“Is he dead?” cried Cleopatra.
“His death’s upon him,” answered Diomedes, “but not dead.”
Cleopatra’s eyes grew huge with despair. “O sun, burn the great sphere thou mov’st in, darkling stand the varying shore o’ the world! O Antony, Antony, Antony!”
Diomed raised his hand for quiet. Antony was speaking, and his voice came faintly up: “I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until of many thousand kisses, the poor last I lay upon thy lips.”
But even for that last kiss, Cleopatra would not leave the monument; she was frightened that she would be captured by Caesar. Instead, she rushed to drag out ropes, and fling them down, pleading, “Help me, my women—we must draw thee up: assist, good friends!”
“O quick, or I am gone!” urged Antony as, little by little, the Queen and her women hoisted him aloft in a net of ropes, like royal fishermaids with a marvellous catch.
“Welcome, welcome!” wept Cleopatra, as at last Antony rested in her arms, and she greeted him with a thousand frantic kisses.
“Let me speak a little—”
“No, let me speak—”
“One word, sweet Queen—” There were important matters to confide, before it was too late. With all his remaining strength, he begged her to seek her honour and safety of Caesar. Violently, she shook her head. He warned her to trust none about Caesar but his officer, Proculeius. She would not listen. He sighed. His life was almost gone. With his last breath, he asked her to remember him as he once had been, “the greatest prince o’ the world.” Then he died.
Cleopatra stared in terrible disbelief. “Woo’t die? Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide in this dull world, which in thy absence is no better than a sty?” Then those below heard a cry of such wild and world-destroying misery, that they trembled and knelt. “O! withered is the garland of the war, the soldier’s pole is fall’n! Young boys and girls are level now with men; the odds is gone, and there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon!”
“Lady . . . Madam!” cried her women, for the Queen had fallen, as if dead. They rubbed her cold hands, they smoothed away her tangled hair from her eyes . . .
At last she stirred. She looked suddenly weary and forlorn, as if all her great storms and tempests had blown themselves out. “No more but e’en a woman,” she sighed, “and commanded by such poor passion as the maid that milks . . .” She touched the dead Antony’s lips. “Ah women, women! Look, our lamp is spent, it’s 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. Come, away, this case of that huge spirit now is cold.”
The war was over. Caesar, swelling with triumph, dispatched Dolabella, his chief officer, to demand Antony’s surrender without delay. But no sooner had Dolabella left on his errand, than a man forced his way through the crowd and knelt before Caesar. He held out a sword and cried out:
“Antony is dead! This is his sword; I robbed his wound of it!”
There was silence. Eagerly the man looked up, for the joyful smile, the heartfelt thanks. But Caesar’s face was marble as he stared at the blood on the blade. Already it was speckled with flies, buzzing with wonderment at so rich a feast. At length, Caesar spoke: “The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack. The round world should have shook lions into civil streets, and citizens to their dens. The death of Antony is not a single doom; in the name lay a moiety of the world.”
“He is dead, Caesar—”
Caesar turned away. He had paid his tribute to his great rival, and it had come from his heart. Now other matters occupied him. Cleopatra was still living. She must not be allowed to follow her lover. She must live to walk in chains behind Caesar’s chariot through the streets of Rome. Without the Queen of Egypt, his triumph would be a hollow affair. He sent Proculeius to reassure the Queen that he meant her well. Then, fearing that Proculeius might become another Antony in Cleopatra’s cunning hands, he sent Gallus, an eager young officer, to safeguard his intent.
The sword-thief stood by, forgotten. The size of the news had swallowed up the bringer of it.
Cleopatra was resolved to die. Securely locked in her monument, she tried to comfort her fearful women. “It is great to do that thing that ends all other deeds; which shackles accidents and bolts up change, which sleeps, and never palates more the dung, the beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s—”
There came a knocking on the outer door. Cleopatra started in alarm. A voice called out: “Caesar sends greetings to the Queen of Egypt!”
“What’s thy name?”
“My name is Proculeius.”
Cleopatra frowned. She went to the door and stared through the iron lattice at the tall Roman who waited outside. “Antony did tell me of you,” she said doubtfully, “bade me trust you, but I do not greatly care to be deceived . . .”
“Be of good cheer, y’are fallen into a princely hand,” Proculeius assured her, “fear nothing.”
“Pray you, tell him I am his fortune’s vassal.”
“This I’ll report, dear lady. Have comfort—” But even as he spoke, the inner doors burst open and, in a moment, the monument was full of Caesar’s soldiers with Gallus at their head!
“You see how easily she may be surprised!” laughed that sharp young officer. While Proculeius had parleyed, he and his men had mounted on ladders to the high balcony, and slipped inside. He unbolted the door and let Proculeius in.
Cleopatra, mad with fear and fury, snatched up a dagger to stab herself. “Hold, worthy lady, hold!” cried Proculeius, preventing her. “Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this relieved, but not betrayed.”
“What, of death too, that rids our dogs of languish?” she screamed.
“Cleopatra—”
“Where art thou, death? Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a Queen worth many babes and beggars!”
