Caesar comes back, with Apollodorus, exquisitely dressed, and Rufio.

CLEOPATRA (to Ftatateeta). Come soon--soon. (Ftatateeta turns her
meaning eyes for a moment on her mistress; then goes grimly away past Ra
and out. Cleopatra runs like a gazelle to Caesar.) So you have come
back to me, Caesar. (Caressingly) I thought you were angry. Welcome,
Apollodorus. (She gives him her hand to kiss, with her other arm about
Caesar.)

APOLLODORUS. Cleopatra grows more womanly beautiful from week to week.

CLEOPATRA. Truth, Apollodorus?

APOLLODORUS. Far, far short of the truth! Friend Rufio threw a pearl
into the sea: Caesar fished up a diamond.

CAESAR. Caesar fished up a touch of rheumatism, my friend. Come: to
dinner! To dinner! (They move towards the table.)

CLEOPATRA (skipping like a young fawn). Yes, to dinner. I have ordered
SUCH a dinner for you, Caesar!

CAESAR. Ay? What are we to have?

CLEOPATRA. Peacocks' brains.

CAESAR (as if his mouth watered). Peacocks' brains, Apollodorus!

APOLLODORUS. Not for me. I prefer nightingales' tongues. (He goes to one
of the two covers set side by side.)

CLEOPATRA. Roast boar, Rufio!

RUFIO (gluttonously). Good! (He goes to the seat next Apollodorus, on
his left.)

CAESAR (looking at his seat, which is at the end of the table, to Ra's
left hand). What has become of my leathern cushion?

CLEOPATRA (at the opposite end). I have got new ones for you.

THE MAJOR-DOMO. These cushions, Caesar, are of Maltese gauze, stuffed
with rose leaves.

CAESAR. Rose leaves! Am I a caterpillar? (He throws the cushions away
and seats himself on the leather mattress underneath.)

CLEOPATRA. What a shame! My new cushions!

THE MAJOR-DOMO (at Caesar's elbow). What shall we serve to whet Caesar's
appetite?

CAESAR. What have you got?

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Sea hedgehogs, black and white sea acorns, sea nettles,
beccaficoes, purple shellfish--

CAESAR. Any oysters?

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Assuredly.

CAESAR. BRITISH oysters?

THE MAJOR-DOMO (assenting). British oysters, Caesar.

CAESAR. Oysters, then. (The Major-Domo signs to a slave at each order;
and the slave goes out to execute it.) I have been in Britain--that
western land of romance--the last piece of earth on the edge of the
ocean that surrounds the world. I went there in search of its famous
pearls. The British pearl was a fable; but in searching for it I found
the British oyster.

APOLLODORUS. All posterity will bless you for it. (To the Major-Domo)
Sea hedgehogs for me.

RUFIO. Is there nothing solid to begin with?

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Fieldfares with asparagus--

CLEOPATRA (interrupting). Fattened fowls! Have some fattened fowls,
Rufio.

RUFIO. Ay, that will do.

CLEOPATRA (greedily). Fieldfares for me.

THE MAJOR-DOMO. Caesar will deign to choose his wine? Sicilian, Lesbian,
Chian--

RUFIO (contemptuously). All Greek.

APOLLODORUS. Who would drink Roman wine when he could get Greek? Try the
Lesbian, Caesar.

CAESAR. Bring me my barley water.

RUFIO (with intense disgust). Ugh! Bring ME my Falernian. (The Falernian
is presently brought to him.)

CLEOPATRA (pouting). It is waste of time giving you dinners, Caesar. My
scullions would not condescend to your diet.

CAESAR (relenting). Well, well: let us try the Lesbian. (The Major-Domo
fills Caesar's goblet; then Cleopatra's and Apollodorus's.) But when
I return to Rome, I will make laws against these extravagances. I will
even get the laws carried out.

CLEOPATRA (coaxingly). Never mind. To-day you are to be like other
people: idle, luxurious, and kind. (She stretches her hand to him along
the table.)

CAESAR. Well, for once I will sacrifice my comfort (kissing her hand)
there! (He takes a draught of wine.) Now are you satisfied?

CLEOPATRA. And you no longer believe that I long for your departure for
Rome?

CAESAR. I no longer believe anything. My brains are asleep. Besides, who
knows whether I shall return to Rome?

RUFIO (alarmed). How? Eh? What?

CAESAR. What has Rome to show me that I have not seen already? One year
of Rome is like another, except that I grow older, whilst the crowd in
the Appian Way is always the same age.

APOLLODORUS. It is no better here in Egypt. The old men, when they are
tired of life, say "We have seen everything except the source of the
Nile."

CAESAR (his imagination catching fire). And why not see that? Cleopatra:
will you come with me and track the flood to its cradle in the heart of
the regions of mystery? Shall we leave Rome behind us--Rome, that has
achieved greatness only to learn how greatness destroys nations of men
who are not great! Shall I make you a new kingdom, and build you a holy
city there in the great unknown?

CLEOPATRA (rapturously). Yes, Yes. You shall.

RUFIO. Ay: now he will conquer Africa with two legions before we come to
the roast boar.

APOLLODORUS. Come: no scoffing, this is a noble scheme: in it Caesar is
no longer merely the conquering soldier, but the creative poet-artist.
Let us name the holy city, and consecrate it with Lesbian Wine--and
Cleopatra shall name it herself.

CLEOPATRA. It shall be called Caesar's Gift to his Beloved.

APOLLODORUS. No, no. Something vaster than that--something universal,
like the starry firmament.

CAESAR (prosaically). Why not simply The Cradle of the Nile?

CLEOPATRA. No: the Nile is my ancestor; and he is a god. Oh! I have
thought of something. The Nile shall name it himself. Let us call upon
him. (To the Major-Domo) Send for him. (The three men stare at one
another; but the Major-Domo goes out as if he had received the most
matter-of-fact order.) And (to the retinue) away with you all.

The retinue withdraws, making obeisance.

