ENOBARBUS  Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.

MENAS           Who would not have his wife so?

ENOBARBUS  Not he that himself is not so, which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again; then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is. He married but his occasion here.

MENAS           And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for you.

ENOBARBUS  I shall take it, sir. We have used our throats in Egypt.

MENAS           Come, let’s away.

Exeunt             (2.6.120-131)

Enobarbus is explaining to Menas why the marriage between Antony and Octavia is doomed from the start, in terms which are both perceptive and unarguable: it’s not just that Antony’s still enthralled by Cleopatra, it’s that he and Octavia are fundamentally incompatible in their temperaments. Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation; she’s a female version of Caesar her brother, stoic and serious, reserved, polite. A virtuous woman. Even more, she’s not warm, sensual, passionate—and conversation here can have a sexual sense, although it refers to her character and behaviour more generally. You say that like it’s a bad thing, replies Menas, who would not have his wife so? Not he that himself is not so, which is Mark Antony, observes Enobarbus, wisely. Antony is a passionate man, an extrovert, sensual, alive. (There’s perhaps a glance here, as so often in this play, back to Julius Caesar: Brutus there is the man who is balanced and temperate, praised as such by Antony himself in the play’s last moments: ‘His life was gentle, and the elements | So mixed in him that nature might stand up | And say to all the world “This was a man”’. Antony’s not like that, and Enobarbus knows it; so does Antony himself.) And so he will to his Egyptian dish again; he can’t help it. (Cleopatra, appetite, food and sex, again.) That’ll be the end of the marriage: then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar, her disappointment and shame and hurt will anger her brother and force him to act. It’s an interesting picture, the sighs are decorous and restrained, quieter than groans, say—but they’re still strategically well-directed, and the coals of Caesar’s antagonism towards Antony have never been fully extinguished. Octavia is no fool or entirely passive pawn, and modern productions often make this clear; she can become a version of Antony’s previous wife Fulvia, a political force to be reckoned with on her own terms. Enobarbus is resigned to this happening, and so the seeds of the failure of the alliance between Caesar and Antony are there in its very formation: that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. They’ve pinned everything on this marriage and there’s no way that it’s going to work, and Caesar’s so close to his sister that the fallout will be catastrophic. Antony will use his affection where it is, he’s not simply going to transfer his desires to Octavia. He’ll stay with Cleopatra, that’s where his heart is, that’s where his needs and desires are met—or at least perpetually excited and sated, if never quite satisfied. He married but his occasion here, saw his chance and took it, purely in a politically expedient sense.

And thus it may be; so that’s that then, says Menas. Well, nothing to be done. Come, sir, will you aboard? Shall we join this party? I have a health for you: I want to drink to you, and with you; we both need a drink. I shall take it, sir. We have used our throats in Egypt. Definitely time for a drink, agrees Enobarbus, I’ve got used to Egyptian ways and I’ve been in training. Off they go, having deflated and dismissed all the lofty talk and promise of the scene. It’s all going to fall apart, because Antony’s only human, so let’s have a drink.