Of all love stories that are known to human history, the love story of
Antony and Cleopatra has been for nineteen centuries the most
remarkable. It has tasked the resources of the plastic and the graphic
arts. It has been made the theme of poets and of prose narrators. It
has appeared and reappeared in a thousand forms, and it appeals as much
to the imagination to-day as it did when Antony deserted his almost
victorious troops and hastened in a swift galley from Actium in pursuit
of Cleopatra.
The wonder of the story is explained by its extraordinary nature. Many
men in private life have lost fortune and fame for the love of woman.
Kings have incurred the odium of their people, and have cared nothing
for it in comparison with the joys of sense that come from the
lingering caresses and clinging kisses. Cold-blooded statesmen, such as
Parnell, have lost the leadership of their party and have gone down in
history with a clouded name because of the fascination exercised upon
them by some woman, often far from beautiful, and yet possessing the
mysterious power which makes the triumphs of statesmanship seem slight
in comparison with the swiftly flying hours of pleasure.
But in the case of Antony and Cleopatra alone do we find a man flinging
away not merely the triumphs of civic honors or the headship of a
state, but much more than these--the mastery of what was practically
the world--in answer to the promptings of a woman's will. Hence the
story of the Roman triumvir and the Egyptian queen is not like any
other story that has yet been told. The sacrifice involved in it was so
overwhelming, so instantaneous, and so complete as to set this
narrative above all others. Shakespeare's genius has touched it with
the glory of a great imagination. Dryden, using it in the finest of his
plays, expressed its nature in the title "All for Love."
The distinguished Italian historian, Signor Ferrero, the author of many
books, has tried hard to eliminate nearly all the romantic elements
from the tale, and to have us see in it not the triumph of love, but
the blindness of ambition. Under his handling it becomes almost a
sordid drama of man's pursuit of power and of woman's selfishness. Let
us review the story as it remains, even after we have taken full
account of Ferrero's criticism. Has the world for nineteen hundred
years been blinded by a show of sentiment? Has it so absolutely been
misled by those who lived and wrote in the days which followed closely
on the events that make up this extraordinary narrative?
In answering these questions we must consider, in the first place, the
scene, and, in the second place, the psychology of the two central
characters who for so long a time have been regarded as the very
embodiment of unchecked passion.
As to the scene, it must be remembered that the Egypt of those days was
not Egyptian as we understand the word, but rather Greek. Cleopatra
herself was of Greek descent. The kingdom of Egypt had been created by
a general of Alexander the Great after that splendid warrior's death.
Its capital, the most brilliant city of the Greco-Roman world, had been
founded by Alexander himself, who gave to it his name. With his own
hands he traced out the limits of the city and issued the most
peremptory orders that it should be made the metropolis of the entire
world. The orders of a king cannot give enduring greatness to a city;
but Alexander's keen eye and marvelous brain saw at once that the site
of Alexandria was such that a great commercial community planted there
would live and flourish throughout out succeeding ages. He was right;
for within a century this new capital of Egypt leaped to the forefront
among the exchanges of the world's commerce, while everything that art
could do was lavished on its embellishment.
Alexandria lay upon a projecting tongue of land so situated that the
whole trade of the Mediterranean centered there. Down the Nile there
floated to its gates the barbaric wealth of Africa. To it came the
treasures of the East, brought from afar by caravans--silks from China,
spices and pearls from India, and enormous masses of gold and silver
from lands scarcely known. In its harbor were the vessels of every
country, from Asia in the East to Spain and Gaul and even Britain in
the West.
When Cleopatra, a young girl of seventeen, succeeded to the throne of
Egypt the population of Alexandria amounted to a million souls. The
customs duties collected at the port would, in terms of modern money,
amount each year to more than thirty million dollars, even though the
imposts were not heavy. The people, who may be described as Greek at
the top and Oriental at the bottom, were boisterous and
pleasure-loving, devoted to splendid spectacles, with horse-racing,
gambling, and dissipation; yet at the same time they were an artistic
people, loving music passionately, and by no means idle, since one part
of the city was devoted to large and prosperous manufactories of linen,
paper, glass, and muslin.
To the outward eye Alexandria was extremely beautiful. Through its
entire length ran two great boulevards, shaded and diversified by
mighty trees and parterres of multicolored flowers, amid which
fountains plashed and costly marbles gleamed. One-fifth of the whole
city was known as the Royal Residence. In it were the palaces of the
reigning family, the great museum, and the famous library which the
Arabs later burned. There were parks and gardens brilliant with
tropical foliage and adorned with the masterpieces of Grecian
sculpture, while sphinxes and obelisks gave a suggestion of Oriental
strangeness. As one looked seaward his eye beheld over the blue water
the snow-white rocks of the sheltering island, Pharos, on which was
reared a lighthouse four hundred feet in height and justly numbered
among the seven wonders of the world. Altogether, Alexandria was a city
of wealth, of beauty, of stirring life, of excitement, and of pleasure.