A priest enters, carrying a miniature sphinx with a tiny tripod before
it. A morsel of incense is smoking in the tripod. The priest comes to
the table and places the image in the middle of it. The light begins to
change to the magenta purple of the Egyptian sunset, as if the god had
brought a strange colored shadow with him. The three men are determined
not to be impressed; but they feel curious in spite of themselves.

CAESAR. What hocus-pocus is this?

CLEOPATRA. You shall see. And it is NOT hocus-pocus. To do it properly,
we should kill something to please him; but perhaps he will answer
Caesar without that if we spill some wine to him.

APOLLODORUS (turning his head to look up over his shoulder at Ra). Why
not appeal to our hawkheaded friend here?

CLEOPATRA (nervously). Sh! He will hear you and be angry.

RUFIO (phlegmatically). The source of the Nile is out of his district, I
expect.

CLEOPATRA. No: I will have my city named by nobody but my dear little
sphinx, because it was in its arms that Caesar found me asleep. (She
languishes at Caesar; then turns curtly to the priest.) Go, I am a
priestess, and have power to take your charge from you. (The priest
makes a reverence and goes out.) Now let us call on the Nile all
together. Perhaps he will rap on the table.

CAESAR. What! Table rapping! Are such superstitions still believed in
this year 707 of the Republic?

CLEOPATRA. It is no superstition: our priests learn lots of things from
the tables. Is it not so, Apollodorus?

APOLLODORUS. Yes: I profess myself a converted man. When Cleopatra is
priestess, Apollodorus is devotee. Propose the conjuration.

CLEOPATRA. You must say with me "Send us thy voice, Father Nile."

ALL FOUR (holding their glasses together before the idol). Send us thy
voice, Father Nile.

The death cry of a man in mortal terror and agony answers them.
Appalled, the men set down their glasses, and listen. Silence. The
purple deepens in the sky. Caesar, glancing at Cleopatra, catches
her pouring out her wine before the god, with gleaming eyes, and mute
assurances of gratitude and worship. Apollodorus springs up and runs to
the edge of the roof to peer down and listen.

CAESAR (looking piercingly at Cleopatra). What was that?

CLEOPATRA (petulantly). Nothing. They are beating some slave.

CAESAR. Nothing!

RUFIO. A man with a knife in him, I'll swear.

CAESAR (rising). A murder!

APOLLODORUS (at the back, waving his hand for silence). S-sh! Silence.
Did you hear that?

CAESAR. Another cry?

APOLLODORUS (returning to the table). No, a thud. Something fell on the
beach, I think.

RUFIO (grimly, as he rises). Something with bones in it, eh?

CAESAR (shuddering). Hush, hush, Rufio. (He leaves the table and returns
to the colonnade: Rufio following at his left elbow, and Apollodorus at
the other side.)

CLEOPATRA (still in her place at the table). Will you leave me, Caesar?
Apollodorus: are you going?

APOLLODORUS. Faith, dearest Queen, my appetite is gone.

CAESAR. Go down to the courtyard, Apollodorus; and find out what has
happened.

Apollodorus nods and goes out, making for the staircase by which Rufio
ascended.

CLEOPATRA. Your soldiers have killed somebody, perhaps. What does it
matter?

The murmur of a crowd rises from the beach below. Caesar and Rufio look
at one another.

CAESAR. This must be seen to. (He is about to follow Apollodorus when
Rufio stops him with a hand on his arm as Ftatateeta comes back by the
far end of the roof, with dragging steps, a drowsy satiety in her eyes
and in the corners of the bloodhound lips. For a moment Caesar suspects
that she is drunk with wine. Not so Rufio: he knows well the red vintage
that has inebriated her.)

RUFIO (in a low tone). There is some mischief between those two.

FTATATEETA. The Queen looks again on the face of her servant.

Cleopatra looks at her for a moment with an exultant reflection of her
murderous expression. Then she flings her arms round her; kisses her
repeatedly and savagely; and tears off her jewels and heaps them on her.
The two men turn from the spectacle to look at one another. Ftatateeta
drags herself sleepily to the altar; kneels before Ra; and remains there
in prayer. Caesar goes to Cleopatra, leaving Rufio in the colonnade.

CAESAR (with searching earnestness). Cleopatra: what has happened?

CLEOPATRA (in mortal dread of him, but with her utmost cajolery).
Nothing, dearest Caesar. (With sickly sweetness, her voice almost
failing) Nothing. I am innocent. (She approaches him affectionately)
Dear Caesar: are you angry with me? Why do you look at me so? I have
been here with you all the time. How can I know what has happened?

CAESAR (reflectively). That is true.

CLEOPATRA (greatly relieved, trying to caress him). Of course it is
true. (He does not respond to the caress.) You know it is true, Rufio.

The murmur without suddenly swells to a roar and subsides.

RUFIO. I shall know presently. (He makes for the altar in the burly trot
that serves him for a stride, and touches Ftatateeta on the shoulder.)
Now, mistress: I shall want you. (He orders her, with a gesture, to go
before him.)

FTATATEETA (rising and glowering at him). My place is with the Queen.

CLEOPATRA. She has done no harm, Rufio.

CAESAR (to Rufio). Let her stay.

RUFIO (sitting down on the altar). Very well. Then my place is here too;
and you can see what is the matter for yourself. The city is in a pretty
uproar, it seems.

CAESAR (with grave displeasure). Rufio: there is a time for obedience.

RUFIO. And there is a time for obstinacy. (He folds his arms doggedly.)

CAESAR (to Cleopatra). Send her away.

CLEOPATRA (whining in her eagerness to propitiate him). Yes, I will.
I will do whatever you ask me, Caesar, always, because I love you.
Ftatateeta: go away.

FTATATEETA. The Queen's word is my will. I shall be at hand for the
Queen's call. (She goes out past Ra, as she came.)

RUFIO (following her). Remember, Caesar, YOUR bodyguard also is within
call. (He follows her out.)

Cleopatra, presuming upon Caesar's submission to Rufio, leaves the table
and sits down on the bench in the colonnade.

CLEOPATRA. Why do you allow Rufio to treat you so? You should teach him
his place.

CAESAR. Teach him to be my enemy, and to hide his thoughts from me as
you are now hiding yours.

CLEOPATRA (her fears returning). Why do you say that, Caesar? Indeed,
indeed, I am not hiding anything. You are wrong to treat me like this.
(She stifles a sob.) I am only a child; and you turn into stone because
you think some one has been killed. I cannot bear it. (She purposely
breaks down and weeps. He looks at her with profound sadness and
complete coldness. She looks up to see what effect she is producing.
Seeing that he is unmoved, she sits up, pretending to struggle with her
emotion and to put it bravely away.) But there: I know you hate tears:
you shall not be troubled with them. I know you are not angry, but only
sad; only I am so silly, I cannot help being hurt when you speak coldly.
Of course you are quite right: it is dreadful to think of anyone being
killed or even hurt; and I hope nothing really serious has-- (Her voice
dies away under his contemptuous penetration.)

CAESAR. What has frightened you into this? What have you done? (A
trumpet sounds on the beach below.) Aha! That sounds like the answer.

CLEOPATRA (sinking back trembling on the bench and covering her face
with her hands). I have not betrayed you, Caesar: I swear it.

CAESAR. I know that. I have not trusted you. (He turns from her, and is
about to go out when Apollodorus and Britannus drag in Lucius Septimius
to him. Rufio follows. Caesar shudders.) Again, Pompey's murderer!

RUFIO. The town has gone mad, I think. They are for tearing the palace
down and driving us into the sea straight away. We laid hold of this
renegade in clearing them out of the courtyard.

CAESAR. Release him. (They let go his arms.) What has offended the
citizens, Lucius Septimius?

LUCIUS. What did you expect, Caesar? Pothinus was a favorite of theirs.

CAESAR. What has happened to Pothinus? I set him free, here, not half an
hour ago. Did they not pass him out?

LUCIUS. Ay, through the gallery arch sixty feet above ground, with three
inches of steel in his ribs. He is as dead as Pompey. We are quits now,
as to killing--you and I.

CAESAR. (shocked). Assassinated!--our prisoner, our guest! (He turns
reproachfully on Rufio) Rufio--

RUFIO (emphatically--anticipating the question). Whoever did it was a
wise man and a friend of yours (Cleopatra is qreatly emboldened); but
none of US had a hand in it. So it is no use to frown at me. (Caesar
turns and looks at Cleopatra.)

CLEOPATRA (violently--rising). He was slain by order of the Queen of
Egypt. I am not Julius Caesar the dreamer, who allows every slave to
insult him. Rufio has said I did well: now the others shall judge me
too. (She turns to the others.) This Pothinus sought to make me conspire
with him to betray Caesar to Achillas and Ptolemy. I refused; and he
cursed me and came privily to Caesar to accuse me of his own treachery.
I caught him in the act; and he insulted me--ME, the Queen! To my face.
Caesar would not revenge me: he spoke him fair and set him free. Was I
right to avenge myself? Speak, Lucius.

LUCIUS. I do not gainsay it. But you will get little thanks from Caesar
for it.

CLEOPATRA. Speak, Apollodorus. Was I wrong?

APOLLODORUS. I have only one word of blame, most beautiful. You should
have called upon me, your knight; and in fair duel I should have slain
the slanderer.

CLEOPATRA (passionately). I will be judged by your very slave, Caesar.
Britannus: speak. Was I wrong?

BRITANNUS. Were treachery, falsehood, and disloyalty left unpunished,
society must become like an arena full of wild beasts, tearing one
another to pieces. Caesar is in the wrong.

CAESAR (with quiet bitterness). And so the verdict is against me, it
seems.

CLEOPATRA (vehemently). Listen to me, Caesar. If one man in all
Alexandria can be found to say that I did wrong, I swear to have myself
crucified on the door of the palace by my own slaves.

CAESAR. If one man in all the world can be found, now or forever, to
know that you did wrong, that man will have either to conquer the world
as I have, or be crucified by it. (The uproar in the streets again
reaches them.) Do you hear? These knockers at your gate are also
believers in vengeance and in stabbing. You have slain their leader:
it is right that they shall slay you. If you doubt it, ask your four
counselors here. And then in the name of that RIGHT (He emphasizes the
word with great scorn.) shall I not slay them for murdering their Queen,
and be slain in my turn by their countrymen as the invader of their
fatherland? Can Rome do less then than slay these slayers too, to show
the world how Rome avenges her sons and her honor? And so, to the end
of history, murder shall breed murder, always in the name of right and
honor and peace, until the gods are tired of blood and create a race
that can understand. (Fierce uproar. Cleopatra becomes white with
terror.) Hearken, you who must not be insulted. Go near enough to catch
their words: you will find them bitterer than the tongue of Pothinus.
(Loftily wrapping himself up in an impenetrable dignity.) Let the Queen
of Egypt now give her orders for vengeance, and take her measures for
defense; for she has renounced Caesar. (He turns to go.)

CLEOPATRA (terrified, running to him and falling on her knees). You will
not desert me, Caesar. You will defend the palace.

CAESAR. You have taken the powers of life and death upon you. I am only
a dreamer.

CLEOPATRA. But they will kill me.

CAESAR. And why not?

CLEOPATRA. In pity--

CAESAR. Pity! What! Has it come to this so suddenly, that nothing can
save you now but pity? Did it save Pothinus?

She rises, wringing her hands, and goes back to the bench in despair.
Apollodorus shows his sympathy with her by quietly posting himself
behind the bench. The sky has by this time become the most vivid purple,
and soon begins to change to a glowing pale orange, against which the
colonnade and the great image show darklier and darklier.

RUFIO. Caesar: enough of preaching. The enemy is at the gate.

