel moment was when she heard of the
reconciliation at Tarentum. She had been following with intense
interest all the details of the fray and its results, and was
planning to gather up the fragments of these broken alliances and
construct a new power therefrom, and now this disappointment had
come. It was a severe lesson and would have discouraged any one made
of less stern stuff than this indomitable woman. She had, however, a
gift of clairvoyance which could not be deceived for any length of
time. Although the treaty to renew peace between the brothers-in-law
was formally drawn up, although it was sealed with offerings to the
gods, libations, and festivals, and, more important still, by
betrothals of offspring which doubled and trebled the many bonds
between the families of Julius and Antony, it was very evident that
this reconciliation would only be a temporary alliance.
Antony had fulfilled his part of the contract at once. A hundred
brass-prowed triremes, twenty despatch boats, and as many lighter
vessels, lying in the harbour at Tarentum, had already been given
over to Octavius. And what had Octavius offered in exchange?
Promises, nothing but promises. Sixteen legions and a quantity of
war supplies had been agreed upon in the treaty, but as yet none of
these had materialized. There was nothing to do but trust in the
good faith of Octavius, and to those who knew him there seemed small
chance of these promises being carried out.
But Antony was confident that they would be. His own loyalty made
him often the dupe of other people. At this time he was especially
trustful, for he had Octavia as an intermediary and there could be no
possible doubt as to her sincerity. He had no misgivings on that
score and, counting on the promised reinforcements being forthcoming
when required, he gave himself up to his own ambitious plans and left
Italy for Antioch.
His wife went with him as far as Corcyra, proud of having been able
to serve him, and more tenderly devoted to him than ever. There they
parted, he to go on with his preparations for his coming campaign,
she to return to Rome and see that the conditions of the treaty were
carried out as promptly as possible.
Antony's first object was to procure money. Since the Imperators had
persistently ravaged the cities and country, violated the temples and
over-taxed the people, this necessary commodity of war had grown very
scarce. To extort it from Italy was impossible. Greece had been
exploited to its utmost resources. The provinces of Asia still
remained; rich always, as a result of the advanced, scientific
agriculture which made the land yield abundantly. But the land
owners had been exasperated by toiling for Roman profit and there was
a general effort to evade the taxes by violence and fraud. Many of
these offenders had been executed for opposing the law, and these
conditions had brought about disastrous results.
Antony found himself greatly embarrassed. To declare that it was his
need of money alone that prompted him to return to Cleopatra would be
to ignore the complexities of human nature. It is true that in those
trying hours when the censors returned empty-handed, with accounts of
money due, his thoughts naturally reverted to the overflowing
treasury of the Egyptian Queen, with those accumulated riches buried
in caverns beneath the earth. If he had not deserted Cleopatra this
untold wealth would have been at his command. He could have employed
it to sustain that army, which was, he firmly believed, to give him
the empire of the world.
But why waste time in dreaming of that vanished opportunity which
would come to him no more? Yet his mind went back again and again to
those days spent in the palace of the Bruchium. He saw his
enchanting hostess, with her dark, flashing eyes, her mocking smile,
her golden-tinted flesh--that golden colour which made his blood hot
at the mere thought of it. What was the mysterious magic of this
woman that the very idea of her brought the sweat to his brow and
stirred his innermost being, even after these years of separation?
All the time he had been in Rome he had seen her in visions; embraced
her in his dreams. Even when in Octavia's arms he had been ever
conscious of the mistress whom he had deserted, and her phantom form
would slip into the place of the actual woman by his side. These
hallucinations had disturbed him. As a faithful husband he had tried
to thrust them away from him. To-day, in this land of perfumed
luxury that brought back the days he had spent at Tarsus, they had
complete mastery over him. His blood ran faster; he was defenceless
against these persistent memories of his mistress. He saw her in
every possible posture; the cat-like grace of her movements; the
exquisite colour and lines of her draperies. He heard the soft
harmony of her voice, and all these images told him that he was
powerless to withstand her spell.
But would the mere personal possession of her have satisfied him?
Would it have sufficed in place of the social triumphs, interests,
and ambitions that bound the Triumvir to Roman life? He was not
certain as to this, but complications arose which freed him from
further doubts and scruples.
The promised reënforcements from Octavius had not come and there were
certain wise men who predicted that they never would come. These
troubles increased the discontent that was fermenting in him. He not
only nursed a fierce hatred against his treacherous colleague, whose
delay was endangering all his projects, but he had a growing
prejudice against everyone connected with him. Even Octavia,
invaluable and faithful as she had been, did not escape his
suspicion. It was unpardonable that she should be the sister of the
most perfidious of men. Besides, at this great distance she was
powerless to help him. If absence be a mirage which gives greater
radiance to some images, it dims others, and often makes the more
delicate ones vanish, as though they were swallowed up in mist. Each
day was gradually effacing the gracious contour of his wife from
Antony's mind, while the voluptuous outlines of his mistress grew
clearer and more irresistible.
Fonteius Capito, who understood his master's anxiety, struck the
decisive blow. Antony had just experienced a fresh disappointment in
seeing promised confiscations for Peloponnesus reduced to a fourth of
the original amount agreed upon. When Fonteius suggested that
Cleopatra would be only too glad to lend any money that he needed,
Antony staggered, as though he had received a sudden blow.
"How do you know that?" he asked impatiently.
"She has requested me to tell you so."
