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The Story Of Antony And Cleopatra







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.





Next: Abelard And Heloise




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