Ferrero has aptly likened it to Paris--not so much the Paris of to-day
as the Paris of forty years ago, when the Second Empire flourished in
all its splendor as the home of joy and strange delights.
Over the country of which Alexandria was the capital Cleopatra came to
reign at seventeen. Following the odd custom which the Greek dynasty of
the Ptolemies had inherited from their Egyptian predecessors, she was
betrothed to her own brother. He, however, was a mere child of less
than twelve, and was under the control of evil counselors, who, in his
name, gained control of the capital and drove Cleopatra into exile.
Until then she had been a mere girl; but now the spirit of a woman who
was wronged blazed up in her and called out all her latent powers.
Hastening to Syria, she gathered about herself an army and led it
against her foes.
But meanwhile Julius Caesar, the greatest man of ancient times, had
arrived at Alexandria backed by an army of his veterans. Against him no
resistance would avail. Then came a brief moment during which the
Egyptian king and the Egyptian queen each strove to win the favor of
the Roman imperator. The king and his advisers had many arts, and so
had Cleopatra. One thing, however, she possessed which struck the
balance in her favor, and this was a woman's fascination.
According to the story, Caesar was unwilling to receive her. There came
into his presence, as he sat in the palace, a group of slaves bearing a
long roll of matting, bound carefully and seeming to contain some
precious work of art. The slaves made signs that they were bearing a
gift to Caesar. The master of Egypt bade them unwrap the gift that he
might see it. They did so, and out of the wrapping came Cleopatra--a
radiant vision, appealing, irresistible. Next morning it became known
everywhere that Cleopatra had remained in Caesar's quarters through the
night and that her enemies were now his enemies. In desperation they
rushed upon his legions, casting aside all pretense of amity. There
ensued a fierce contest, but the revolt was quenched in blood.
This was a crucial moment in Cleopatra's life. She had sacrificed all
that a woman has to give; but she had not done so from any love of
pleasure or from wantonness. She was queen of Egypt, and she had
redeemed her kingdom and kept it by her sacrifice. One should not
condemn her too severely. In a sense, her act was one of heroism like
that of Judith in the tent of Holofernes. But beyond all question it
changed her character. It taught her the secret of her own great power.
Henceforth she was no longer a mere girl, nor a woman of the ordinary
type. Her contact with so great a mind as Caesar's quickened her
intellect. Her knowledge that, by the charms of sense, she had mastered
even him transformed her into a strange and wonderful creature. She
learned to study the weaknesses of men, to play on their emotions, to
appeal to every subtle taste and fancy. In her were blended mental
power and that illusive, indefinable gift which is called charm.
For Cleopatra was never beautiful. Signor Ferrero seems to think this
fact to be discovery of his own, but it was set down by Plutarch in a
very striking passage written less than a century after Cleopatra and
Antony died. We may quote here what the Greek historian said of her:
Her actual beauty was far from being so remarkable that none could be
compared with her, nor was it such that it would strike your fancy when
you saw her first. Yet the influence of her presence, if you lingered
near her, was irresistible. Her attractive personality, joined with the
charm of her conversation, and the individual touch that she gave to
everything she said or did, were utterly bewitching. It was delightful
merely to hear the music of her voice, with which, like an instrument
of many strings, she could pass from one language to another.
Caesar had left Cleopatra firmly seated on the throne of Egypt. For six
years she reigned with great intelligence, keeping order in her
dominions, and patronizing with discrimination both arts and letters.
But ere long the convulsions of the Roman state once more caused her
extreme anxiety. Caesar had been assassinated, and there ensued a
period of civil war. Out of it emerged two striking figures which were
absolutely contrasted in their character. One was Octavian, the adopted
son of Caesar, a man who, though still quite young and possessed of
great ability, was cunning, cold-blooded, and deceitful. The other was
Antony, a soldier by training, and with all a soldier's bluntness,
courage, and lawlessness.
The Roman world was divided for the time between these two men, Antony
receiving the government of the East, Octavian that of the West. In the
year which had preceded this division Cleopatra had wavered between the
two opposite factions at Rome. In so doing she had excited the
suspicion of Antony, and he now demanded of her an explanation.
