Enter Proculeius

PROCULEIUS Caesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt,

And bids thee study on what fair demands

Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

CLEOPATRA                          What’s thy name?

PROCULEIUS My name is Proculeius.

CLEOPATRA                             Antony

Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but

I do not greatly care to be deceived,

That have no use for trusting. If your master

Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him

That majesty, to keep decorum, must

No less beg than a kingdom. If he please

To give me conquered Egypt for my son,

He gives me so much of mine own as I

Will kneel to him with thanks.         (5.2.9-21)

 

No hanging around; the scenes seems to be unfolding more or less in real time, as Proculeius arrives from Caesar. (Whether or not Proculeius can just walk in, whether he occasions surprise or distress is a decision that a production can make.) He’s formal and polite, addressing Cleopatra by her title, acknowledging her rank: Caesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt, and bids thee study on what fair demands thou mean’st to have him grant thee. He’s asking you to think about what you want from him; consider it carefully. Caesar’s open to negotiations—at least at this stage. Not giving much away. What’s thy name? many options here for Cleopatra; it can be simply a request for information, perhaps with an imperious tone: who are you to be telling me this? it can be flirtatious, even, as if this is Cleopatra’s default. It can be weary. What now? What do you want? My name is Proculeius: perhaps Iras and Charmian as well as Cleopatra recognise his name, and Cleopatra initially seems to respond positively: Antony did tell me of you, bade me trust you. OK; Proculeius could seem emboldened by this, take a step forward—although as he’s in Caesar’s inner circle, he’s probably too well trained, too much of a politician. Cleopatra’s next words are complicating: but I do not greatly care to be deceived, that have no use for trusting. I don’t care either way anymore whether I can trust you or not, whether I can believe you or not. It makes no difference, does it? we are where we are. However, that world-weariness aside: if your master (a slight dig; she’s still got it, reminding Proculeius that he’s still a servant, that it’s not up to him to negotiate, just to report) would have a queen his beggar. If he really wants me to grovel (and, incidentally, reverse the old fairytale of the king wooing the beggarmaid), you must tell him that majesty, to keep decorum, must no less beg than a kingdom. I’m a queen, and so I want a kingdom; it’s only fitting. If Caesar please to give me conquered Egypt for my son—if he will allow my son to inherit what is his birthright—then he gives me so much of mine own as I will kneel to him with thanks. It’s a big request, in some ways, but it’s also got a sarcastic edge: please, great Caesar, let me keep what’s mine already? I beg you, I abase myself before you. But, above all, it’s reminding him of her rank. She is, she remains, a queen—and that’s her chief concern here, not her son’s inheritance, surely.