CLEOPATRA.
I cannot agree with one of the most philosophical of Shakspeare's critics, who has asserted "that the actual truth of particular events, in proportion as we are conscious of it, is a drawback on the pleasure as well as the dignity of tragedy." If this observation applies at all, it is equally just with regard to characters: and in either case can we admit it? The reverence and the simpleness of heart with which Shakspeare has treated the received and admitted truths of history—I mean according to the imperfect knowledge of his time—is admirable; his inaccuracies are few: his general accuracy, allowing for the distinction between the narrative and the dramatic form, is acknowledged to be wonderful. He did not steal the precious material from the treasury of history, to debase its purity,—new-stamp it arbitrarily with effigies and legends of his own devising and then attempt to pass it current, like Dryden, Racine, and the rest of those poetical coiners: he only rubbed off the rust, purified and brightened it, so that history herself has been known to receive it back as sterling.
Truth, wherever manifested, should be sacred: so Shakspeare deemed, and laid no profane hand upon her altars. But tragedy—majestic tragedy, is worthy to stand before the sanctuary of Truth, and to be the priestess of her oracles. "Whatever in religion is holy and sublime, in virtue amiable or grave, whatsoever hath passion or admiration in all the changes of that which is called fortune from without, or the wily subtleties and refluxes of man's thought from within;"[66]—whatever is pitiful in the weakness, sublime in the strength, or terrible in the perversion of human intellect, these are the domain of Tragedy. Sibyl and Muse at once, she holds aloft the book of human fate, and is the interpreter of its mysteries. It is not, then, making a mock of the serious sorrows of real life, nor of those human beings who lived, suffered and acted upon this earth, to array them in her rich and stately robes, and present them before us as powers evoked from dust and darkness, to awaken the generous sympathies, the terror or the pity of mankind. It does not add to the pain, as far as tragedy is a source of emotion, that the wrongs and sufferings represented, the guilt of Lady Macbeth, the despair of Constance, the arts of Cleopatra, and the distresses of Katherine, had a real existence; but it adds infinitely to the moral effect, as a subject of contemplation and a lesson of conduct.[67]
I shall be able to illustrate these observations more fully in the course of this section, in which we will consider those characters which are drawn from history; and first, Cleopatra.
Of all Shakspeare's female characters, Miranda and Cleopatra appear to me the most wonderful. The first, unequalled as a poetic conception; the latter, miraculous as a work of art. If we could make a regular classification of his characters, these would form the two extremes of simplicity and complexity; and all his other characters would be found to fill up some shade or gradation between these two.
Great crimes, springing from high passions, grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of littleness produce an effect like grandeur—to make the excess of frailty produce an effect like power—to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial, frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense of the sublime spring from the very elements of littleness,—to do this, belonged only to Shakspeare that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant antithesis, a compound of contradictions, of all that we most hate, with what we most admire. The whole character is the triumph of the external over the innate; and yet like one of her country's hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. But how are we to arrive at the solution of this glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continually mocks and eludes us? What is most astonishing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical construction—its consistent inconsistency, if I may use such an expression—which renders it quite impossible to reduce it to any elementary principles. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole, that vanity and the love of power predominate; but I dare not say it is so, for these qualities and a hundred others mingle into each other, and shift and change, and glance away, like the colors in a peacock's train.
In some others of Shakspeare's female characters, also remarkable for their complexity, (Portia and Juliet, for instance,) we are struck with the delightful sense of harmony in the midst of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity of effect is produced in the midst of variety; but in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and simplicity which strikes us; the impression is that of perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. The continual approximation of whatever is most opposite in character, in situation, in sentiment, would be fatiguing, were it not so perfectly natural: the woman herself would be distracting, if she were not so enchanting.
I have not the slightest doubt that Shakspeare's Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra—the "Rare Egyptian"—individualized and placed before us. Her mental accomplishments, her unequalled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, her irresistible allurements, her starts of irregular grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper, her vivacity of imagination, her petulant caprice, her fickleness and her falsehood, her tenderness and her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her magnificent spirit, her royal pride, the gorgeous eastern coloring of the character; all these contradictory elements has Shakspeare seized, mingled them in their extremes, and fused them into one brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Oriental voluptuousness, and gipsy sorcery.
