"I am dying, Egypt, dying;Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast."It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me."See here, Doc," he began at once, "do you believe in coincidences?" I informed him that his question was not altogether easy to understand."Wait a moment," he said, "while I explain.For at least two years prior to my recent return from California the name 'Cleopatra' has not entered my mind.You were the first to mention it to me, and from you I learned that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the 'Antony and Cleopatra' night.That is all natural enough.But why should I, on every morning since you first mentioned the subject to me, awake with Antony's words upon my lips? Why should every book or paper I pick up contain some reference to Cleopatra? Why, man, if I were superstitious, it would seem positively spookish.I am getting to believe that I shall be confrontedeither by Cleopatra's name, or some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book.It's getting to be decidedly interesting.""I have had," I replied, "similar, though less remarkable, experiences.It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing, say, this morning for the first time in one's life, and then to find, in the course of the day's reading, three or four independent references to the same thing.Suppose we step into the library, and pick out a few books haphazard, just to see if we chance upon any reference to Cleopatra."To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the Morning Herald across the table to him, saying: "One thing's as good as another; try that." He started a little, but did not touch the paper."You will have to find something harder than that," he said, pointing to the outspread paper.
I followed the direction of his finger, and read:
"Boston Theatre.Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport.For one week.Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou's 'Cleopatra.'"I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing.The next thing I handed him was a copy of Godey's Magazine, several years old.He opened it carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: "I am dying, sweetheart, dying." "Doesn't that sound familiar? It reminds me at once of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning, - 'I am dying, Egypt, dying.' There is no doubt that Higginson's poem suggested this one.Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed here," he said, and read the following:
LOVE'S TWILIGHT
I am dreaming, loved one, dreamingOf the sweet and beauteous pastWhen the world was as its seeming,Ere the fatal shaft was cast.
I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing,At the darkly sullen west,Of the smile of ignorance robbingThe pale face against the breast.
I am smiling, tear-stained, smiling,As the sun glints on the crestOf the troubled wave, beguilingShipwrecked Hope to its long rest.
I am parting, broken, parting,From a soul that I hold dear,And the music of whose beautyFades a dead strain on my ear.
I am dying, sweetheart, dying,Drips life's gold through palsied hands, -=20See; the dead'ning Sun is sighingHis last note in red'ning bands.
SoI'm sighing,sinking,sighing,Flowslife'srivertothe sea.Death my throbbing heart is tyingWith the strings that ache for thee.
"Yes," I said, when he had finished."I shall have to admit that immediately suggests Higginson's poem and Cleopatra's name.But here, try this," and I threw an old copy of the Atlantic Monthly upon the table.Maitland opened it and laughed."This may be mere chance, Doc," he said, "but it is remarkable, none the less.See here!" He held the magazine toward me, and I read: "Cleopatra's Needle.The Historic Significance of Central Park's New Monument.Some of the Difficulties that Attended its Transportation and Erection.By James Theodore Wright, Ph.D." I was dumfounded.Things were indeed getting interesting.
"Magazines and newspapers," I said, "seem to be altogether too much in your line.We'll try a book this time.Here," and I pulled the first one that came to hand, "is a copy of Tennyson's Poems I fancy it will trouble you to find your reference in that." Maitland took it in silence, and, opening it at random, began to read.The result surprised him even more than it did me.He had chanced upon these verses from "A Dream of Fair Women":
"'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and litLamps which outburn'd Canopus.0 my lifeIn Egypt! 0 the dalliance and the wit,The flattery and the strife.
"'And the wild kiss when fresh from war's alarms,My Hercules, my Roman Antony,My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms,Contented there to die!
"'And there he died! And when I heard my nameSigh'd forth with life, I would not brook my fearOf the other! With a worm I balked his fame.What else was left?look here!'
"With that she tore her robe apart and halfThe polished argent of her breast to sightLaid bare.Thereto she pointed with a laugh,Showing the aspic's bite.""There is no doubt about that," I said, as he laid the book upon the table."I want to try this thing once more.Here is Pascal; if you can find any reference to the 'Serpent of the Nile' in that, you needn't go any farther, I shall be satisfied," and I passed the book to him.He turned the pages over in silence for half a minute, or so, and then said: "I guess this counts as a failure, - no, though, by Jove! Look here!" His face was of almost deathly pallor, and his finger trembled upon the passage it indicated as he held the book toward me.I glanced with some anxiety from his face to the book, and read, as nearly as I now can remember: "If Cleopatra's nose had been shorter, the entire face of the world would have been changed."It was some minutes before Maitland fully regained his composure, and during that time neither of us spoke."Well, Doc," he said at length, and his manner was decidedly grave, even for him:
