CLEOPATRA  Is she as tall as me?

MESSENGER  She is not, madam.

CLEOPATRA  Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongued or low?

MESSENGER  Madam, I heard her speak. She is low-voiced.

CLEOPATRA  That’s not so good. He cannot like her long.

CHARMIAN    Like her? O, Isis, ’tis impossible!

CLEOPATRA  I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue, and dwarfish.

What majesty is in her gait? Remember

If e’er thou look’st on majesty.

MESSENGER  She creeps.

Her motion and her station are as one.

She shows a body rather than a life,

A statue than a breather.                 (3.3.11-21)

This exchange is highly comic, especially in performance, as the messenger keeps trying to second-guess what Cleopatra actually wants him to say—but underlying it is Cleopatra’s vulnerability, and her inability to ask (or even formulate) the question which perhaps underlies all of her enquiries: does Antony seem to like Octavia? Does Antony seem even to love Octavia? And she can’t ask those questions of this messenger, so there’s the randomness, first, of is she as tall as me? (Yes, this is also Cleopatra’s self-obsession, her sense—albeit fragile—of her own abundant charms, perfection, ability to fascinate; her height is, of course, the perfect height, and no woman would wish to be taller or shorter.) She is not, madam. The messenger can answer that one, with relief if perhaps a touch of incredulity (and it is of course ridiculous, because how can you really tell unless they’re standing next to each other?) Next question: didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongued or low? A more qualitative question, and one that makes the audience focus on Cleopatra’s own tones. (What Octavia might have to say seems to be irrelevant; Cleopatra isn’t interested in whether she’s witty or intelligent, perhaps assuming, or hoping, that she must be neither.) Again the messenger can oblige, and can confirm that yes, this is first-hand: madam, I heard her speak. She is low-voiced. Shrill would be shrewish, harsh, grating, even squeaky; low-voiced is the feminine ideal, soft and gentle (like Lear’s Cordelia). Hmmm, that’s not so good, says Cleopatra, suggesting that it’s a positive for Octavia. (Although she could also be dismissing low-voiced as a negative, in comparison with her own voice: of course she’d disparage any vocal quality attributed to Octavia, just as she’d disparage her height, whether tall or short.) So her interim verdict—he cannot like her long—is either intended to reassure herself in general (whatever, he’s not going to find her attractive in the long term) or specifically in relation to Octavia’s stature and voice: Antony doesn’t like women like that! (He likes me, he does.) That Charmian joins in to reinforce this reassurance is telling: she enjoys mockery every bit as much as her mistress, but she also knows how vulnerable she can be: like her? Like that? don’t be ridiculous, she’s not Antony’s type at all! O, Isis, ’tis impossible! Don’t worry, don’t obsess over it. Cleopatra seizes on it gratefully: I think so, Charmian, and then gets the audience even more on side with her bitchy interpretation of the entirely blameless messenger’s words, that Octavia is in fact dull of tongue and dwarfish. One has to laugh at the shameless spin.

Cleopatra’s gained just a little more confidence now, that Octavia is no real competition for her. What majesty is in her gait? How does she move? And Cleopatra herself has to move here, majestically but also seductively (poor messenger): remember if e’er thou look’st on majesty. Does she have my moves? (She surely doesn’t have my moves.) The messenger is now getting wise to what’s being asked of him, and offers a bit more spin here: Octavia creeps, she’s small, insignificant, unassuming, even awkward. She has no presence. Her motion and her station are as one; she moves as if she’s standing still. You don’t notice Octavia move, she doesn’t draw the eye. It’s such a chilly picture, which the messenger confirms: she shows a body rather than a life, a statue than a breather. Cleopatra herself can give a sigh of relief here, vital, passionate Cleopatra, who relies on being the centre of attention. People can’t take their eyes off me, she thinks; Octavia—well, nothing to see here. Perhaps there’s a glance back, yet again, at Enobarbus’s description of Cleopatra, which was so full of life and sensuality, which suggested that she was like a picture and yet not a picture. Octavia’s the opposite, the messenger suggests; she’s like a work of art, but there’s no liveliness in her. She doesn’t even seem to breathe—whereas Cleopatra, according to Enobarbus, is glorious even when she’s out of breath and panting.