ANTONY         There’s a great spirit gone. Thus did I desire it.

What our contempts doth often hurl from us,

We wish it ours again. The present pleasure,

By revolution low’ring, does become

The opposite of itself. She’s good being gone—

The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.

I must from this enchanting queen break off.

Ten thousand harms more than the ills I know

My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!     (1.2.106-114)

There’s a great spirit gone. Fond, respectful, a profound acknowledgement of a worthy opponent in Fulvia, and of a real loss. At the same time, an admission that thus did I desire it. It solves a lot of problems—perhaps—and yes, I did desire it; not so much wanting my wife dead, as wanting her to have died. A fine distinction, but a real one. But then another change, as if he’s articulating his emotional responses and insights as they disaggregate in real time: what our contempts doth often hurl from us, the thing which we cast off, throw away, reject in disgust—then we discover that we’d rather have it after all. We wish it ours again. (A toddler’s life lesson.) A further insight, more general this time, and applied implicitly to his current situation: the present pleasure, the thing which we’re utterly adoring at the moment, wallowing and delighting in, does become the opposite of itself, by revolution lowering. Eventually, as time passes, as the wheel of fortune turns, we come to hate the things we love; we can no longer bear the things which once gave us such joy. That’s just the way that it works. And so—back to Fulvia, but with another realization: she’s good being gone. Both, I’m idealizing her, and our relationship, because she’s dead and it’s definitively over. (But also: it’s good that she’s gone?) The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on; would that it could, he means. If only I could unmake this, if only I could go back and not do the things that alienated her, that destroyed our marriage, that made me hate her, and made her hate me. A moment of real regret? Or simply a nice safe opportunity for self-pity and self-exculpation? After all, there’s nothing he can do about it.

Antony has, though, apparently come to a decision. I must from this enchanting queen break off. (Enchanting again making Cleopatra a Circe figure.) I must break the spell; I must come to my senses, get a grip, return to my true self. Because ten thousand harms more than the ills I know my idleness doth hatch. While I’m here, foolishly dallying in Egypt, things are going badly wrong in Rome, in the empire, in the world. Things are falling apart, and I can’t remain in denial any longer, because my neglect, my willful ignorance of the terrible state of things is now actively contributing to the chaos, nurturing it. (Again, Egypt is a place of fecundity, a place where things grow, not always in an orderly fashion or a controlled way. Serpents hatch, too.) And clearly I only know the half of it. So: how now, Enobarbus! Time for some decisive action.