FIRST GUARD Approach, ho! All’s not well. Caesar’s beguiled.

SECOND GUARD        There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar. Call him.

[Exit a Guardsman]

FIRST GUARD What work is here, Charmian? Is this well done?

CHARMIAN     It is well done, and fitting for a princess

Descended of so many royal kings.

Ah, soldier!

Charmian dies

Enter Dolabella

DOLABELLA               How goes it here?

SECOND GUARD                                All dead.

DOLABELLA                                       Caesar, thy thoughts

Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming

To see performed the dreaded act which thou

So sought’st to hinder.                      (5.2.313-322)

 

The first guard is panicking a bit; he’s just an anonymous soldier, after all: get in here! quick! Approach, ho! All’s not well; it’s all gone wrong, and Caesar’s beguiled. They’ve cheated him, deceived him and got away with it. The second guard knows what to do: find someone who’s in charge, further up the chain of command (Caesar’s people always know the hierarchies, assuming these are Roman guards): there’s Dolabella sent from Caesar. He’s somewhere near here, acting on Caesar’s behalf, his representative. Call him; get him in here. So a soldier—probably a third—runs for it; in the meantime the first guard can’t quite resist quizzing Charmian in a slightly resentful, frustrated way: what work is here, Charmian? What’s going on, is this what it looks like? And, is this well done? did she have to? did you all have to, too? Almost a touch of, well I hope you’re proud of yourselves, going off-script like this, not doing what you’re told. It is well done, Charmian replies, but she means, yes, it’s been well acted, well performed—with dignity and control and a kind of beauty—and moreover, it’s fitting for a princess descended of so many royal kings. There could be no other way for Cleopatra to end her life. But her final exclamation, ah, soldier!—is it pain? regret? fear? How would it be if she clasped his hand for comfort as she dies? (Or Charmian could be being arch to the last: ah, soldier! how little you know about the ways of the great, how impossible it is that you could ever comprehend Cleopatra.)

 

Already the stage is more crowded, and then in comes Dolabella, perhaps with another guard or two himself. How goes it here? what’s going on? (The messenger hasn’t told him, wants him to see for himself; also, the messenger knows his place, doesn’t want to be yelled at or worse for bringing bad news. He’s the play’s final messenger, and finally he gets it right.) All dead, reports the second guard, more or less redundantly. Dolabella isn’t surprised, it seems, and he knows that Caesar won’t be either: Caesar, thy thoughts touch their effects in this, and what you thought would happen has indeed happened. Thyself art coming to see performed the dreaded act which thou so sought’st to hinder. And now you’re on your way—yes, right now—to see exactly the thing which you went to such an effort to prevent, Cleopatra’s suicide. More people, more men, on their way to surround and attempt to interpret this silent, defiant tableau of women.