Pity me, Charmian,
But do not speak to me.
(iI. v. 118.)
Not long, however, is she in despair. Her knowledge of Antony’s character, her knowledge of her own charms, even her vanity and self-illusion combine to give her assurance of final triumph; and when we next meet her, she is once more hopeful and alert. “Why, methinks,” she sums up at the close of her not very scientific investigation, “this creature’s no such thing” (iii. iii. 43); and she concludes, “All may be well enough” (iii. iii. 50).
The charm and piquancy of this nimble changefulness are obvious, and it is not without its value as a weapon in the warfare of life. But it is equally true that such shifting gusts will produce unreliability, and even shiftiness. It is quite natural that Cleopatra, a queen and the daughter of kings, should, in her presumptuous mood, insist on being present in the campaign and on leading to battle her own sixty ships. It is no less natural that amid the actual horrors of the conflict, the luxuriously bred lady should be seized with panic and take to flight. Indeed it is precisely what we might expect. For despite the royalty of soul she often displays, there is in Cleopatra a strain of physical timidity, for which Shakespeare has already prepared us. When the messenger of woe is to give his tidings to Antony, he hesitates and says:
The nature of bad news infects the teller,
and Antony answers nobly and truly:
When it concerns the fool or coward.
(i. ii. 99.)
We cannot help remembering Antony’s words when Cleopatra visits on the bearer the fault of the bad news to her: