CAESAR Take up her bed,
And bear her women from the monument.
She shall be buried by her Antony.
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
A pair so famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them, and their story is
No less in pity than his glory which
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall
In solemn show attend this funeral,
And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity.
Exeunt omnes (5.2.345-355)
This is it, then, and Caesar’s getting the last word. Some of it’s housekeeping, but not all. Take up her bed, and bear her women from the monument: on a practical level, this is, get the bodies offstage, including those of Charmian and Iras. That Cleopatra is to be carried off in bed—or on throne—makes it not just dignified, but ritual, ceremonial. A procession which is the antithesis of the projected humiliation of the Roman triumph, but which still allows her to be lifted high one last time. (Bed seems unequivocal, but in performance it could be emended to throne; it could have some bed-like qualities?) And then a statement which is perhaps unexpected, which might occasion a sideways glance from some of the Romans, not least if Octavia’s present (which she isn’t in the text, but is sometimes in performance). She shall be buried by her Antony. Her Antony. Caesar makes that concession; he still won’t name Cleopatra, but in these final words he has to admit that Antony belongs to her, not to Caesar’s sister Octavia; that they are, in effect, husband and wife. They belong together in death as in life. Moreover, no grave on earth shall clip in it a pair so famous. They are, after all, one of the great couples, the great lovers, of all time, he says—but clip is, like Charmian’s lass, of Cleopatra, oddly colloquial: it means embrace, hug, and so the suggestion is that the grave will embrace Cleopatra and Antony just as they embrace each other. It makes the grave a bed.
Then, because it’s Caesar, it gets awkward, because he’s awkward, and he’s also moved and he’s not good at emotion. High events as these, momentous happenings—tragedies—strike those that make them. Even though I have, on some level, been responsible for this—outcome—I am still affected by it; I still find it, you know, emotional. After all, their story is no less in pity than his glory which brought them to be lamented. There’s real pathos here, he says, genuine tragedy, and I have to concede that it is equal to the glory, the kudos due to the one—me, I’m the one—who brought about that tragedy, made them the objects of such pity. (He can’t quite bring himself to own this, it all has to be narrated in the third person. He’s on the verge of saying, lessons will be learned.) It’s his triumph, but he’s not feeling it, and he knows that no one else is either, really.
So, moving on. Our army shall in solemn show attend this funeral, and then to Rome. There will be a proper funeral, for Cleopatra and for Antony, full military honours, everything done in as seemly a way as possible. Then—and only then—we’ll go back to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see high order in this great solemnity. Over to you, Dolabella, you’re in charge of the funeral arrangements—I’m counting on you to get everything right according to protocol, all running smoothly. It’s a big deal; this ceremony has to be perfect.
It couldn’t be anything other than an unsatisfying, almost perfunctory couplet: Caesar’s stunned; he’s won, and is now the sole ruler of the empire—but at what cost. Cleopatra’s dead, dreaming of her Antony. Lass unparalleled. Exeunt omnes.
What an extraordinary, lush, complex play it is. The bright day is done, and we are for the dark…