CAESAR (turning on him and giving way to his wrath). Ay; and what has
held him baffled at the gate all these months? Was it my folly, as you
deem it, or your wisdom? In this Egyptian Red Sea of blood, whose hand
has held all your heads above the waves? (Turning on Cleopatra) And yet,
When Caesar says to such an one, "Friend, go free," you, clinging for
your little life to my sword, dare steal out and stab him in the back?
And you, soldiers and gentlemen, and honest servants as you forget that
you are, applaud this assassination, and say "Caesar is in the wrong."
By the gods, I am tempted to open my hand and let you all sink into the
flood.

CLEOPATRA (with a ray of cunning hope). But, Caesar, if you do, you will
perish yourself.

Caesar's eyes blaze.

RUFIO (greatly alarmed). Now, by great Jove, you filthy little Egyptian
rat, that is the very word to make him walk out alone into the city and
leave us here to be cut to pieces. (Desperately, to Caesar) Will you
desert us because we are a parcel of fools? I mean no harm by killing: I
do it as a dog kills a cat, by instinct. We are all dogs at your heels;
but we have served you faithfully.

CAESAR (relenting). Alas, Rufio, my son, my son: as dogs we are like to
perish now in the streets.

APOLLODORUS (at his post behind Cleopatra's seat). Caesar, what you say
has an Olympian ring in it: it must be right; for it is fine art. But
I am still on the side of Cleopatra. If we must die, she shall not want
the devotion of a man's heart nor the strength of a man's arm.

CLEOPATRA (sobbing). But I don't want to die.

CAESAR (sadly). Oh, ignoble, ignoble!

LUCIUS (coming forward between Caesar and Cleopatra). Hearken to me,
Caesar. It may be ignoble; but I also mean to live as long as I can.

CAESAR. Well, my friend, you are likely to outlive Caesar. Is it any
magic of mine, think you, that has kept your army and this whole city
at bay for so long? Yesterday, what quarrel had they with me that they
should risk their lives against me? But to-day we have flung them down
their hero, murdered; and now every man of them is set upon clearing out
this nest of assassins--for such we are and no more. Take courage then;
and sharpen your sword. Pompey's head has fallen; and Caesar's head is
ripe.

APOLLODORUS. Does Caesar despair?

CAESAR (with infinite pride). He who has never hoped can never despair.
Caesar, in good or bad fortune, looks his fate in the face.

LUCIUS. Look it in the face, then; and it will smile as it always has on
Caesar.

CAESAR (with involuntary haughtiness). Do you presume to encourage me?

LUCIUS. I offer you my services. I will change sides if you will have
me.

CAESAR (suddenly coming down to earth again, and looking sharply at him,
divining that there is something behind the offer). What! At this point?

LUCIUS (firmly). At this point.

RUFIO. Do you suppose Caesar is mad, to trust you?

LUCIUS. I do not ask him to trust me until he is victorious. I ask for
my life, and for a command in Caesar's army. And since Caesar is a fair
dealer, I will pay in advance.

CAESAR. Pay! How?

LUCIUS. With a piece of good news for you.

Caesar divines the news in a flash.

RUFIO. What news?

CAESAR (with an elate and buoyant energy which makes Cleopatra sit up
and stare). What news! What news, did you say, my son Rufio? The relief
has arrived: what other news remains for us? Is it not so, Lucius
Septimius? Mithridates of Pergamos is on the march.

LUCIUS. He has taken Pelusium.

CAESAR (delighted). Lucius Septimius: you are henceforth my officer.
Rufio: the Egyptians must have sent every soldier from the city to
prevent Mithridates crossing the Nile. There is nothing in the streets
now but mob--mob!

LUCIUS. It is so. Mithridates is marching by the great road to Memphis
to cross above the Delta. Achillas will fight him there.

CAESAR (all audacity). Achillas shall fight Caesar there. See, Rufio.
(He runs to the table; snatches a napkin; and draws a plan on it with
his finger dipped in wine, whilst Rufio and Lucius Septimius crowd about
him to watch, all looking closely, for the light is now almost gone.)
Here is the palace (pointing to his plan): here is the theatre. You (to
Rufio) take twenty men and pretend to go by THAT street (pointing it
out); and whilst they are stoning you, out go the cohorts by this and
this. My streets are right, are they, Lucius?

LUCIUS. Ay, that is the fig market--

CAESAR (too much excited to listen to him). I saw them the day we
arrived. Good! (He throws the napkin on the table and comes down again
into the colonnade.) Away, Britannus: tell Petronius that within an hour
half our forces must take ship for the western lake. See to my horse and
armor. (Britannus runs out.) With the rest I shall march round the lake
and up the Nile to meet Mithridates. Away, Lucius; and give the word.

Lucius hurries out after Britannus.

RUFIO. Come: this is something like business.

CAESAR (buoyantly). Is it not, my only son? (He claps his hands. The
slaves hurry in to the table.) No more of this mawkish reveling: away
with all this stuff: shut it out of my sight and be off with you. (The
slaves begin to remove the table; and the curtains are drawn, shutting
in the colonnade.) You understand about the streets, Rufio?

RUFIO. Ay, I think I do. I will get through them, at all events.

The bucina sounds busily in the courtyard beneath.

CAESAR. Come, then: we must talk to the troops and hearten them. You
down to the beach: I to the courtyard. (He makes for the staircase.)

CLEOPATRA (rising from her seat, where she has been quite neglected all
this time, and stretching out her hands timidly to him). Caesar.

CAESAR (turning). Eh?

CLEOPATRA. Have you forgotten me?

CAESAR. (indulgently). I am busy now, my child, busy. When I return your
affairs shall be settled. Farewell; and be good and patient.

He goes, preoccupied and quite indifferent. She stands with clenched
fists, in speechless rage and humiliation.

RUFIO. That game is played and lost, Cleopatra. The woman always gets
the worst of it.

CLEOPATRA (haughtily). Go. Follow your master.

RUFIO (in her ear, with rough familiarity). A word first. Tell your
executioner that if Pothinus had been properly killed--IN THE THROAT--he
would not have called out. Your man bungled his work.

