Characters of Shakespeare's Plays/Antony And Cleopatra

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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

This is a very noble play. Though not in the first class of Shakespeare's productions, it stands next to them, and is, we think, the finest of his historical plays, that is, of those in which he made poetry the organ of history, and assumed a certain tone of character and sentiment, in conformity to known facts, instead of trusting to his observations of general nature or to the unlimited indulgence of his own fancy. What he has added to the history, is upon a par with it. His genius was, as it were, a match for history as well as nature, and could grapple at will with either. This play is full of that pervading comprehensive power by which the poet could always make himself master of time and circumstances. It presents a fine picture of Roman pride and Eastern magnificence: and in the struggle between the two, the empire of the world seems suspended, 'like the swan's down-feather:

     That stands upon the swell at full of tide,
     And neither way inclines.'

The characters breathe, move, and live. Shakespeare does not stand reasoning on what his characters would do or say, but at once BECOMES them, and speaks and acts for them. He does not present us with groups of stage-puppets or poetical machines making set speeches on human life, and acting from a calculation of ostensible motives, but he brings living men and women on the scene, who speak and act from real feelings, according to the ebbs and flows of passion, without the least tincture of the pedantry of logic or rhetoric. Nothing is made out by inference and analogy, by climax and antithesis, but everything takes place just as it would have done in reality, according to the occasion.--The character of Cleopatra is a masterpiece. What an extreme contrast it affords to Imogen! One would think it almost impossible for the same person to have drawn both. She is voluptuous, ostentatious, conscious, boastful of her charms, haughty, tyrannical, fickle. The luxurious pomp and gorgeous extravagance of the Egyptian queen are displayed in all their force and lustre, as well as the irregular grandeur of the soul of Mark Antony. Take only the first four lines that they speak as an example of the regal style of love-making.

   Cleopatra. If it be love, indeed, tell me how much?

   Antony. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.

   Cleopatra. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd.

   Antony. Then must thou needs find out new heav'n, new earth.

The rich and poetical description of her person, beginning:

     The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
     Burnt on the water; the poop was beaten gold,
     Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
     The winds were love-sick--

seems to prepare the way for, and almost to justify the subsequent infatuation of Antony when in the sea-fight at Actium, he leaves the battle, and 'like a doting mallard' follows her flying sails.

Few things in Shakespeare (and we know of nothing in any other author like them) have more of that local truth of imagination and character than the passage in which Cleopatra is represented conjecturing what were the employments of Antony in his absence. 'He's speaking now, or murmuring--WHERE'S MY SERPENT OF OLD NILE?' Or again, when she says to Antony, after the defeat at Actium, and his summoning up resolution to risk another fight--'It is my birthday; I had thought to have held it poor; but since my lord is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.' Perhaps the finest burst of all is Antony's rage after his final defeat when he comes in, and surprises the messenger of Caesar kissing her hand:

     To let a fellow that will take rewards,
     And say, God quit you, be familiar with
     My play-fellow, your hand; this kingly seal,
     And plighter of high hearts.

It is no wonder that he orders him to be whipped; but his low condition is not the true reason: there is another feeling which lies deeper, though Antony's pride would not let him show it, except by his rage; he suspects the fellow to be Caesar's proxy.

Cleopatra's whole character is the triumph of the voluptuous, of the love of pleasure and the power of giving it, over every other consideration. Octavia is a dull foil to her, and Fulvia a shrew and shrill-tongued. What a picture do those lines give of her:

     Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
     Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
     The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
     Where most she satisfies.

What a spirit and fire in her conversation with Antony's messenger who brings her the unwelcome news of his marriage with Octavia! How all the pride of beauty and of high rank breaks out in her promised reward to him:

     --There's gold, and here
     My bluest veins to kiss!

She had great and unpardonable faults, but the beauty of her death almost redeems them. She learns from the depth of despair the strength of her affections. She keeps her queen-like state in the last disgrace, and her sense of the pleasurable in the last moments of her life. She tastes a luxury in death. After applying the asp, she says with fondness:

     Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
     That sucks the nurse asleep?
     As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle.
     Oh Antony!

It is worth while to observe that Shakespeare has contrasted the extreme magnificence of the descriptions in this play with pictures of extreme suffering and physical horror, not less striking--partly perhaps to excuse the effeminacy of Mark Antony to whom they are related as having happened, but more to preserve a certain balance of feeling in the mind. Caesar says, hearing of his conduct at the court of Cleopatra:

     --Antony,
     Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
     Wert beaten from Mutina, where thou slew'st
     Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
     Did famine follow, whom thou fought'st against,
     Though daintily brought up, with patience more
     Than savages could suffer. Thou did'st drink
     The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle
     Which beast would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
     The roughest berry on the rudest hedge,
     Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,
     The barks of trees thou browsed'st. On the Alps,
     It is reported, thou did'st eat strange flesh,
     Which some did die to look on: and all this,
     It wounds thine honour, that I speak it now,
     Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek
     So much as lank'd not.

The passage after Antony's defeat by Augustus where he is made to say:

     Yes, yes; he at Philippi kept
     His sword e'en like a dancer; while I struck
     The lean and wrinkled Cassius, and 'twas I
     That the mad Brutus ended,

is one of those fine retrospections which show us the winding and eventful march of human life. The jealous attention which has been paid to the unities both of time and place has taken away the principle of perspective in the drama, and all the interest which objects derive from distance, from contrast, from privation, from change of fortune, from long-cherished passion; and contracts our view of life from a strange and romantic dream, long, obscure, and infinite, into a smartly contested, three hours' inaugural disputation on its merits by the different candidates for theatrical applause.

The latter scenes of ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA are full of the changes of accident and passion. Success and defeat follow one another with startling rapidity. For-tune sits upon her wheel more blind and giddy than usual. This precarious state and the approaching dissolution of his greatness are strikingly displayed in the dialogue between Antony and Eros:

   Antony. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?

   Eros. Ay, noble lord.

   Antony. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish,
     A vapour sometime, like a bear or lion,
     A towered citadel, a pendant rock,
     A forked mountain, or blue promontory
     With trees upon't, that nod unto the world
     And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs,
     They are black vesper's pageants.

   Eros. Ay, my lord.

   Antony. That which is now a horse, even with a thought
     The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
     As water is in water.

   Eros. It does, my lord.

   Antony. My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
     Even such a body, &c.

This is, without doubt, one of the finest pieces of poetry in Shakespeare. The splendour of the imagery, the semblance of reality, the lofty range of picturesque objects hanging over the world, their evanescent nature, the total uncertainty of what is left behind, are ' just like the mouldering schemes of human greatness. It is finer than Cleopatra's passionate lamentation over his fallen grandeur, because it is more dim, unstable, unsubstantial. Antony's headstrong presumption and infatuated determination to yield to Cleopatra's wishes to fight by sea instead of land, meet a merited punishment; and the extravagance of his resolutions, increasing with the desperateness of his circumstances, is well commented upon by Enobarbus:

   --I see men's judgements are
     A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
     Do draw the inward quality after them
     To suffer all alike.

The repentance of Enobarbus after his treachery to his master is the most affecting part of the play. He cannot recover from the blow which Antony's generosity gives him, and he dies broken-hearted 'a master-leaver and a fugitive'.

Shakespeare's genius has spread over the whole play a richness like the overflowing of the Nile.