MESSENGER Madam, madam!
CLEOPATRA Antonius dead? If thou say so, villain,
Thou kill’st thy mistress; but well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss—a hand that kings
Have lipped, and trembled kissing.
MESSENGER First, madam, he is well.
CLEOPATRA Why, there’s more gold. But, sirrah, mark: we use
To say the dead are well. Bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat. (2.5.25-34)
Madam, madam! That’s all the hapless messenger can get out, before Cleopatra switches into her most impossible mode, albeit one that reveals her desperate vulnerability, her worst fears and insecurity. Antonius dead? That’s the worst thing she can think of, and if that’s the case, spit it out, get it over with. But, if thou say so, villain (much threat already in that address) thou kill’st thy mistress. It’ll be the end of me and you’ll be to blame: if you bring me news of Antony’s death, I’ll die that very instant. On the contrary, if he’s well and free (and here the messenger must make a rapid calculation as to what free might suggest here: not an actual prisoner) if thou so yield him, if that’s the tidings you bring of him, there is gold—and she might give him a jewel from her arm or neck, or gesture for a purse to be brought or handed over by Alexas. And, even more than gold (is implicit) here are my bluest veins to kiss; her hand she means, a hand that kings have lipped, and trembled kissing. But surely there’s a more sensual image here, if bluest veins are to be taken literally: the inside of her wrist, not the back of her hand; that intimate zone can at least be alluringly presented to the poor messenger, before Cleopatra more formally—but with a playful, graceful gesture, rotating her hand and wrist—gives him her hand to kiss. (The sensuality of the moment is of course increased by those recollected kings who lipped, not merely kissed, her hand, trembling the while.)
A pause in performance can get a laugh as the messenger works out what the hell he’s going to say, his eyes moving rapidly, looking for cues and clues from Cleopatra’s women as to how to play this. He decides on an approach of the utmost caution: first, madam, he is well. (Not well and free, but well. And, first; there’s more to come. Indeed there is.) Cleopatra is delighted: why, there’s more gold. Another jewel stripped from her arm or hand, another purse from Alexas. And then she’s seized by a dreadful thought: but, sirrah, mark; listen up, you. We use to say the dead are well. (A familiar conceit and quibble; in Romeo and Juliet, Romeo says to Balthasar, of Juliet, that ‘nothing can be ill if she is well’, to which Balthasar, about to report her apparent death, replies that ‘she is well, and nothing can be ill’, and even more grimly in Macbeth, close in date to Antony and Cleopatra, Ross tells Macduff that his wife and children are ‘well … well at peace’ when he comes to tell him of their murder by Macbeth.) (It would be good if this messenger were being played by the actor who played Ross. Hmmm.) Cleopatra’s wise to all this: bring it to that, if you’re about to tell me that Antony’s well because he’s actually dead, then the gold I give thee will I melt and pour down thy ill-uttering throat. And she would, too.