With the splendors of thy smile;
…
Isis and Osiris guard thee,
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!”
Then she gave herself up to a passionate grief, of which we cannot doubt the sincerity, children—country—all was forgotten in her wild outburst of sorrow, and still the pitiful story drew to its close. Cleopatra attempted suicide, but Cæsar’s messengers having now reached the upper story, with scaling ladders, arrived in time to prevent, and drew her dagger away, even threatening her with the destruction of all her children if she did not desist. Now for a space she changed her policy, but probably never her mind, which was evidently bent on self-destruction. She arrayed herself in fine garments and received Cæsar, delivering over to him, nominally, all her treasures, but flying into a furious passion with a servant who betrayed that she was withholding a part; alternate gusts of fury and grief swayed the now enfeebled and broken body, and the tormented soul. At one instant she drew herself up in queenly dignity, at another threw herself at Cæsar’s feet, bathed in tears. He raised and tried to reassure her, pretending that he intended her no harm, but never relinquishing the fixed purpose of having her grace his triumph. While she, on her part, allowing herself to seem comforted, was equally unchanged in her determination. ’Tis said that during this interview Octavius kept his eyes upon the ground that neither the sight of her beauty nor her grief might move him.
And now comes the last act of the theatrical and tragic story. A basket of figs was sent up to the queen, and hidden in that, or in the apartment, was the asp, the messenger of death. Crowned and arrayed as for a festival she laid herself upon the bed where Antony had expired, and received a bite from the irritated snake, which she had tormented to his fatal task, she breathed her last. The passionate devotion she had inspired was proven by the self-destruction of her two maidens, Iras and Charmian, both of whom followed her example. Many old stories have been, by modern criticism and research, proved to be mythical tales, but this seems to hold its own. She had written a pitiful entreaty to Cæsar that she might be buried in the same tomb with Antony, the last proof that her love for him was indeed a true affection. No sooner had Octavius received this than he suspected her design, and again sent his messengers, if possible, to prevent it. But they were too late, and we close with Plutarch’s words: “Iras, one of her women, lay dying at her feet and Charmian, just ready to fall, scarce able to hold up her head, was adjusting her mistress’ diadem.” The picture is very touching. “And,” continues the narrative, “when one that came in said, ‘Was this well done of your lady, Charmian?’ ‘Perfectly well,’ she answered, ‘and as became the daughter of so many kings.’ And as she said this she fell dead by the bedside.”
Thus the curtain was rung down on the last act of the tragedy. Though faded in bloom, and torn with emotions the still beautiful queen, in all the statuesque majesty of death, lay upon her couch, while as in life her faithful maidens bore her company. So expired the last and most noted queen of Egypt and Rome, long virtually master, took full possession. Balked in his scheme of carrying Cleopatra captive, Cæsar showed what his fixed determination had been by having a golden statue of her made, with the asp upon her arm, and carried in his triumphal procession.
Of the fate of Cleopatra’s children, history makes brief mention. The young Cæsarion, whose rights his mother had always so carefully guarded, had been sent away with his tutor to the town of far Berenike, but the faithless man betrayed him to Octavian, who had both him and Antony’s son, Antyllus, who had been declared an hereditary prince, cruelly murdered. The younger children, though they soon pass from the records and are lost to sight, had perchance a happier fate. The young princess Cleopatra, Antony’s daughter, who doubtless possessed at least a portion of her mother’s beauty, was married to Juba, the so-called “literary king” of Mauritania, and Octavian, having removed those members of the family that he considered in any way dangerous to his own autocratic authority, permitted the sister to carry with her the two younger brothers, Alexander and Ptolemy, and thus the once mighty kingdom of Egypt lay prostrate under the foot of the temporary master of the world and became a Roman province; and the history of the Ptolemy race virtually ends with that of the world renowned queen, as Tennyson says, “a name forever.”
Sam S. & Lee Shubert