CLEOPATRA (enigmatically). How do you know it was a man?

RUFIO (startled, and puzzled). It was not you: you were with us when it
happened. (She turns her back scornfully on him. He shakes his head, and
draws the curtains to go out. It is now a magnificent moonlit night. The
table has been removed. Ftatateeta is seen in the light of the moon and
stars, again in prayer before the white altar-stone of Ra. Rufio starts;
closes the curtains again softly; and says in a low voice to Cleopatra)
Was it she? With her own hand?

CLEOPATRA (threateningly). Whoever it was, let my enemies beware of her.
Look to it, Rufio, you who dare make the Queen of Egypt a fool before
Caesar.

RUFIO (looking grimly at her). I will look to it, Cleopatra. (He nods
in confirmation of the promise, and slips out through the curtains,
loosening his sword in its sheath as he goes.)

ROMAN SOLDIERS (in the courtyard below). Hail, Caesar! Hail, hail!

Cleopatra listens. The bucina sounds again, followed by several
trumpets.

CLEOPATRA (wringing her hands and calling). Ftatateeta. Ftatateeta. It
is dark; and I am alone. Come to me. (Silence.) Ftatateeta. (Louder.)
Ftatateeta. (Silence. In a panic she snatches the cord and pulls the
curtains apart.)

Ftatateeta is lying dead on the altar of Ra, with her throat cut. Her
blood deluges the white stone.




ACT V

High noon. Festival and military pageant on the esplanade before the
palace. In the east harbor Caesar's galley, so gorgeously decorated that
it seems to be rigged with flowers, is along-side the quay, close to the
steps Apollodorus descended when he embarked with the carpet. A Roman
guard is posted there in charge of a gangway, whence a red floorcloth is
laid down the middle of the esplanade, turning off to the north opposite
the central gate in the palace front, which shuts in the esplanade on
the south side. The broad steps of the gate, crowded with Cleopatra's
ladies, all in their gayest attire, are like a flower garden. The facade
is lined by her guard, officered by the same gallants to whom Bel Affris
announced the coming of Caesar six months before in the old palace on
the Syrian border. The north side is lined by Roman soldiers, with the
townsfolk on tiptoe behind them, peering over their heads at the cleared
esplanade, in which the officers stroll about, chatting. Among these are
Belzanor and the Persian; also the Centurion, vinewood cudgel in
hand, battle worn, thick-booted, and much outshone, both socially and
decoratively, by the Egyptian officers.

Apollodorus makes his way through the townsfolk and calls to the
officers from behind the Roman line.

APOLLODORUS. Hullo! May I pass?

CENTURION. Pass Apollodorus the Sicilian there! (The soldiers let him
through.)

BELZANOR. Is Caesar at hand?

APOLLODORUS. Not yet. He is still in the market place. I could not
stand any more of the roaring of the soldiers! After half an hour of the
enthusiasm of an army, one feels the need of a little sea air.

PERSIAN. Tell us the news. Hath he slain the priests?

APOLLODORUS. Not he. They met him in the market place with ashes on
their heads and their gods in their hands. They placed the gods at his
feet. The only one that was worth looking at was Apis: a miracle of gold
and ivory work. By my advice he offered the chief priest two talents for
it.

BELZANOR (appalled). Apis the all-knowing for two talents! What said the
chief priest?

APOLLODORUS. He invoked the mercy of Apis, and asked for five.

BELZANOR. There will be famine and tempest in the land for this.

PERSIAN. Pooh! Why did not Apis cause Caesar to be vanquished by
Achillas? Any fresh news from the war, Apollodorus?

APOLLODORUS. The little King Ptolemy was drowned.

BELZANOR. Drowned! How?

APOLLODORUS. With the rest of them. Caesar attacked them from three sides
at once and swept them into the Nile. Ptolemy's barge sank.

BELZANOR. A marvelous man, this Caesar! Will he come soon, think you?

APOLLODORUS. He was settling the Jewish question when I left.

A flourish of trumpets from the north, and commotion among the
townsfolk, announces the approach of Caesar.

PERSIAN. He has made short work of them. Here he comes. (He hurries to
his post in front of the Egyptian lines.)

BELZANOR (following him). Ho there! Caesar comes.

The soldiers stand at attention, and dress their lines. Apollodorus goes
to the Egyptian line.

CENTURION (hurrying to the gangway guard). Attention there! Caesar
comes.

Caesar arrives in state with Rufio: Britannus following. The soldiers
receive him with enthusiastic shouting.

RUFIO (at his left hand). You have not yet appointed a Roman governor
for this province.

CAESAR (Looking whimsically at him, but speaking with perfect gravity).
What say you to Mithridates of Pergamos, my reliever and rescuer, the
great son of Eupator?

RUFIO. Why, that you will want him elsewhere. Do you forget that you
have some three or four armies to conquer on your way home?

CAESAR. Indeed! Well, what say you to yourself?

RUFIO (incredulously). I! I a governor! What are you dreaming of? Do you
not know that I am only the son of a freedman?

CAESAR (affectionately). Has not Caesar called you his son? (Calling to
the whole assembly) Peace awhile there; and hear me.

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS. Hear Caesar.

CAESAR. Hear the service, quality, rank and name of the Roman governor.
By service, Caesar's shield; by quality, Caesar's friend; by rank, a
Roman soldier. (The Roman soldiers give a triumphant shout.) By name,
Rufio. (They shout again.)

RUFIO (kissing Caesar's hand). Ay: I am Caesar's shield; but of what use
shall I be when I am no longer on Caesar's arm? Well, no matter-- (He
becomes husky, and turns away to recover himself.)

CAESAR. Where is that British Islander of mine?

BRITANNUS (coming forward on Caesar's right hand). Here, Caesar.

CAESAR. Who bade you, pray, thrust yourself into the battle of the
Delta, uttering the barbarous cries of your native land, and affirming
yourself a match for any four of the Egyptians, to whom you applied
unseemly epithets?