She rushed from soldier to staring soldier, offering her breast to their swords. “O temperance, lady!” begged Proculeius; but nothing would calm her, and she wept and raged until, at last, Dolabella came to set him free from the frantic, captured Queen. “Be gentle to her,” he urged his successor; and, taking young Gallus and his men with him, thankfully left her in the firm hands of Caesar’s most trusted officer.
Dolabella bowed courteously. He had come to prepare the way for his master. “Most noble empress, you have heard of me?”
“I cannot tell.”
Dolabella was surprised. He was a person of some importance. “Assuredly you know me.”
Cleopatra shrugged her shoulders. “No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.” She paused, and then said strangely, “You laugh when boys and women tell their dreams; is’t not your trick?”
“I understand not, madam.” He was puzzled by this sudden change in the Queen. Her fury was gone, and she was smiling.
“I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony,” she sighed. “O, such another sleep that I might see but such another man!”
“If it might please ye—”
“His face was as the heavens,” she went on, her eyes shining brightly, as she remembered a man whose being was so vast that it encompassed all the world. “In his livery walked crowns and crownets, realms and islands were as plates dropped from his pocket—”
“Most sovereign creature! . . . Cleopatra! . . .” pleaded Dolabella, trying to bring her back to the world as it really was.
“Think you there was, or might be, such a man as this I dreamt of?” she asked him. He shook his head. “Gentle madam, no.”
“You lie up to the hearing of the gods! But if there be, or ever were, one such, it’s past the size of dreaming!”
Dolabella bowed his head. “Hear me, good madam: your loss is, as yourself, great,” he began; then, hearing sounds of the approach of Caesar, quickly warned her that, whatever his master might promise, he meant to lead her in chains through the streets of Rome. He had come to reassure her, to lie to her, but his
heart had overruled his head.
With a clash of steel and a tramp of iron feet, Caesar and his officers entered the room. The stern young ruler of the world stared about him. He saw three women. “Which is the Queen of Egypt?” he demanded.
“It is the emperor, madam,” murmured Dolabella to one, and she knelt. Caesar smiled. “Arise, you shall not kneel. I pray you, rise, rise, Egypt.” She looked up at him. He was surprised. She was not young, nor was she more beautiful than many another woman. It was hard to believe that she had conquered so great a man as Antony. She stood up. She was taller than he’d supposed, and bore herself like a queen. Magnanimously he promised her gentle and honourable treatment. She smiled, faintly, and gave him a scroll on which was a full account of all her treasure.
“ ’Tis exactly valued,” she told him, “no petty things omitted,” and summoned her treasurer to confirm her word. “Speak the truth!” she commanded the fat fellow who came before her. “What have I kept back?”
Alas! he told her. “Enough to purchase what you have made known,” he muttered, dividing his piteous looks between Caesar and his furious mistress.
“O slave, of no more trust than love that’s hired!” cried Cleopatra, and would have scratched her treasurer’s eyes out had he not retreated in haste. “O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this!” she wept, and protested that all she’d kept back were some trifling articles to present to Octavia and to Caesar’s wife.
Caesar laughed, and told her he was no merchant; she might keep all her treasure for herself. At once, she knelt in gratitude: “My master and my lord!”
“Not so,” said Caesar, amused that Cleopatra should attempt to practise her famous deceitfulness on him. He was no Antony, to be taken in by a woman’s tears and lies. He took his leave of her, well-satisfied that a woman who had tried to cheat him out of money was not the woman to cheat him out of his triumph, and take her own life.
“He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not be noble to myself,” said Cleopatra contemptuously, when Caesar and his iron tribe had gone. “But hark thee, Charmian—”
“Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, and we are for the dark,” said Iras sadly, as her mistress whispered in Charmian’s ear.
“It is provided. Go put it to the haste,” commanded Cleopatra, and despatched Charmian on her secret errand.
“Madam!” Dolabella had returned. His look was anxious. Little time remained. Caesar was preparing to depart, and Cleopatra was to be sent to Rome before him. “Make you best use of this,” he urged her. “Adieu, good Queen.” Then he hastened away.
Charmian returned. She nodded, and Cleopatra smiled. “Show me, my women, like a queen; go fetch my best attires,” she bade Iras. “I am again for Cydnus, to meet Mark Antony! When thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave to play till doomsday.”
There was a commotion outside the door. A guard entered. “Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your highness’ presence,” he informed the Queen. “He brings you figs.”
“Let him come in.”
The guard went away. Cleopatra and Charmian looked at one another. “He brings me liberty,” murmured the Queen.
The guard returned with a grinning, shuffling countryman. He was carrying a basket. “Avoid, and leave him,” ordered the Queen; and the guard returned to his post.
Cleopatra beckoned, and the fellow approached. She pointed to the basket. “Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, that kills and pains not?”
His grin grew broader. “Truly I have him, but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.”
“Remember’st thou any that have died on’t?”
“Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday, a very honest woman, how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly, she makes a very good report o’ the worm,” he confided; and Charmian shook her head in wonderment as the great Queen and the simple countryman talked easily together of life and death.