One must have some conception of Antony himself in order to understand
the events that followed. He was essentially a soldier, of excellent
family, being related to Caesar himself. As a very young man he was
exceedingly handsome, and bad companions led him into the pursuit of
vicious pleasure. He had scarcely come of age when he found that he
owed the enormous sum of two hundred and fifty talents, equivalent to
half a million dollars in the money of to-day. But he was much more
than a mere man of pleasure, given over to drinking and to dissipation.
Men might tell of his escapades, as when he drove about the streets of
Rome in a common cab, dangling his legs out of the window while he
shouted forth drunken songs of revelry. This was not the whole of
Antony. Joining the Roman army in Syria, he showed himself to be a
soldier of great personal bravery, a clever strategist, and also humane
and merciful in the hour of victory.
Unlike most Romans, Antony wore a full beard. His forehead was large,
and his nose was of the distinctive Roman type. His look was so bold
and masculine that people likened him to Hercules. His democratic
manners endeared him to the army. He wore a plain tunic covered with a
large, coarse mantle, and carried a huge sword at his side, despising
ostentation. Even his faults and follies added to his popularity. He
would sit down at the common soldiers' mess and drink with them,
telling them stories and clapping them on the back. He spent money like
water, quickly recognizing any daring deed which his legionaries
performed. In this respect he was like Napoleon; and, like Napoleon, he
had a vein of florid eloquence which was criticized by literary men,
but which went straight to the heart of the private soldier. In a word,
he was a powerful, virile, passionate, able man, rough, as were nearly
all his countrymen, but strong and true.
It was to this general that Cleopatra was to answer, and with a firm
reliance on the charms which had subdued Antony's great commander,
Caesar, she set out in person for Cilicia, in Asia Minor, sailing up
the river Cydnus to the place where Antony was encamped with his army.
Making all allowance for the exaggeration of historians, there can be
no doubt that she appeared to him like some dreamy vision. Her barge
was gilded, and was wafted on its way by swelling sails of Tyrian
purple. The oars which smote the water were of shining silver. As she
drew near the Roman general's camp the languorous music of flutes and
harps breathed forth a strain of invitation.
Cleopatra herself lay upon a divan set upon the deck of the barge
beneath a canopy of woven gold. She was dressed to resemble Venus,
while girls about her personated nymphs and Graces. Delicate perfumes
diffused themselves from the vessel; and at last, as she drew near the
shore, all the people for miles about were gathered there, leaving
Antony to sit alone in the tribunal where he was dispensing justice.
Word was brought to him that Venus had come to feast with Bacchus.
Antony, though still suspicious of Cleopatra, sent her an invitation to
dine with him in state. With graceful tact she sent him a
counter-invitation, and he came. The magnificence of his reception
dazzled the man who had so long known only a soldier's fare, or at most
the crude entertainments which he had enjoyed in Rome. A marvelous
display of lights was made. Thousands upon thousands of candles shone
brilliantly, arranged in squares and circles; while the banquet itself
was one that symbolized the studied luxury of the East.
At this time Cleopatra was twenty-seven years of age--a period of life
which modern physiologists have called the crisis in a woman's growth.
She had never really loved before, since she had given herself to
Caesar, not because she cared for him, but to save her kingdom. She now
came into the presence of one whose manly beauty and strong passions
were matched by her own subtlety and appealing charm.
When Antony addressed her he felt himself a rustic in her presence.
Almost resentful, he betook himself to the coarse language of the camp.
Cleopatra, with marvelous adaptability, took her tone from his, and
thus in a moment put him at his ease. Ferrero, who takes a most
unfavorable view of her character and personality, nevertheless
explains the secret of her fascination:
Herself utterly cold and callous, insensitive by nature to the flame of
true devotion, Cleopatra was one of those women gifted with an unerring
instinct for all the various roads to men's affections. She could be
the shrinking, modest girl, too shy to reveal her half-unconscious
emotions of jealousy and depression and self-abandonment, or a woman
carried away by the sweep of a fiery and uncontrollable passion. She
could tickle the esthetic sensibilities of her victims by rich and
gorgeous festivals, by the fantastic adornment of her own person and
her palace, or by brilliant discussions on literature and art; she
could conjure up all their grossest instincts with the vilest
obscenities of conversation, with the free and easy jocularity of a
woman of the camps.
These last words are far too strong, and they represent only Ferrero's
personal opinion; yet there is no doubt that she met every mood of
Antony's so that he became enthralled with her at once. No such woman
as this had ever cast her eyes on him before. He had a wife at home--a
most disreputable wife--so that he cared little for domestic ties.