What better proof can we have of the individual truth of the character than the admission that Shakspeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the same effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleopatra? She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our judgment, bewilders and bewitches our fancy; from the beginning to the end of the drama, we are conscious of a kind of fascination against which our moral sense rebels, but from which there is no escape. The epithets applied to her perpetually by Antony and others confirm this impression: "enchanting queen!"—"witch"—"spell"—"great fairy"—"cockatrice"—"serpent of old Nile"—"thou grave charm!"[68] are only a few of them; and who does not know by heart the famous quotations in which this Egyptian Circe is described with all her infinite seductions?
Fie! wrangling queen!
Whom every thing becomes—to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee, fair and admired.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety:—
For vilest things
Become themselves in her.
And the pungent irony of Enobarbus has well exposed her feminine arts, when he says, on the occasion of Antony's intended departure,—
Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies
instantly: I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer
moment.
ANTONY.
She is cunning past man's thought.
ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no! her passions are made of nothing but the
finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and
waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and
tempests than almanacs can report; this cannot be cunning
in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as
Jove.
The whole secret of her absolute dominion over the facile Antony may be found in one little speech:—
See where he is—who's with him—what he does—
(I did not send you.) If you find him sad,
Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
That I am sudden sick! Quick! and return.
CHARMIAN.
Madam, methinks if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.
CLEOPATRA.
What should I do, I do not?
CHARMIAN.
In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.
CLEOPATRA.
Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.
CHARMIAN.
Tempt him not too far.
But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knows better: and what a picture of her triumphant petulance, her imperious and imperial coquetry, is given in her own words!
That time—O times!
I laugh'd him out of patience; and that night
I laughed him into patience: and next morn,
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;
Then put my tires and mantles on, whilst
I wore his sword, Philippan.
When Antony enters full of some serious purpose which he is about to impart, the woman's perverseness, and the tyrannical waywardness with which she taunts him and plays upon his temper, are admirably depicted.
I know, by that same eye, there's some good news.
What says the married woman?[69] You may go;
Would she had never given you leave to come!
Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here;
I have no power upon you; hers you are.
ANTONY.
The gods best know—
CLEOPATRA.
O, never was there queen
So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first,
I saw the treasons planted.
ANTONY.
Cleopatra!
CLEOPATRA.
Why should I think you can be mine, and true,
Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,
Which break themselves in swearing!
ANTONY.
Most sweet queen!
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going,
But bid farewell, and go.
She recovers her dignity for a moment at the news of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow:—
Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
And then follows the artful mockery with which she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover whether he regrets his wife.
O most false love!
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see
In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be.
ANTONY.
Quarrel no more; but be prepared to know
The purposes I bear: which are, or cease,
As you shall give th' advice. Now, by the fire
That quickens Nilus' shrine, I go from hence
Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war,
As thou affectest.
CLEOPATRA.
Cut my lace, Charmian, come—But
let it be. I am quickly ill, and well.
So Antony loves.
ANTONY.
My precious queen, forbear:
And give true evidence to his love which stands
An honorable trial.
CLEOPATRA.
So Fulvia told me.
I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her:
Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears
Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling; and let it look
Like perfect honor.
ANTONY.
You'll heat my blood—no more.
CLEOPATRA.
You can do better yet; but this is meetly.
ANTONY.
Now, by my sword—
CLEOPATRA.
And target—still he mends:
But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe!
This is, indeed, most "excellent dissembling;" but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that return of tenderness which secures the power she has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell.
Forgive me!
Since my becomings kill me when they do not
Eye well to you. Your honor calls you hence,
Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success
Be strew'd before your feet!
Finer still are the workings of her variable mind and lively imagination, after Antony's departure; her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such things as space and time; and high treason to her sovereign power, to dare to remember what she chooses to forget
Give me to drink mandragora,
That I might sleep out this great gap of time
My Antony is away.
O Charmian!
Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he,
Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?
O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
The demi-Atlas of this earth—the arm
And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
Or murmuring, Where's my serpent of old Nile?