BRITANNUS. Caesar: I ask you to excuse the language that escaped me in
the heat of the moment.

CAESAR. And how did you, who cannot swim, cross the canal with us when
we stormed the camp?

BRITANNUS. Caesar: I clung to the tail of your horse.

CAESAR. These are not the deeds of a slave, Britannicus, but of a free
man.

BRITANNUS. Caesar: I was born free.

CAESAR. But they call you Caesar's slave.

BRITANNUS. Only as Caesar's slave have I found real freedom.

CAESAR (moved). Well said. Ungrateful that I am, I was about to set you
free; but now I will not part from you for a million talents. (He
claps him friendly on the shoulder. Britannus, gratified, but a trifle
shamefaced, takes his hand and kisses it sheepishly.)

BELZANOR (to the Persian). This Roman knows how to make men serve him.

PERSIAN. Ay: men too humble to become dangerous rivals to him.

BELZANOR. O subtle one! O cynic!

CAESAR (seeing Apollodorus in the Egyptian corner and calling to him).
Apollodorus: I leave the art of Egypt in your charge. Remember: Rome
loves art and will encourage it ungrudgingly.

APOLLODORUS. I understand, Caesar. Rome will produce no art itself; but
it will buy up and take away whatever the other nations produce.

CAESAR. What! Rome produces no art! Is peace not an art? Is war not an
art? Is government not an art? Is civilization not an art? All these we
give you in exchange for a few ornaments. You will have the best of the
bargain. (Turning to Rufio) And now, what else have I to do before I
embark? (Trying to recollect) There is something I cannot remember: what
CAN it be? Well, well: it must remain undone: we must not waste this
favorable wind. Farewell, Rufio.

RUFIO. Caesar: I am loath to let you go to Rome without your shield.
There are too many daggers there.

CAESAR. It matters not: I shall finish my life's work on my way back;
and then I shall have lived long enough. Besides: I have always disliked
the idea of dying: I had rather be killed. Farewell.

RUFIO (with a sigh, raising his hands and giving Caesar up as
incorrigible). Farewell. (They shake hands.)

CAESAR (waving his hand to Apollodorus). Farewell, Apollodorus, and my
friends, all of you. Aboard!

The gangway is run out from the quay to the ship. As Caesar moves
towards it, Cleopatra, cold and tragic, cunningly dressed in black,
without ornaments or decoration of any kind, and thus making a striking
figure among the brilliantly dressed bevy of ladies as she passes
through it, comes from the palace and stands on the steps. Caesar does
not see her until she speaks.

CLEOPATRA. Has Cleopatra no part in this leave taking?

CAESAR (enlightened). Ah, I KNEW there was something. (To Rufio) How
could you let me forget her, Rufio? (Hastening to her) Had I gone
without seeing you, I should never have forgiven myself. (He takes her
hands, and brings her into the middle of the esplanade. She submits
stonily.) Is this mourning for me?

CLEOPATRA. NO.

CAESAR (remorsefully). Ah, that was thoughtless of me! It is for your
brother.

CLEOPATRA. No.

CAESAR. For whom, then?

CLEOPATRA. Ask the Roman governor whom you have left us.

CAESAR. Rufio?

CLEOPATRA. Yes: Rufio. (She points at him with deadly scorn.) He who is
to rule here in Caesar's name, in Caesar's way, according to Caesar's
boasted laws of life.

CAESAR (dubiously). He is to rule as he can, Cleopatra. He has taken the
work upon him, and will do it in his own way.

CLEOPATRA. Not in your way, then?

CAESAR (puzzled). What do you mean by my way?

CLEOPATRA. Without punishment. Without revenge. Without judgment.

CAESAR (approvingly). Ay: that is the right way, the great way, the only
possible way in the end. (To Rufio) Believe it, Rufio, if you can.

RUFIO. Why, I believe it, Caesar. You have convinced me of it long ago.
But look you. You are sailing for Numidia to-day. Now tell me: if you
meet a hungry lion you will not punish it for wanting to eat you?

CAESAR (wondering what he is driving at). No.

RUFIO. Nor revenge upon it the blood of those it has already eaten.

CAESAR. No.

RUFIO. Nor judge it for its guiltiness.

CAESAR. No.

RUFIO. What, then, will you do to save your life from it?

CAESAR (promptly). Kill it, man, without malice, just as it would kill
me. What does this parable of the lion mean?

RUFIO. Why, Cleopatra had a tigress that killed men at bidding. I
thought she might bid it kill you some day. Well, had I not been
Caesar's pupil, what pious things might I not have done to that tigress?
I might have punished it. I might have revenged Pothinus on it.

CAESAR (interjects). Pothinus!

RUFIO (continuing). I might have judged it. But I put all these follies
behind me; and, without malice, only cut its throat. And that is why
Cleopatra comes to you in mourning.

CLEOPATRA (vehemently). He has shed the blood of my servant Ftatateeta.
On your head be it as upon his, Caesar, if you hold him free of it.

CAESAR (energetically). On my head be it, then; for it was well done.
Rufio: had you set yourself in the seat of the judge, and with hateful
ceremonies and appeals to the gods handed that woman over to some hired
executioner to be slain before the people in the name of justice, never
again would I have touched your hand without a shudder. But this was
natural slaying: I feel no horror at it.

Rufio, satisfied, nods at Cleopatra, mutely inviting her to mark that.

CLEOPATRA (pettish and childish in her impotence). No: not when a Roman
slays an Egyptian. All the world will now see how unjust and corrupt
Caesar is.

CAESAR (taking her handy coaxingly). Come: do not be angry with me. I
am sorry for that poor Totateeta. (She laughs in spite of herself.) Aha!
You are laughing. Does that mean reconciliation?

CLEOPATRA (angry with herself for laughing). No, no, NO!! But it is so
ridiculous to hear you call her Totateeta.

CAESAR. What! As much a child as ever, Cleopatra! Have I not made a
woman of you after all?