Later, out of policy, he made another marriage with the sister of his
rival, Octavian, but this wife he never cared for. His heart and soul
were given up to Cleopatra, the woman who could be a comrade in the
camp and a fount of tenderness in their hours of dalliance, and who
possessed the keen intellect of a man joined to the arts and
fascinations of a woman.
On her side she found in Antony an ardent lover, a man of vigorous
masculinity, and, moreover, a soldier whose armies might well sustain
her on the throne of Egypt. That there was calculation mingled with her
love, no one can doubt. That some calculation also entered into
Antony's affection is likewise certain. Yet this does not affect the
truth that each was wholly given to the other. Why should it have
lessened her love for him to feel that he could protect her and defend
her? Why should it have lessened his love for her to know that she was
queen of the richest country in the world--one that could supply his
needs, sustain his armies, and gild his triumphs with magnificence?
There are many instances in history of regnant queens who loved and yet
whose love was not dissociated from the policy of state. Such were Anne
of Austria, Elizabeth of England, and the unfortunate Mary Stuart.
Such, too, we cannot fail to think, was Cleopatra.
The two remained together for ten years. In this time Antony was
separated from her only during a campaign in the East. In Alexandria he
ceased to seem a Roman citizen and gave himself up wholly to the charms
of this enticing woman. Many stories are told of their good fellowship
and close intimacy. Plutarch quotes Plato as saying that there are four
kinds of flattery, but he adds that Cleopatra had a thousand. She was
the supreme mistress of the art of pleasing.
Whether Antony were serious or mirthful, she had at the instant some
new delight or some new charm to meet his wishes. At every turn she was
with him both day and night. With him she threw dice; with him she
drank; with him she hunted; and when he exercised himself in arms she
was there to admire and applaud.
At night the pair would disguise themselves as servants and wander
about the streets of Alexandria. In fact, more than once they were set
upon in the slums and treated roughly by the rabble who did not
recognize them. Cleopatra was always alluring, always tactful, often
humorous, and full of frolic.
Then came the shock of Antony's final breach with Octavian. Either
Antony or his rival must rule the world. Cleopatra's lover once more
became the Roman general, and with a great fleet proceeded to the coast
of Greece, where his enemy was encamped. Antony had raised a hundred
and twelve thousand troops and five hundred ships--a force far superior
to that commanded by Octavian. Cleopatra was there with sixty ships.
In the days that preceded the final battle much took place which still
remains obscure. It seems likely that Antony desired to become again
the Roman, while Cleopatra wished him to thrust Rome aside and return
to Egypt with her, to reign there as an independent king. To her Rome
was almost a barbarian city. In it she could not hold sway as she could
in her beautiful Alexandria, with its blue skies and velvet turf and
tropical flowers. At Rome Antony would be distracted by the cares of
state, and she would lose her lover. At Alexandria she would have him
for her very own.
The clash came when the hostile fleets met off the promontory of
Actium. At its crisis Cleopatra, prematurely concluding that the battle
was lost, of a sudden gave the signal for retreat and put out to sea
with her fleet. This was the crucial moment. Antony, mastered by his
love, forgot all else, and in a swift ship started in pursuit of her,
abandoning his fleet and army to win or lose as fortune might decide.
For him the world was nothing; the dark-browed Queen of Egypt,
imperious and yet caressing, was everything. Never was such a prize and
never were such great hopes thrown carelessly away. After waiting seven
days Antony's troops, still undefeated, finding that their commander
would not return to them, surrendered to Octavian, who thus became the
master of an empire.
Later his legions assaulted Alexandria, and there Antony was twice
defeated. At last Cleopatra saw her great mistake. She had made her
lover give up the hope of being Rome's dictator, but in so doing she
had also lost the chance of ruling with him tranquilly in Egypt. She
shut herself behind the barred doors of the royal sepulcher; and, lest
she should be molested there, she sent forth word that she had died.
Her proud spirit could not brook the thought that she might be seized
and carried as a prisoner to Rome. She was too much a queen in soul to
be led in triumph up the Sacred Way to the Capitol with golden chains
clanking on her slender wrists.
Antony, believing the report that she was dead, fell upon his sword;
but in his dying moments he was carried into the presence of the woman
for whom he had given all. With her arms about him, his spirit passed
away; and soon after she, too, met death, whether by a poisoned draught
or by the storied asp no one can say.
Cleopatra had lived the mistress of a splendid kingdom. She had
successively captivated two of the greatest men whom Rome had ever
seen. She died, like a queen, to escape disgrace. Whatever modern
critics may have to say concerning small details, this story still
remains the strangest love story of which the world has any record.