Characteristics of Women Part 37

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 G.o.ds!

There was no room left in this amazing picture for the display of that pa.s.sionate 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 Caesarion!"

In representing the mutual pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.ds Command me.

CLEOPATRA.

O, my pardon?

ANTONY.

Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And palter in the s.h.i.+fts 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 dest.i.tute 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 Ta.s.so'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 Gia 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 coa.r.s.eness 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) pa.s.sions, 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 fort.i.tude 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 pa.s.sions and the weakness of her s.e.x, between her regal grandeur and her excess of misery, her impetuous, unavailing struggles with the fearful destiny which has compa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion as the maid that milks, And does the meanest chares.--It were for me To throw my sceptre at the injurious G.o.ds: 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 n.o.ble girls!--ah, women, women! look Our lamp is spent, is out.

We'll bury him, and then what's brave, what's n.o.ble, Let's do it after the high Roman fas.h.i.+on, And make death proud to take us.

But although Cleopatra talks of dying "after the high Roman fas.h.i.+on" 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 diminis.h.i.+ng 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 antic.i.p.ates 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 Caesar 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 ap.r.o.ns, 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 G.o.ds 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, "phoenix 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 fas.h.i.+on," 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 pa.s.sion 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 circ.u.mstances of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakspeare has shown profound judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the cla.s.sical 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!