CLEOPATRA. Oh, it is you, who are a great baby: you make me seem silly
because you will not behave seriously. But you have treated me badly;
and I do not forgive you.

CAESAR. Bid me farewell.

CLEOPATRA. I will not.

CAESAR (coaxing). I will send you a beautiful present from Rome.

CLEOPATRA (proudly). Beauty from Rome to Egypt indeed! What can Rome
give ME that Egypt cannot give me?

APOLLODORUS. That is true, Caesar. If the present is to be really
beautiful, I shall have to buy it for you in Alexandria.

CAESAR. You are forgetting the treasures for which Rome is most famous,
my friend. You cannot buy THEM in Alexandria.

APOLLODORUS. What are they, Caesar?

CAESAR. Her sons. Come, Cleopatra: forgive me and bid me farewell; and
I will send you a man, Roman from head to heel and Roman of the noblest;
not old and ripe for the knife; not lean in the arms and cold in the
heart; not hiding a bald head under his conqueror's laurels; not stooped
with the weight of the world on his shoulders; but brisk and fresh,
strong and young, hoping in the morning, fighting in the day, and
reveling in the evening. Will you take such an one in exchange for
Caesar?

CLEOPATRA (palpitating). His name, his name?

CAESAR. Shall it be Mark Antony? (She throws herself in his arms.)

RUFIO. You are a bad hand at a bargain, mistress, if you will swap
Caesar for Antony.

CAESAR. So now you are satisfied.

CLEOPATRA. You will not forget.

CAESAR. I will not forget. Farewell: I do not think we shall meet again.
Farewell. (He kisses her on the forehead. She is much affected and
begins to sniff. He embarks.)

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS (as he sets his foot on the gangway). Hail, Caesar;
and farewell!

He reaches the ship and returns Rufio's wave of the hand.

APOLLODORUS (to Cleopatra). No tears, dearest Queen: they stab your
servant to the heart. He will return some day.

CLEOPATRA. I hope not. But I can't help crying, all the same. (She waves
her handkerchief to Caesar; and the ship begins to move.)

THE ROMAN SOLDIERS (drawing their swords and raising them in the air).
Hail, Caesar!




NOTES TO CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA

CLEOPATRA'S CURE FOR BALDNESS

For the sake of conciseness in a hurried situation I have made Cleopatra
recommend rum. This, I am afraid, is an anachronism: the only real one
in the play. To balance it, I give a couple of the remedies she actually
believed in. They are quoted by Galen from Cleopatra's book on Cosmetic.

"For bald patches, powder red sulphuret of arsenic and take it up with
oak gum, as much as it will bear. Put on a rag and apply, having soaped
the place well first. I have mixed the above with a foam of nitre, and
it worked well."

Several other receipts follow, ending with: "The following is the best
of all, acting for fallen hairs, when applied with oil or pomatum; acts
also for falling off of eyelashes or for people getting bald all over.
It is wonderful. Of domestic mice burnt, one part; of vine rag burnt,
one part; of horse's teeth burnt, one part; of bear's grease one; of
deer's marrow one; of reed bark one. To be pounded when dry, and mixed
with plenty of honey til it gets the consistency of honey; then the
bear's grease and marrow to be mixed (when melted), the medicine to be
put in a brass flask, and the bald part rubbed til it sprouts."

Concerning these ingredients, my fellow-dramatist, Gilbert Murray, who,
as a Professor of Greek, has applied to classical antiquity the methods
of high scholarship (my own method is pure divination), writes to me as
follows: "Some of this I don't understand, and possibly Galen did not,
as he quotes your heroine's own language. Foam of nitre is, I think,
something like soapsuds. Reed bark is an odd expression. It might
mean the outside membrane of a reed: I do not know what it ought to be
called. In the burnt mice receipt I take that you first mixed the
solid powders with honey, and then added the grease. I expect Cleopatra
preferred it because in most of the others you have to lacerate the
skin, prick it, or rub it till it bleeds. I do not know what vine rag
is. I translate literally."

APPARENT ANACHRONISMS

The only way to write a play which shall convey to the general public an
impression of antiquity is to make the characters speak blank verse
and abstain from reference to steam, telegraphy, or any of the material
conditions of their existence. The more ignorant men are, the more
convinced are they that their little parish and their little chapel is
an apex which civilization and philosophy have painfully struggled up
the pyramid of time from a desert of savagery. Savagery, they think,
became barbarism; barbarism became ancient civilization; ancient
civilization became Pauline Christianity; Pauline Christianity became
Roman Catholicism; Roman Catholicism became the Dark Ages; and the Dark
Ages were finally enlightened by the Protestant instincts of the English
race. The whole process is summed up as Progress with a capital P. And
any elderly gentleman of Progressive temperament will testify that the
improvement since he was a boy is enormous.

Now if we count the generations of Progressive elderly gentlemen since,
say, Plato, and add together the successive enormous improvements
to which each of them has testified, it will strike us at once as an
unaccountable fact that the world, instead of having been improved in 67
generations out all recognition, presents, on the whole, a rather less
dignified appearance in Ibsen's Enemy of the People than in Plato's
Republic. And in truth, the period of time covered by history is far
too short to allow of any perceptible progress in the popular sense of
Evolution of the Human Species. The notion that there has been any such
Progress since Caesar's time (less than 20 centuries) is too absurd for
discussion. All the savagery, barbarism, dark ages and the rest of it of
which we have any record as existing in the past, exists at the present
moment. A British carpenter or stonemason may point out that he gets
twice as much money for his labor as his father did in the same trade,
and that his suburban house, with its bath, its cottage piano, its
drawingroom suite, and its album of photographs, would have shamed the
plainness of his grandmother's. But the descendants of feudal barons,
living in squalid lodgings on a salary of fifteen shillings a week
instead of in castles on princely revenues, do not congratulate the
world on the change. Such changes, in fact, are not to the point. It has
been known, as far back as our records go, that man running wild in the
woods is different to man kennelled in a city slum; that a dog seems to
understand a shepherd better than a hewer of wood and drawer of water
can understand an astronomer; and that breeding, gentle nurture and
luxurious food and shelter will produce a kind of man with whom the
common laborer is socially incompatible. The same thing is true of
horses and dogs. Now there is clearly room for great changes in the
world by increasing the percentage of individuals who are carefully bred
and gently nurtured even to finally making the most of every man and
woman born. But that possibility existed in the days of the Hittites as
much as it does to-day. It does not give the slightest real support to
the common assumption that the civilized contemporaries of the Hittites
were unlike their civilized descendants to-day.