For so he calls me.
Met'st thou my posts?
ALEXAS.
Ay, madam, twenty several messengers:
Why do you send so thick?
CLEOPATRA.
Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony,
Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.
Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Cæsar so?
CHARMIAN.
O that brave Cæsar!
CLEOPATRA.
Be chok'd with such another emphasis!
Say, the brave Antony.
CHARMIAN.
The valiant Cæsar!
CLEOPATRA.
By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth,
If thou with Cæsar paragon again
My man of men!
CHARMIAN.
By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.
CLEOPATRA.
My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
To say as I said then. But, come away—
Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day
A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt.
We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble through the streets at night, and bandy ribald jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the same authority, we know that they were accustomed to live on the most familiar terms with their attendants and the companions of their revels. To these traits we must add, that with all her violence, perverseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled a capability for warm affections and kindly feeling, or rather what we should call in these days, a constitutional good-nature; and was lavishly generous to her favorites and dependents. These characteristics we find scattered through the play; they are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare, but he has made the finest use of them in his delineation of manners. Hence the occasional freedom of her women and her attendants, in the midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most natural and consistent: hence, too, their devoted attachment and fidelity, proved even in death. But as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, perhaps the finest and most characteristic scene in the whole play, is that in which the messenger arrives from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage with Octavia. She perceives at once with quickness that all is not well, and she hastens to anticipate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of being disappointed. Her impatience to know what she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she gradually works herself up into a state of excitement, and at length into fury, is wrought out with a force of truth which makes us recoil.
CLEOPATRA.
Antony's dead!
If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress.
But well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.
MESSENGER.
First, madam, he is well.
CLEOPATRA.
Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use
To say, the dead are well: bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.
MESSENGER.
Good madam, hear me.
CLEOPATRA.
Well, go to, I will.
But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony
Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor
To trumpet such good tidings? If not well,
Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes.
MESSENGER.
Wil't please you hear me?
CLEOPATRA.
I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st;
Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Cæsar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.
MESSENGER.
CLEOPATRA.
Well said.
MESSENGER.
And friends with Cæsar.
CLEOPATRA.
Thou art an honest man.
MESSENGER.
Cæsar and he are greater friends than ever.
CLEOPATRA.
Make thee a fortune from me.
MESSENGER.
But yet, madam—
CLEOPATRA.
I do not like but yet—it does allay
The good precedence. Fie upon but yet:
But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth
Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend,
Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear,
The good and bad together. He's friends with Cæsar
In state of health, thou say'st; and thou say'st free.
MESSENGER.
Free, madam! No: I made no such report,
He's bound unto Octavia.
CLEOPATRA.
For what good turn?
MESSENGER.
Madam he's married to Octavia.
CLEOPATRA.
The most infectious pestilence upon thee!
[Strikes him down.
MESSENGER.
Good madam, patience.
CLEOPATRA.
What say you? [Strikes him again.
Hence horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me—I'll unhair thine head—
Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stewed in brine
Smarting in ling'ring pickle.
MESSENGER.
Gracious madam!
I, that do bring the news, made not the match.
CLEOPATRA.
Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage;
And I will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.
MESSENGER.
He's married, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
Rogue, thou hast lived too long. [Draws a dagger.
MESSENGER.
Nay then I'll run.
What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. [Exit.
CHARMIAN.
Good madam, keep yourself within yourself;
The man is innocent.
CLEOPATRA.
Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.
Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures
Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again;
Though I am mad, I will not bite him—Call!
CHARMIAN.
He is afraid to come.
CLEOPATRA.
I will not hurt him.
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike
A meaner than myself.
* * * *
CLEOPATRA.
In praising Antony I have dispraised Cæsar.
CHARMIAN.
Many times, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I am paid for't now—
Lead me from hence.
I faint. O Iras, Charmian—'tis no matter
Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the features of Octavia, her years,
Her inclination—let him not leave out
The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly.
[Exit Alex.
Let him forever go—let him not—Charmian,
Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas
[To Mardian.
Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian.
But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.
I have given this scene entire because I know nothing comparable to it The pride and arrogance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions of temper and feeling, the contest of various passions, and at length—when the wild hurricane has spent its fury—the melting into tears, faintness, and languishment, are portrayed with the most astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and force of coloring which is shed over this extraordinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman beating her menial, presents something ridiculous or disgusting to the mind; in a queen or a tragedy heroine it is still more indecorous;[70] yet this scene is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic. Cleopatra seems privileged to "touch the brink of all we hate" with impunity. This imperial termagant, this "wrangling queen, whom every thing becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not by what strange power it is, that in the midst of all these unruly passions and childish caprices, the poetry of the character, and the fanciful and sparkling grace of the delineation are sustained and still rule in the imagination; but we feel that it is so.
I need hardly observe, that we have historical authority for the excessive violence of Cleopatra's temper. Witness the story of her boxing the ears of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene with the messenger.
The man is afterwards brought back, almost by force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a description of Octavia:—but this time, made wise by experience, he takes care to adapt his information to the humors of his imperious mistress, and gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The scene which follows, in which Cleopatra—artful, acute, and penetrating as she is—becomes the dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay, assists in duping herself; and after having cuffed the messenger for telling her truths which are offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flatters her weakness—is not only an admirable exhibition of character, but a fine moral lesson.
She concludes, after dismissing the messenger with gold and thanks,
I repent me much
That I so harry'd him. Why, methinks by him
This creature's no such thing?
CHARMIAN.
O nothing, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
The man hath seen some majesty, and should know!
Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself up with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty as she pronounces this last line? and is not this the very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis,—who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent enough for her children but those of the Sun and the Moon?
The despotism and insolence of her temper are touched in some other places most admirably. Thus, when she is told that the Romans libel and abuse her, she exclaims,—
Sink Rome, and their tongues rot
That speak against us!
And when one of her attendants observes, that "Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but when she were well pleased," she immediately replies, "That Herod's head I'll have."[71]
When Proculeius surprises her in her monument, and snatches her poniard from her, terror, and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being.
CLEOPATRA.
Where art thou, death?
Come hither, come! come, come and take a queen
Worth many babes and beggars!
PROCULEIUS.
O temperance, lady?
CLEOPATRA.
Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir:
If idle talk will once be necessary.
I'll not sleep neither; this mortal house I'll ruin,
Do Cæsar what he can! Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court,
Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up,
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt
Be gentle grave to me! Rather on Nilus' mud
Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies
Blow me into abhorring! Rather make
My country's high pyramids my gibbet,
And hang me up in chains!
In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer still, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuberance of fancy and imagery, is her famous description of Antony, addressed to Dolabella:—
Most noble empress you have heard of me?
CLEOPATRA.
I cannot tell.
DOLABELLA.
Assuredly, you know me.
CLEOPATRA.
No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
You laugh when boys, or women, tell their dreams
Is't not your trick?
DOLABELLA.
I understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I dream'd there was an emperor Antony;
O such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!
DOLABELLA.
If it might please you—
CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck
A sun and moon; which kept their course, and lighted
The little O, the earth.
DOLABELLA.
Most sovereign creature—
CLEOPATRA.
His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm
Crested the world; his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
But when he meant to quail or shake the orb
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas,
That grew the more by reaping. His delights
Were dolphin like; they show'd his back above
The element they liv'd in. In his livery[72]
Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands were
As plates[73] dropp'd from his pocket.
DOLABELLA.
Cleopatra!
CLEOPATRA.
Think you there was, or might be, such a man
As this I dream'd of?
DOLABELLA.
Gentle madam, no.
CLEOPATRA.
You lie,—up to the hearing of the gods!
There was no room left in this amazing picture for the display of that passionate maternal tenderness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in Cleopatra's historical character; but it is not left untouched, for when she is imprecating mischiefs on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of possible evils, that "thunder may smite Cæsarion!"
In representing the mutual passion of Antony and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has adhered to the truth of history as well as to general nature. On Antony's side it is a species of infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling: it is, in short, the love of a man declined in years for a woman very much younger than himself, and who has subjected him to every species of female enchantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed nature, made up of real attachment, combined with the love of pleasure, the love of power, and the love of self. Not only is the character most complicated, but no one sentiment could have existed pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers; her passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre; but like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters and veers with every breath of her variable temper: yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies, and even vices, womanly feeling is still predominant in Cleopatra: and the change which takes place in her deportment towards Antony, when their evil fortune darkens round them, is as beautiful and interesting in itself as it is striking and natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provoking petulance she displays in the first scenes, we have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior, for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural feeling.
CLEOPATRA.
O my lord, my lord,
Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
You would have follow'd.
ANTONY.
Egypt, thou know'st too well
My heart was to the rudder tied by the strings,
And thou should'st tow me after. O'er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou know'st; and that
Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.
CLEOPATRA.
O, my pardon?
ANTONY.
Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
And palter in the shifts of lowness; who
With half the bulk o' the world play'd as I pleas'd,
Making and marring fortunes. You did know
How much you were my conqueror; and that
My sword, made weak by my affection, would
Obey it on all cause.
CLEOPATRA.
O pardon, pardon!
ANTONY.
Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;
Even this repays me.
It is perfectly in keeping with the individual character, that Cleopatra, alike destitute of moral strength and physical courage, should cower terrified and subdued before the masculine spirit of her lover, when once she has fairly roused it. Thus Tasso's Armida, half siren, half sorceress, in the moment of strong feeling, forgets her incantations, and has recourse to persuasion, to prayers, and to tears.
Lascia gl' incanti, e vuol provar se vaga
E supplice belta sia miglior maga.
Though the poet afterwards gives us to understand that even in this relinquishment of art there was a more refined artifice.
Nella doglia amara
Già tutte non oblia l' arti e le frodi.
And something like this inspires the conduct of Cleopatra towards Antony in his fallen fortunes. The reader should refer to that fine scene, where Antony surprises Thyreus kissing her hand, "that kingly seal and plighter of high hearts," and rages like a thousand hurricanes.
The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by Shakspeare, reminds me of the Farnese Hercules. There is an ostentatious display of power, an exaggerated grandeur, a colossal effect in the whole conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of the language, which seems, as it flows along, to resound with the clang of arms and the music of the revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic portrait are a little kept down; but every word which Antony utters is characteristic of the arrogant but magnanimous Roman, who "with half the bulk o' the world played as he pleased," and was himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) passions, and the slave of a woman.
History is followed closely in all the details of the catastrophe, and there is something wonderfully grand in the hurried march of events towards the conclusion. As disasters hem her round, Cleopatra gathers up her faculties to meet them, not with the calm fortitude of a great soul, but the haughty, tameless spirit of a wilful woman, unused to reverse or contradiction.
Her speech, after Antony has expired in her arms, I have always regarded as one of the most wonderful in Shakspeare. Cleopatra is not a woman to grieve silently. The contrast between the violence of her passions and the weakness of her sex, between her regal grandeur and her excess of misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with the fearful destiny which has compassed her, and the mixture of wild impatience and pathos in her agony, are really magnificent. She faints on the body of Antony, and is recalled to life by the cries of her women:—
IRAS.
Royal Egypt—empress!
CLEOPATRA.
No more, but e'en a woman![74] and commanded
By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest chares.—It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods:
To tell them that our world did equal theirs
Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught,
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin
To rush into the secret house of death
Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?
What, what? good cheer! why how now, Charmian?
My noble girls!—ah, women, women! look
Our lamp is spent, is out.
We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's noble,
Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us.
But although Cleopatra talks of dying "after the high Roman fashion" she fears what she most desires, and cannot perform with simplicity what costs her such an effort. That extreme physical cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her historical character, which led to the defeat of Actium, which made her delay the execution of a fatal resolve, till she had "tried conclusions infinite of easy ways to die," Shakspeare has rendered with the finest possible effect, and in a manner which heightens instead of diminishing our respect and interest. Timid by nature, she is courageous by the mere force of will, and she lashes herself up with high-sounding words into a kind of false daring. Her lively imagination suggests every incentive which can spur her on to the deed she has resolved, yet trembles to contemplate. She pictures to herself all the degradations which must attend her captivity, and let it be observed, that those which she anticipates are precisely such as a vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would especially dread, and which only true virtue and magnanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have endured the loss of freedom; but to be led in triumph through the streets of Rome is insufferable. She could stoop to Cæsar with dissembling courtesy, and meet duplicity with superior art; but "to be chastised" by the scornful or upbraiding glance of the injured Octavia—"rather a ditch in Egypt!"