Was it possible that she was still thinking of him? That after all
he had done she bore him no ill will? He must be dreaming! He
stared at Capito, fearing he might deny the words that he had just
spoken. But no; explanations followed and Antony was assured that
Cleopatra had never ceased to love him, that she was still eager for
his success.
What miracle of love was this, that after being stabbed, scorned,
trodden under foot and profaned, thus came to life, or rather showed
that it had never ceased to live! In a second Antony's exhausted
energy was renewed. It was the ecstatic joy of an invalid recovering
from a protracted illness, of a convalescent who takes life up again,
to find it more beautiful than he had ever realized.
On being despatched to Alexandria, Capito had no occasion to copy the
diplomacy of Dellius in order to induce Cleopatra to follow him. She
was more than ready to go. Her days of coquetry were over. She now
only desired to join her lover, to be assured that she could hold
him, and to begin immediately that contest with her rival in which
the more persistent and less scrupulous combatant was certain of the
victory.
Some letters from Antony had made his situation and its difficulties
quite clear to her. He was on the eve of a campaign, without money,
without the necessary troops. Outside aid was essential. She would
supply this assistance; be the beneficent goddess, who at the crucial
moment turns the wheel of Fortune.
Ships were loaded at once; some with gold, others bearing beasts of
burden; others again laden with machinery and abundant supplies of
wheat; all the necessary stores to sustain the strength of the army.
When these were packed to the netting, the purple sails of the royal
galley were unfurled. The negro rowers grasped their silver-mounted
oars, and, over gracious waves that seemed to make way for her
tranquil passage, Antony's mistress sped to her lover.
It was at Antioch again that Antony awaited Cleopatra; the same
Antioch where, five years before, he had begun to dream of her
beneath the cedars and the palm trees. In the evening, under the
glowing sunset skies, she stood erect, beside the silken canopy,
looking as though she wished to hasten the flying ship to reach him
sooner. His heart throbbed; his eyes grew dim; the blood surged in
his ears. It seemed that the whole sea was beating against his
breast. Amidst shoutings and acclamations he conducted the fair
traveller to the old palace of the Seleucides that he had prepared
for her with a luxury that rivalled the splendours of the Bruchium.
Alone at last, they looked at each other in silence. So many months
had passed, so many things had happened since their parting that they
seemed scarcely able to recognize each other. Was this the son of
Bacchus, with such a troubled brow? Cleopatra, young as she was, and
more beautiful than ever, bore the marks of suffering. Though her
passionate mouth had the vivid red of an open pomegranate, a curve of
bitterness had changed its expression. She had lost the serene look
of former days. In the storm of life she had been bruised against
the rocks of fate. Her heart, her royal heart, whose only dream had
been to conquer, had known the humiliation of longing and of tears.
At this moment, on the verge of victory, she was torn by conflicting
emotions. Even as she yielded to his irresistible fascination she
had the agonized thought: "Why do I still love this man who has put
another woman in my place?"
"What are you thinking about?" demanded Antony, almost brutally, as
though he dreaded her reply.
"I am thinking that you are no longer mine; that you never really
loved me," she answered bitterly.
"Do not say such things!"
But her mind was made up. If only to show her generosity in
forgiving him, she would let him see how guilty he had been.
"If you had really cared, how could you have had the heart to desert
me?--to betray me, after all your promises?--to leave me, as you did,
sorrowful, humiliated, and alone?"
Antony knelt before her, a penitent, overwhelmed with grief. He
tried to prove his innocence. "I love you; I have always loved you
and you only. Never, for one instant, have I loosed the bond that
unites us." Cleopatra listened, but an ironical smile was on her
lips.
"How can you understand my difficulties? The political necessity
which has controlled all my actions? You have no idea what I have
suffered."
But she would not be convinced. "If you had really loved me----"
Antony stopped her. He leaped to his feet like a young Hercules,
threw his arms around her, and pressed his quivering lips to her own.
"Forgive me! Only say that you forgive me!" he pleaded.
She was beginning to yield but turned away, with a last effort to
make him believe that she was impervious to his prayers.
"Miserable creature that I am! Never have I so longed to hold you in
my arms as I do at this moment, when I feel that you have every right
to hate me, to curse me!"
She was looking at him through her dark lashes. A slight twitching
at her throat showed the emotion that made them both the helpless
victims of an overmastering passion.
"I have cursed you, yes; but hated you, how could I?"
They clasped each other, fiercely, passionately, as though to crush
out all remembrance of what had come between them. In that moment
they both forgot the cowardice, the bitterness; all that did not make
for happiness, for the ecstasy of being together, was wiped out. The
old passionate ardour, their very breath of life, without which they
could only languish and die, had come back, nothing else mattered.
Their separation was only a vast emptiness. Once more they were in
that enchanted garden where Fate had first brought them together.
They were wandering in its secret paths and would abide there for
ever.
Whatever might happen afterward these infatuated lovers, with no
interest, no desire except for each other, would wander hand in hand
through fields of triumph and adversity, conquerors even to the end,
since they would fix the hour for leaving life and would go down to
immortality together.
Antony had ample cause for self-reproach. Haunted by the many wrongs
done his mistress, he now became her slave, and was absorbed in
carrying out her slightest wish. There was never a more
extravagantly generous lover! Cleopatra was interested in
literature; he sent two hundred thousand rolls of papyrus stolen from
Pergamus, for the library she had just rebuilt. She had a passion
for art; several sanctuaries were rifled and their treasures
transported to Alexandria.