This would appear the truest commonplace if it were not that the
ordinary citizen's ignorance of the past combines with his idealization
of the present to mislead and flatter him. Our latest book on the new
railway across Asia describes the dulness of the Siberian farmer and
the vulgar pursepride of the Siberian man of business without the least
consciousness that the sting of contemptuous instances given might
have been saved by writing simply "Farmers and provincial plutocrats
in Siberia are exactly what they are in England." The latest professor
descanting on the civilization of the Western Empire in the fifth
century feels bound to assume, in the teeth of his own researches, that
the Christian was one sort of animal and the Pagan another. It might as
well be assumed, as indeed it generally is assumed by implication,
that a murder committed with a poisoned arrow is different to a murder
committed with a Mauser rifle. All such notions are illusions. Go back
to the first syllable of recorded time, and there you will find your
Christian and your Pagan, your yokel and your poet, helot and hero, Don
Quixote and Sancho, Tamino and Papageno, Newton and bushman unable to
count eleven, all alive and contemporaneous, and all convinced that they
are heirs of all the ages and the privileged recipients of THE
truth (all others damnable heresies), just as you have them to-day,
flourishing in countries each of which is the bravest and best that ever
sprang at Heaven's command from out of the azure main.

Again, there is the illusion of "increased command over Nature," meaning
that cotton is cheap and that ten miles of country road on a bicycle
have replaced four on foot. But even if man's increased command over
Nature included any increased command over himself (the only sort of
command relevant to his evolution into a higher being), the fact remains
that it is only by running away from the increased command over Nature
to country places where Nature is still in primitive command over Man
that he can recover from the effects of the smoke, the stench, the foul
air, the overcrowding, the racket, the ugliness, the dirt which the
cheap cotton costs us. If manufacturing activity means Progress, the
town must be more advanced than the country; and the field laborers and
village artizans of to-day must be much less changed from the servants
of Job than the proletariat of modern London from the proletariat of
Caesar's Rome. Yet the cockney proletarian is so inferior to the village
laborer that it is only by steady recruiting from the country that
London is kept alive. This does not seem as if the change since Job's
time were Progress in the popular sense: quite the reverse. The common
stock of discoveries in physics has accumulated a little: that is all.

One more illustration. Is the Englishman prepared to admit that the
American is his superior as a human being? I ask this question because
the scarcity of labor in America relatively to the demand for it has
led to a development of machinery there, and a consequent "increase
of command over Nature" which makes many of our English methods appear
almost medieval to the up-to-date Chicagoan. This means that the
American has an advantage over the Englishman of exactly the same
nature that the Englishman has over the contemporaries of Cicero. Is the
Englishman prepared to draw the same conclusion in both cases? I think
not. The American, of course, will draw it cheerfully; but I must
then ask him whether, since a modern negro has a greater "command over
Nature" than Washington had, we are also to accept the conclusion,
involved in his former one, that humanity has progressed from Washington
to the fin de siecle negro.

Finally, I would point out that if life is crowned by its success and
devotion in industrial organization and ingenuity, we had better worship
the ant and the bee (as moralists urge us to do in our childhood), and
humble ourselves before the arrogance of the birds of Aristophanes.

My reason then for ignoring the popular conception of Progress in Caesar
and Cleopatra is that there is no reason to suppose that any Progress
has taken place since their time. But even if I shared the popular
delusion, I do not see that I could have made any essential difference
in the play. I can only imitate humanity as I know it. Nobody knows
whether Shakespeare thought that ancient Athenian joiners, weavers, or
bellows menders were any different from Elizabethan ones; but it is
quite certain that one could not have made them so, unless, indeed, he
had played the literary man and made Quince say, not "Is all our company
here?" but "Bottom: was not that Socrates that passed us at the Piraeus
with Glaucon and Polemarchus on his way to the house of Kephalus." And
so on.

CLEOPATRA

Cleopatra was only sixteen when Caesar went to Egypt; but in Egypt
sixteen is a riper age than it is in England. The childishness I have
ascribed to her, as far as it is childishness of character and not lack
of experience, is not a matter of years. It may be observed in our own
climate at the present day in many women of fifty. It is a mistake to
suppose that the difference between wisdom and folly has anything to do
with the difference between physical age and physical youth. Some women
are younger at seventy than most women at seventeen.

It must be borne in mind, too, that Cleopatra was a queen, and was
therefore not the typical Greek-cultured, educated Egyptian lady of
her time. To represent her by any such type would be as absurd as to
represent George IV by a type founded on the attainments of Sir Isaac
Newton. It is true that an ordinarily well educated Alexandrian girl of
her time would no more have believed bogey stories about the Romans than
the daughter of a modern Oxford professor would believe them about the
Germans (though, by the way, it is possible to talk great nonsense at
Oxford about foreigners when we are at war with them). But I do not
feel bound to believe that Cleopatra was well educated. Her father,
the illustrious Flute Blower, was not at all a parent of the Oxford
professor type. And Cleopatra was a chip of the old block.

BRITANNUS

I find among those who have read this play in manuscript a strong
conviction that an ancient Briton could not possibly have been like a
modern one. I see no reason to adopt this curious view. It is true that
the Roman and Norman conquests must have for a time disturbed the normal
British type produced by the climate. But Britannus, born before these
events, represents the unadulterated Briton who fought Caesar and
impressed Roman observers much as we should expect the ancestors of Mr.
Podsnap to impress the cultivated Italians of their time.