Another memorable moment in Antony and Cleopatra may have provided us with the nounal form of the word "haunt", as in "a place habitually frequented" (Merriam-Webster). It occurs when Antony, mistakenly believing that Cleopatra is dead, resolves himself to suicide and imagines an afterlife where only the surface details of existence will change, and that he and his queen will go on being the centers of attention that they were in this world. And perhaps even more famous than they were, because they will then be able to challenge all the lovers in history. (By the way, W.H. Auden in the 2002 publication of his Lectures on Shakespeare makes the interesting observation that this play is the only one of the major tragedies that is never struck with inclement weather. His reasoning is that we're meant to consider the world in all its beauty and splendour to better realize what the protagonists lose for love.) Here's the passage in question:

Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,

And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze:

Dido and her AEneas shall want troops,

And all the haunt be ours.

Shakespeare is a writer who becomes more interesting with re-reading. There is always more to find in terms of detail, content, technical skill; it's endless. In fact, what Enobarbus says about Cleopatra, about her having "infinite variety", is even more appropriate for the writer who gave him the line. And the section that leads up to that moment, the famous description of Cleopatra on the Cydnus River, which begins, "The barge she sat in...", has a less well-known, but equally wonderful description of Antony's reaction when she finally arrives and makes the first moves toward "purs[ing] up his heart". Behold and see:

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,

Invited her to supper: she replied,

It should be better he became her guest;

Which she entreated: our courteous Antony,

Whom ne'er the word of 'No' woman heard speak,

Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast,

And for his ordinary pays his heart

For what his eyes eat only.

The Oxford edition of Antony and Cleopatra contains an introduction by Michael Neill that I've found to be very useful on several occasions, and it was again yesterday because it contains a passage that was largely responsible for the ideas regarding interactionism that I wrote about in yesterday's post. Here's the excerpt in question:

"'He whom you saw yesterday so boldly venturous,' wrote Montaigne, in a passage that might almost have been inspired by the vagaries of Antony's career, 'wonder not if you see him a dastardly meacock tomorrow next... We are all formed of flaps and patches and of so shapeless and diverse a contexture, that every piece and every moment playeth his part. And there is as much difference between us and our selves, as there is between our selves and another.' The 'self', in effect, is no more than the site of endless theatrical self-inventions and one should 'esteem it a great matter, to play but one man.' In Montaigne's analysis the self cannot be expected to 'hang together' in the fashion assumed by psychological naturalism, because it has no fixed and substantial existence."

I've mentioned a couple of times that I hold the opinion that the conflict that truly concerned Shakespeare was located in the audience, and not among the fictional (or historical) characters found on the stage. With this in mind, the dramas can be seen as unfolding in a way that includes every viewer and every reader directly in every action. They can become an endless resource for knowledge of both the self and the other. Or is that redundant?

The final quality that should be considered in poetic diction, according to John Ciardi and Miller Williams' How Does a Poem Mean? (1959), is that "a word is a picture", by which they mean that the origin of most words can be found in some sort of poetic image. Shakespeare's work provides thousands of examples of this for two main reasons. The first, as we know, is that he created so many words himself. The second is that he never settles for a tired expression in his writing, and thus the reader is constantly surprised by its contents. For example, when Iago tells Roderigo his age, he doesn't say, "I'm twenty-eight years old", but instead, "I have looked upon the world for four times seven years", which gives us an entirely new way of considering the nature of existence. And for an example of pure imagery, have a look at this passage from Antony and Cleopatra (3.6), during which Octavius reacts angrily to being surprised by his sister Octavia's arrival. She's married to Antony at this point, we must remember, so Octavius is looking for reasons to be offended. But my point here doesn't regard the plot, rather it's the way the words evoke the power and splendour of Rome through the use of words as pictures:

Why have you stol'n upon us thus! You come not

Like Caesar's sister: the wife of Antony

Should have an army for an usher, and

The neighs of horse to tell of her approach

Long ere she did appear; the trees by the way

Should have borne men; and expectation fainted,

Longing for what it had not; nay, the dust

Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,

Raised by your populous troops: but you are come

A market-maid to Rome; and have prevented

The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,

Is often left unloved; we should have met you

By sea and land; supplying every stage

With an augmented greeting.

If you read commentary on Othello, you won't get far without running into a discussion of Shakespeare's handling of the passing of time. In this play (which uses the famous "double time" effect) and elsewhere, it is one of the aspects of his work that remains an area of study and contention. (By the way, I'm very glad that Shakespeare never wrote any how-to books for budding dramatists - not that they wouldn't have been useful, but I find his work retains its mystery more effectively with our continuing efforts to try to understand the principles and methods that he employed.) It is an area that interests me a great deal, and over the next little while I'll be reporting on some of my findings - including an explanation of the technique referred to above.

Here's another thought to consider: in Antony and Cleopatra, the action portrayed takes place over approximately twelve years, whereas a performance of the play takes approximately three hours. And each moment seems to flow convincingly from the last. How is this (what the Chorus in Henry V calls "turning the accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass") achieved? As I mentioned above, I'm going to see what I can learn about it. Stay tuned.

The character of Enobarbus continues to hold my interest. On Saturday, I discussed how he can no longer proceed after deserting Antony to join Octavius Caesar. In 4.6, there are a couple of brutal moments of recognition regarding how side-changers are treated. First, Octavius tells a messenger to instruct his second-in-command Agrippa to:

Plant those that have revolted in the van,

That Antony may seem to spend his fury

Upon himself.

In other words, Antony's soldiers would have to do battle initially against former friends - another example of Octavius' cool ruthlessness. Then Enobarbus recounts what he has heard of the fates of others in his position, and then reveals his remorse in a most powerful wording:

Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on

Affairs of Antony; there did persuade

Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar,

And leave his master Antony; for this pains

Caesar hath hang'd him. Canidius and the rest

That fell away have entertainment, but

No honourable trust. I have done ill;

Of which I do accuse myself so sorely,

That I will joy no more.

It's a particularly melancholy fate for a character who wasn't afraid to make jokes at a meeting of the triumvirate. He understands, only when both are gone, that his loyalty was his life force.

One of the masterful touches that Shakespeare applied to Antony and Cleopatra is the character of Enobarbus, who barely gets a mention in Plutarch. In this play, he acts almost like a chorus at certain times, keeping a cynical eye on the proceedings of the title characters - but at other points, he acts as a trusted aide to each of them. Shakespeare also uses his running commentary to keep us at a distance, which is appropriate for people of their fame. But like Enobarbus, we eventually get pulled in, and feel a strong emotional connection to them - no matter how poorly we see them behave. In Enobarbus' case, he is a cynic on the outside only, and a sentimentalist within. This, he finds out too late: When he deserts Antony's side - very understandably in a way, because Antony seems to lose his reason - the decision ultimately breaks his heart and ends his life. Here are his last words as he lies down in a ditch to die:

O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,

The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,

That life, a very rebel to my will,

May hang no longer on me: throw my heart

Against the flint and hardness of my fault:

Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,

And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,

Nobler than my revolt is infamous,

Forgive me in thine own particular:

But let the world rank me in register

A master-leaver and a fugitive:

O Antony! O Antony!

More on Enobarbus tomorrow.

One of my favourite moments in Antony and Cleopatra is during the scene on Sextus Pompey's barge (2.7) where one his followers, Menas, takes him aside and offers him the world - Pompey was surprised by the offer as well. Note the economical, yet charged language in the exchange (by the way the "three world-sharers" are Octavius, Lepidus and Antony, and they are on the barge after signing a treaty to make Pompey their equal, for the time being anyway):

MENAS

Wilt thou be lord of all the world?

POMPEY

What say'st thou?

MENAS

Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That's twice.

POMPEY

How should that be?

MENAS

But entertain it,

And, though thou think me poor, I am the man

Will give thee all the world.

POMPEY

Hast thou drunk well?

MENAS

No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.

Thou art, if thou darest be, the earthly Jove:

Whate'er the ocean pales, or sky inclips,

Is thine, if thou wilt ha't.

POMPEY

Show me which way.

MENAS

These three world-sharers, these competitors,

Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable;

And, when we are put off, fall to their throats:

All there is thine.

POMPEY

Ah, this thou shouldst have done,

And not have spoke on't! In me 'tis villany;

In thee't had been good service. Thou must know,

'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;

Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue

Hath so betray'd thine act: being done unknown,

I should have found it afterwards well done;

But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.

MENAS

[Aside] For this,

I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.

Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,

Shall never find it more.

It's a remarkable moment; for a few moments the fate of the empire is in the balance. And Pompey makes his decision on political rather than moral grounds. Menas' last remark is prophetic, as well: Pompey would very shortly be turned on by Octavius, defeated by his admiral, Agrippa in the Straits of Messina, and ultimately captured and executed.

I used to think it was the time period that Shakespeare wrote in that allowed him the tremendous freedom that his writing employs. In other words, it was due to the fact that things such as spellings and grammatical norms were yet to be standardized. But now I think it was more than that. Now I think it was the fact that he considered himself first and foremost a poet that allowed him to simply do as he wanted. If a noun being turned into a verb (a process referred to as conversion) could create the desired effect, then good. If a word had to be invented, fine. I've always felt that it was Shakespeare's example that led, at least in part, to the extraordinary flexibility and omnivorousness of English (which has by far the largest vocabulary of any language). Here's an excerpt from Antony and Cleopatra that features both conversion ("spaniel'd") and invention ("discandy"). (By the way, conversion can work in other ways, as well. It happens whenever one part of speech is used as another. One you hear a lot these days is, "My bad...") At this point, Antony thinks that he has been thoroughly betrayed by Cleopatra and abandoned by his followers, that Caesar has conquered him, and that his suicide is imminent:

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more:

Fortune and Antony part here; even here

Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts

That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave

Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets

On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd,

That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am:

O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—

Whose eye beck'd forth my wars, and call'd them home;

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,—

Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,

Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.

