CLEOPATRA               Lead me from hence.

I faint. O, Iras, Charmian—’tis no matter.

Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him

Report the feature of Octavia: her years,

Her inclination; let him not leave out

The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.

[Exit Alexas]

Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian;

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,

The other way’s a Mars. [To Mardian] Bid you Alexas

Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian,

But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

Exeunt (2.5.110-120)

Cleopatra is being hysterical, histrionic, but her characteristically mercurial nature, the switching from focus to focus, demand to demand, can look here like someone really falling apart, losing her mind. Lead me from hence. I faint. I’ve got to get out of here, complete overload and collapse. Panic. O, Iras, Charmian—a genuine cry for help?—then, regaining a little composure—’tis no matter. Don’t worry about it, I’ve forgotten what I was going to ask, what I was going to say—or, perhaps, I can’t speak freely yet, not in front of Alexas and Mardian. She turns to Alexas (also, if she sends Charmian the messenger will be suspicious from the off) with a view to gathering intelligence, for her own information and satisfaction but also, perhaps, so that she can begin to plan her campaign. Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him report the feature of Octavia. I’ve got to know what I’m dealing with here, what the competition looks like. Her years, how old she is (this is setting up a piece of comic business in a later scene), her inclination, personality, character. What sort of person is she? Let him not leave out the colour of her hair, a shorthand, perhaps, for an account of Octavia’s beauty (or preferably her lack thereof) and her looks more generally. But it’s also a trivial detail and perhaps meant to be comically so, glancing back to Benedick in Much Adowhen he catalogues the qualities of his ideal woman and concedes, graciously, that ‘her hair shall be of what colour it please God’ (2.3). Bring me word quickly, as if finding out these facts will give her some more control, not least of herself.

Alexas gone, she briefly lets her guard down with her women, and there’s no doubt who he is now—not the messenger, not Alexas, but Antony himself. (In not being named he occupies the same idealized, larger than life position that is often reserved for Cleopatra herself.) Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian. Good riddance—but please, let him come back to me, Charmian! Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, though he looks like (and acts like) a monster sometimes, as he does at this moment (and interestingly a female monster, snaky-haired, oddly Egyptian, and capable of turning men to stone—although the gorgon as byword for ugliness is probably what’s key here) the other way’s a Mars. Antony’s not Narcissus, the archetype of boyish beauty, he’s a god, the god of war, mature and virile. (And yes, as editors point out, the allusion is to perspective paintings, fashionable at the time, which showed a different image from each side but which were incomprehensible when viewed from the front. But the choice of comparisons is also interesting here.) Another switch to comedy, sending Mardian to enquire about Octavia’s height, a quality even more immutable than her hair-colour: bid you Alexas bring me word how tall she is. (Again this is setting up a joke for a later scene; it’s also getting Mardian out of the way too so that Cleopatra is left with just her women, Charmian and Iras.) But these swerves to such trivial, particular things might be seen as a kind of trauma response, because Cleopatra is all over the place, beside herself, distraught. Pity me, Charmian, look at the state I’m in—but do not speak to me. I won’t be able to cope if you put that pity into words, I can’t predict how I’ll respond—lash out in anger, collapse in grief—lead me to my chamber. Just get me out of here, girls.