If knife, drugs, serpents, have
Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe.
Your wife, Octavia, with her modest eyes,
And still conclusion,[75] shall acquire no honor
Demurring upon me.
Now Iras, what think'st thou?
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown
In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves,
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths,
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forc'd to drink their vapor.
IRAS.
The gods forbid!
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors
Will catch at us like strumpets; and scald rhymers
Ballad us out o' tune. The quick comedians
Extemporally will stage us, and present
Our Alexandrian revels. Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth; and I shall see
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.
She then calls for her diadem, her robes of state, and attires herself as if "again for Cydnus, to meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she must make Death proud to take her, and die, "phœnix like," as she had lived, with all the pomp of preparation—luxurious in her despair.
The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria, and others who died "after the high Roman fashion," is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, and yet none of them so powerfully affect the imagination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The idea of this frail, timid, wayward woman, dying with heroism from the mere force of passion and will, takes us by surprise. The Attic elegance of her mind, her poetical imagination, the pride of beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and the sumptuous and picturesque accompaniments with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to its extreme height that effect of contrast which prevails through her life and character. No arts, no invention could add to the real circumstances of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare has shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the classical authorities; and to say that the language and sentiments worthily fill up the outline, is the most magnificent praise that can be given. The magical play of fancy and the overpowering fascination of the character are kept up to the last, and when Cleopatra, on applying the asp, silences the lamentations of her women:—
Peace! peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse to sleep?—
These few words—the contrast between the tender beauty of the image and the horror of the situation—produce an effect more intensely mournful than all the ranting in the world. The generous devotion of her women adds the moral charm which alone was wanting: and when Octavius hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, when gazing on her—
She looks like sleep—
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace,
the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, triumphant even in death, is at once brought before us, and one masterly and comprehensive stroke consummates this most wonderful, most dazzling delineation.
I am not here the apologist of Cleopatra's historical character, nor of such women as resemble her: I am considering her merely as a dramatic portrait of astonishing beauty, spirit, and originality. She has furnished the subject of two Latin, sixteen French, six English, and at least four Italian tragedies;[76] yet Shakspeare alone has availed himself of all the interest of the story, without falsifying the character. He alone has dared to exhibit the Egyptian queen with all her greatness and all her littleness—all her frailties of temper—all her paltry arts and dissolute passions—yet preserved the dramatic propriety and poetical coloring of the character, and awakened our pity for fallen grandeur, without once beguiling us into sympathy with guilt and error. Corneille has represented Cleopatra as a model of chaste propriety, magnanimity, constancy, and every female virtue; and the effect is almost ludicrous. In our own language, we have two very fine tragedies on the story of Cleopatra: in that of Dryden, which is in truth a noble poem, and which he himself considered his masterpiece, Cleopatra is a mere common-place "all-for-love" heroine, full of constancy and fine sentiments. For instance:—
My love's so true,
That I can neither hide it where it is,
Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me
A wife—a silly, harmless, household dove,
Fond without art, and kind without deceit.
But fortune, that has made a mistress of me,
Has thrust me out to the wild world, unfurnished
Of falsehood to be happy.
Is this Antony's Cleopatra—the Circe of the Nile—the Venus of the Cydnus? She never uttered any thing half so mawkish in her life.
In Fletcher's "False One," Cleopatra is represented at an earlier period of her history: and to give an idea of the aspect under which the character is exhibited, (and it does not vary throughout the play,) I shall give one scene; if it be considered out of place, its extreme beauty will form its best apology.
Ptolemy and his council having exhibited to Cæsar all the royal treasures in Egypt, he is so astonished and dazzled at the view of the accumulated wealth, that he forgets the presence of Cleopatra, and treats her with negligence. The following scene between her and her sister Arsinoe occurs immediately afterwards.