“Get thee hence, farewell,” said Cleopatra.
“I wish you all joy of the worm,” said the countryman, setting down the basket but showing no sign of departing. It was not every day he talked with a queen; it was something to remember and tell to his grandchildren. “Look you,” said he, “the worm is not to be trusted. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding.”
“Will it eat me?”
The fellow tapped the side of his nose knowingly. “You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman; I know that a woman is a dish for the gods . . .”
“Well, get thee gone, farewell.”
“I wish you joy o’ the worm,” he mumbled, and unwillingly shuffled away.
Iras returned, richly laden. Cleopatra held out her arms: “Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have immortal longings in me,” she cried joyfully, as her women began to attire her. “Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act. Husband, I come! Now to that name, my courage prove my title! I am fire and air: my other elements I give to baser life. So, have you done?”
They stood back and gazed proudly at their splendid queen. “Farewell, kind Charmian, Iras, long farewell.” Tenderly she embraced and kissed them.
“Have I the aspic in my lips?” Iras had fallen. She lay at her mistress’s feet. Cleopatra gazed down at the dead girl in wonderment. “If thou and nature can so gently part, the stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world it is not worth leave-taking.” She frowned. “This proves me base. If she first meet the curled Antony, he’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss which is my heaven to have.”
Impatiently she opened the countryman’s basket. She thrust her hand inside and drew out the little writhing serpent that was to set her free. “Come, thou mortal wretch, with thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate of life at once untie: poor venomous fool, be angry, and despatch!”
She put the serpent to her breast. She cried out, softly; and Charmian saw her brows contract, as if in sudden pain. The girl caught her breath.
“O eastern star!”
Cleopatra shook her head, and put her finger to her lips. “Peace, peace, dost thou not see my baby at my breast that sucks the nurse asleep?”
“O, break! O, break!”
“As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle—O Antony! What, should I stay—” Then silence.
“In this vile world?” whispered Charmian. Weeping, she closed Cleopatra’s gazing eyes. “Now boast thee, death, in thy possession, lies a lass unparalleled. Your crown’s awry, I’ll mend it, and then play . . .”
As she began her last task, she heard footsteps approach. Quickly she snatched the coiled serpent from Cleopatra’s breast and thrust it against her own.
A soldier entered. “Where’s the Queen?”
“Speak softly,” Charmian warned him, “wake her not.”
“Caesar hath sent—”
“Too slow a messenger!”
The soldier stared at the throne. “What work is here, Charmian? Is this well done?”
“It is well done, and fitting for a princess descended of so many royal kings. Ah, soldier!” she sighed triumphantly, and fell dead.
The Romans entered the chamber, where the silent Queen and her quiet women awaited them. “That you did fear, is done,” murmured Dolabella; then he saw the anger on Caesar’s face change to admiration. He spoke quietly: “Bravest at the last, she levelled at our purposes, and being royal took her own way. She looks like sleep, as she would catch another Antony in her strong toil of grace.” His tribute paid, Caesar and his officers left the chamber. But Dolabella lingered. His heart ached for the glorious brightness of a world that was no more.
Measure for Measure
It happened one day in long-ago Vienna, when the city was ru
led over by a Duke. There was disturbing news. The council had been summoned and the councillors, perched on their high seats, like dusty old crows, flapped their black gowns in distress. Their Duke was leaving the city. None knew why, or for how long. But this was not to be wondered at: their Duke had always been a mysterious gentleman, whose comings and goings were as sudden as a duke in a dream.
He stood before them in his long furred travelling coat and deep velvet cap that overshadowed his face. In his absence, he announced, all power to govern the city was to be vested in the hands of Lord Angelo. “What think you of it?” he asked, turning to Lord Escalus, the oldest and wisest of his councillors.
With a loud cracking of stiff joints, the old gentleman rose to his feet. “If any in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour,” he replied, “it is Lord Angelo.”
There was a general nodding of heads and fluttering of pale, assenting hands. The Duke could not have made a better choice. Lord Angelo, though young, was famous for his strict virtue and upright way of life. Accordingly, he was summoned and, as he entered the chamber, all eyes turned upon him admiringly.
Tall, lean, and firm of step, he approached the Duke. “I come to know your pleasure,” he said with quiet dignity; and, with bowed head, awaited the Duke’s command.
For a few moments, the Duke observed the young man from under the shadow of his cap; then, seemingly satisfied by what he saw, he pronounced his decision. “Mortality and mercy in Vienna live in thy tongue and heart.”
The young man flushed with pleasure and pride. Modestly he protested that he was not yet ready for so great an honour—
“No more evasion!” commanded the Duke; and, bidding a brief farewell to the council, departed from the chamber. Soon after, he vanished from the city as mysteriously as if he had been taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot. But he had left his city in good hands . . .
Vienna had become a sinful city, noisy with love’s laughter, and the groans of love’s diseases. It was a city ripe for a man like Lord Angelo to pluck out its rotten fruit. So he rolled up his sleeves and set to work . . .
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 37
