FIRST WATCH                       Let’s speak to him.

SENTRY          Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks

May concern Caesar.

SECOND WATCH       Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

SENTRY Swoons, rather, for so bad a prayer as his

Was never yet for sleep.

FIRST WATCH Go we to him.

SECOND WATCH Awake, sir, awake; speak to us.

FIRST WATCH Hear you, sir?

SENTRY The hand of death hath raught him.

Drums afar off

Hark, the drums

Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him

To th’ court of guard; he is of note. Our hour

Is fully out.

SECOND WATCH Come on, then. He may recover yet.

Exeunt (4.10.23-33)

 

The soldiers are curious,  but also uncertain (and they’re beautifully differentiated)—and they really don’t have time for this, knowing that they’re likely to be called to the battlefield well before it’s light. Let’s speak to him, says one, the most confident and outgoing. The sentry is warier; he’s the one in charge, and he’s naturally cautious: no, we shouldn’t speak to him, but rather we should listen to him, see what else he has to say, because the things he speaks may concern Caesar. As captain, he might be worried that Enobarbus is actually a spy, or a traitor twice over. The second soldier is conciliatory, sensible: alright, let’s do so, we’ll listen. But he sleeps. This soldier’s the one who’s actually looking at Enobarbus, or starting to. Swoons rather, suggests the more experienced captain of the watch: he’s passed out, or worse—for so bad a prayer as his was never yet for sleep. What we’ve just heard, that wasn’t the sort of thing you say before nodding off quietly, now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep style, was it? Not at all. Go we to him: the first soldier again more curious, confident. We should do something. And his sidekick picks up on this, perhaps lacking experience, perhaps not as aware as the other two of what is likely to be going on here: awake, sir, awake; speak to us! Come on! Hear you, sir? Can you hear us? (Partly they’re all conscious that Enobarbus is an officer and a gentleman; they’re other ranks.) But it’s the captain who announces what’s happened, makes it plain: the hand of death hath raught him. It’s a portentous, solemn way of putting it: he’s been seized by death. He can’t hear you, lad, he can’t hear anyone. Cut short, though, from expressing any more lofty sentiments by drums afar off. Time to arm, prepare for battle. Hark, the drums demurely wake the sleepers. It’s discreet, orderly: assuming they’re Caesar’s drums, it’s a sign that Caesar isn’t in disarray because of his defeat the previous day, but rather it’s back to business as usual. A decision, therefore: let us bear him to the court of guard, take him back to the guardhouse, because he is of note. He’s a gentleman, well-known. And our hour is fully out: that’s us done, time to clock off. The second soldier—and I do think he’s younger—wants them to make haste: come on, then. He may recover yet: if we hurry and get him into the guard house, maybe he’ll revive? Get the medics to take a look? But the other two say nothing, and their silence confirms what the audience, perhaps, already knows.

 

The folio text does not include a direction for Enobarbus to die, and so editors usually supply it after his final words. But it’s not clear how he dies, either? Has he made an attempt to kill himself? not impossibly, although the soldiers would surely comment on blood. In a modern production there might be a suggestion of an overdose, of drunkenness—but mostly, Enobarbus dies of melancholy, of a broken heart. He fades out, and the oddity of his death, its anti-climax, its bathos, sets an unsettling precedent for what is to come.