ANTONY Thrice nobler than myself,
Thou teachest me, O, valiant Eros, what
I should and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros
Have by their brave instruction got upon me
A nobleness in record. But I will be
A bridegroom in my death, and run into’t
As to a lover’s bed. Come then, and, Eros,
Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus
I learned of thee.
[He stabs himself]
How, not dead? Not dead?
The guard, ho! O, dispatch me! (4.15.94-103)
Antony is shamed by the action of Eros, his former slave, who in his example is thrice nobler, more honourable and resolute than he is himself. Thou teachest me, O, valiant Eros, what I should and thou couldst not. You’ve shown me what to do, what I need to steel myself to do. It’s not just Eros’s courage in killing himself, it’s that he’s indirectly shamed Antony too, for asking someone else to do it for him: Eros has thus given Antony the ability to recover some of his honour, and his own self-respect. Both Eros and Cleopatra (as Antony thinks) have demonstrated fortitude and resolve, and in so doing they’ve gone one up on him; they have by their brave instruction got upon him a nobleness in record. At the moment, they’re the ones whom history will remember for their honourable deaths. Not Antony, defeated, ignoble, cowardly.
As ever, Antony rallies first in a conceit, audacious, vivid, sensual, before he acts: but I will be a bridegroom in my death, and run into’t as to a lover’s bed. Death as falling asleep and grave as bed is proverbial but Antony makes it urgently erotic, a fantasy which is simultaneously one of agency and (given the anticipated manner of his death) passivity, penetrating and being penetrated, a fluidity entirely in keeping with his relationship with Cleopatra. There’s a glee, too, running to the bed, a leap, a bounce; it makes it sound more fun than the masochistic intensity of Isabella in Measure for Measure, for instance, when she suggests that she would ‘strip herself to death as to a bed’. Come then, Antony says, as low-key and matter-of-fact as his servant, and, Eros, thy master dies thy scholar. I’ve learned from you how to do this; you’re my teacher now. To do thus—and that’s when he stabs himself, or thereabouts, any stage direction is editorial—I learned of thee.
There might be a groan; there’s definitely a pause. Perhaps an agonised deeper thrust. And then, unfortunately: how, not dead? Not dead? I don’t believe it! What’s going on?! There’s usually a laugh, which turns the knife, at least metaphorically. Desperation (and pain, terrible pain): the guard, ho! Someone, help me! Is anyone there? O, dispatch me! Come and put me out of my misery, out of this agony. You wouldn’t leave an animal to suffer like this, or a comrade on the battlefield. The shame, the ignominy—the pain.