The complexity of Shakespeare's poetry is always astonishing. It seems that with every reading, more is revealed. Some have found the demands placed on them as readers to be excessive. It can be hard work, granted. But always, the effort proves to be worthwhile. In other words, what we eventually will find in the convoluted syntax and dazzling rhetoric is wisdom and beauty. Something else we have to keep in mind: serious artists work at their crafts very hard and very often. They are not interested in repeating themselves. We therefore shouldn't be surprised if we have to do some background labour to keep up - using glossaries, references, criticism, and so on. Here's another excerpt from Antony and Cleopatra. Here, a messenger is notifying Octavius that Sextus Pompeius (Pompey), the son of the late Gnaeus Pompeius, a member of the first triumvirate (with Crassus and Julius Caesar), is rapidly gaining popularity and therefore strength in his naval powers. Caesar's response regarding the vagaries of popularity is remarkable both in style and content:

MESSENGER

... Pompey is strong at sea;

And it appears he is beloved of those

That only have fear'd Caesar: to the ports

The discontents repair, and men's reports

Give him much wrong'd.

OCTAVIUS

I should have known no less.

It hath been taught us from the primal state,

That he which is was wish'd until he were;

And the ebb'd man, ne'er loved till ne'er worth love,

Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,

Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,

Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,

To rot itself with motion.

I'm preparing for my next lecture - next Wednesday at 11 am at the Atwater library - on Antony and Cleopatra, and I found a most interesting observation (among many) in Michael Neill's splendid introduction to the 1994 Oxford edition. He notes that three times in the play, at very important moments, Antony uses the simple phrase "to do thus". Once when telling Cleopatra that he no longer cares for Rome but only for her:

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch

Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.

Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life

Is to do thus; when such a mutual pair

[Embracing]

And such a twain can do't, in which I bind,

On pain of punishment, the world to weet

We stand up peerless. (1.1)

The next time (2.2) is when he meets the other triumvirs, Octavius and Lepidus, in Rome and the latter elegantly urges the two not to be too vehement in their own defenses. To which Antony replies that even if they were about to engage in civil war, he would follow such advice:

LEPIDUS

Noble friends,

That which combined us was most great, and let not

A leaner action rend us. What's amiss,

May it be gently heard: when we debate

Our trivial difference loud, we do commit

Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners,

The rather, for I earnestly beseech,

Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,

Nor curstness grow to the matter.

ANTONY

'Tis spoken well.

Were we before our armies, and to fight,

I should do thus.

The third and final time is at his own suicide (4.14), after his servant, Eros, has chosen to kill himself rather than Antony (as Antony had requested):

Thrice-nobler than myself!

Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what

I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros

Have by their brave instruction got upon me

A nobleness in record: but I will be

A bridegroom in my death, and run into't

As to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros,

Thy master dies thy scholar: to do thus.

[Falling on his sword]

As we know, the thematic center of the play is in the conflict between Rome and Egypt, and all that they symbolize. So here we have Antony using the same phrase in showing his allegiance to Egypt (through Cleopatra), to Rome (through Octavius), and finally to neither. These types of small, intricate details keep coming up over and over again in Shakespeare's work. They are not matters of coincidence.

Another concept that must be kept in mind in order to read Shakespeare is anastrophe. The best definition of this word is simply, "changing the normal word order for poetic effect". When we come across examples of this, we may at first find them annoying. Why would someone write, "Came the snow..."? Why not simply, "It was snowing..."? Well, the answer is that it makes us think. One of the reasons Shakespeare has retained so much popularity 400 years on is that his work requires participation and effort. He's not only an example of creativity - he's a cause of it. And it begins at the most minute levels - word choice and word order. Here's an example from Antony and Cleopatra. In this scene, a messenger from Antony is arriving at Caesar's camp - a schoolmaster though, rather than a high-ranking member of the military, as would normally be the case. This could be interpreted as a reference to Octavius' age - and therefore, a subtle but calculated insult, or as Dolabella does, a sign of decline in the number of Antony's followers. Either way, notice the unusual word order, which once understood, gives the lines lasting beauty and interest.

OCTAVIUS CAESAR

Let him appear that's come from Antony.

Know you him?

DOLABELLA

Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster:

An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither

He sends so poor a pinion off his wing,

Which had superfluous kings for messengers

Not many moons gone by.

(3.12)

One of my students once put it very simply: "Once you get it, you wouldn't change a word."