ARSINOE.
You're so impatient!
CLEOPATRA.
Have I not cause?
Women of common beauties and low births,
When they are slighted, are allowed their angers—
Why should not I, a princess, make him know
The baseness of his usage?
ARSINOE.
Yes, 'tis fit:
But then again you know what man—
CLEOPATRA.
He's no man!
The shadow of a greatness hangs upon him,
And not the virtue; he is no conqueror,
Has suffered under the base dross of nature;
Poorly deliver'd up his power to wealth.
The god of bed-rid men taught his eyes treason.
Against the truth of love he has rais'd rebellion
Defied his holy flames.
EROS.
He will fall back again
And satisfy your grace.
CLEOPATRA.
Had I been old,
Or blasted in my bud, he might have show'd
Some shadow of dislike: but to prefer
The lustre of a little trash, Arsinoe,
And the poor glow-worm light of some faint jewels
Before the light of love, and soul of beauty—
O how it vexes me! He is no soldier:
All honorable soldiers are Love's servants.
He is a merchant, a mere wandering merchant,
Servile to gain; he trades for poor commodities,
And makes his conquests thefts! Some fortunate captains
That quarter with him, and are truly valiant.
Have flung the name of "Happy Cæsar" on him;
Himself ne'er won it. He's so base and covetous,
He'll sell his sword for gold.
ARSINOE.
This is too bitter.
CLEOPATRA.
O, I could curse myself, that was so foolish.
So fondly childish, to believe his tongue—
His promising tongue—ere I could catch his temper.
I'd trash enough to have cloyed his eyes withal,
(His covetous eyes,) such as I scorn to tread on,
Richer than e'er he saw yet, and more tempting;
Had I known he'd stoop'd at that, I'd saved mine honor—
I had been happy still! But let him take it.
And let him brag how poorly I'm rewarded;
Let him go conquer still weak wretched ladies;
Love has his angry quiver too, his deadly,
And when he finds scorn, armed at the strongest—
I am a fool to fret thus for a fool,—
An old blind fool too! I lose my health; I will not,
I will not cry; I will not honor him
With tears diviner than the gods he worships;
I will not take the pains to curse a poor thing.
EROS.
Do not; you shall not need.
CLEOPATRA.
Would I were prisoner
To one I hate, that I might anger him!
I will love any man to break the heart of him!
Any that has the heart and will to kill him!
ARSINOE.
Take some fair truce.
CLEOPATRA.
I will go study mischief,
And put a look on, arm'd with all my cunnings.
Shall meet him like a basilisk, and strike him.
Love! put destroying flame into mine eyes,
Into my smiles deceits, that I may torture him—
That I may make him love to death, and laugh at him
Enter APOLLODORUS.
APOLLODORUS.
Cæsar commends his service to your grace
CLEOPATRA.
His service? What's his service?
EROS.
Pray you be patient
The noble Cæsar loves still.
CLEOPATRA.
What's his will?
APOLLODORUS.
He craves access unto your highness.
CLEOPATRA
No;—
Say no; I will have none to trouble me.
ARSINOE.
Good sister!—
CLEOPATRA.
None, I say. I will be private.
Would thou hadst flung me into Nilus, keeper,
When first thou gav'st consent to bring my body
To this unthankful Cæsar!
APOLLODORUS.
'Twas your will, madam.
Nay more, your charge upon me, as I honor'd you.
You know what danger I endur'd.
CLEOPATRA.
Take this, [giving a jewel,
And carry it to that lordly Cæsar sent thee;
There's a new love, a handsome one, a rich one,—
One that will hug his mind: bid him make love to it:
Tell the ambitious broker this will suffer—
APOLLODORUS.
He enters.
CLEOPATRA.
How!
CÆSAR.
I do not use to wait, lady
Where I am, all the doors are free and open.
CLEOPATRA.
I guess so by your rudeness.
CÆSAR.
You're not angry?
Things of your tender mould should be most gentle.
Why should you frown? Good gods, what a set anger
Have you forc'd into your face! Come, I must temper you.
What a coy smile was there, and a disdainful!
How like an ominous flash it broke out from you!
Defend me, love! Sweet, who has anger'd you?
CLEOPATRA.
Show him a glass! That false face has betray'd me—
That base heart wrong'd me!
CÆSAR.
Be more sweetly angry.
I wrong'd you, fair?
CLEOPATRA.
Away with your foul flatteries;
They are too gross! But that I dare be angry,
And with as great a god as Cæsar is,
To show how poorly I respect his memory
I would not speak to you.
CÆSAR.
Pray you, undo this riddle,
And tell me how I've vexed you.
CLEOPATRA.
Let me think first,
Whether I may put on patience
That will with honor suffer me. Know I hate you!
Let that begin the story. Now I'll tell you.
CÆSAR.
But do it mildly: in a noble lady,
Softness of spirit, and a sober nature,
That moves like summer winds, cool, and blows sweetness,
Shows blessed, like herself.
CLEOPATRA.
And that great blessedness.
You first reap'd of me; till you taught my nature,
Like a rude storm, to talk aloud and thunder,
Sleep was not gentler than my soul, and stiller.
You had the spring of my affections,
And my fair fruits I gave you leave to taste of;
You must expect the winter of mine anger.
You flung me off—before the court disgraced me—
When in the pride I appear'd of all my beauty—
Appear'd your mistress; took unto your eyes
The common strumpet, love of hated lucre,—
Courted with covetous heart the slave of nature,—
Gave all your thoughts to gold, that men of glory,
And minds adorned with noble love, would kick at!
Soldiers of royal mark scorn such base purchase;
Beauty and honor are the marks they shoot at.
I spake to you then, I courted you, and woo'd you,
Called you dear Cæsar, hung about you tenderly,
Was proud to appear your friend—
CÆSAR.
You have mistaken me.
CLEOPATRA.
But neither eye, nor favor, not a smile
Was I blessed back withal, but shook off rudely,
And as you had been sold to sordid infamy,
You fell before the images of treasure,
And in your soul you worship'd. I stood slighted;
Forgotten, and contemned; my soft embraces,
And those sweet kisses which you called Elysium
As letters writ in sand, no more remember'd;
The name and glory of your Cleopatra
Laugh'd at, and made a story to your captains!
Shall I endure?
CÆSAR.
You are deceived in all this;
Upon my life you are; 'tis your much tenderness.
CLEOPATRA.
No, no; I love not that way; you are cozen'd;
I love with as much ambition as a conqueror,
And where I love will triumph!
CÆSAR.
So you shall:
My heart shall be the chariot that shall bear you:
All I have won shall wait upon you. By the gods,
The bravery of this woman's mind has fir'd me!
Dear mistress, shall I but this once——
CLEOPATRA.
How! Cæsar!
Have I let slip a second vanity
That gives thee hope?
CÆSAR.
You shall be absolute,
And reign alone as queen; you shall be any thing.
CLEOPATRA.
* * * *
Farewell, unthankful!
CÆSAR.
Stay!
CLEOPATRA.
I will not.
CÆSAR.
I command.
CLEOPATRA.
Command, and go without, sir,
I do command thee be my slave forever,
And vex, while I laugh at thee!
CÆSAR.
Thus low, beauty—— [He kneels
CLEOPATRA.
It is too late; when I have found thee absolute,
The man that fame reports thee, and to me,
May be I shall think better. Farewell, conqueror!
(Exit.)
Now this is magnificent poetry, but this is not Cleopatra, this is not "the gipsey queen." The sentiment here is too profound, the majesty too real, and too lofty. Cleopatra could be great by fits and starts, but never sustained her dignity upon so high a tone for ten minutes together. The Cleopatra of Fletcher reminds us of the antique colossal statue of her in the Vatican, all grandeur and grace. Cleopatra in Dryden's tragedy is like Guido's dying Cleopatra in the Pitti Palace, tenderly beautiful. Shakspeare's Cleopatra is like one of those graceful and fantastic pieces of antique Arabesque, in which all anomalous shapes and impossible and wild combinations of form are woven together in regular confusion and most harmonious discord: and such, we have reason to believe, was the living woman herself, when she existed upon this earth.