ENOBARBUS              I saw her once

Hop forty paces through the public street,

And having lost her breath, she spoke and panted,

That she did make defect perfectïon,

And breathless, pour breath forth.

MAECENAS                            Now Antony

Must leave her utterly.

ENOBARBUS              Never. He will not.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety. Other women cloy

The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry

Where most she satisfies. For vilest things

Become themselves in her, that the holy priests

Bless her when she is riggish.          (2.2.227-238)

Having described Cleopatra as jaw-dropping, exotic spectacle, all perfumed silk and golden dazzle, it’s as his speech draws to a close that Enobarbus wonders most at Cleopatra, her astonishing power to fascinate and compel even through the most ordinary, trivial things. I saw her once hop forty paces through the public street, this great queen, playing like a school girl, gleeful and carefree, not caring about looking ridiculous, perhaps for a dare, perhaps just for fun. And having lost her breath—hopping, on one leg, for forty paces, you try it—she spoke and panted (here there’s a close-up, close-to, imagining Cleopatra panting, the breath, the sweat-sheened flesh, panting…) so that she did make defect perfection, the lack of breath, and also the lack of dignity, of poise, of elegance—it was transcendently wonderful, perfection itself, all those negatives transformed into something amazing—and even though she was breathless, she poured breath forth—she was still able to speak, to breathe—a wonder. Her panting, her breath—that was all there was, in that moment.

Now Antony must leave her utterly, says Maecenas, sagely; that’s the deal that’s just been cut, that we’ve just facilitated and agreed, it’s a big deal. Have you even been listening to what I’ve been saying? says Enobarbus, in effect. Never. That’s not going to happen. He will not. He won’t and he can’t. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Cleopatra’s immortal, endlessly fascinating, untouched by time, by age—and by familiarity; she’ll continue to fascinate, because she can never really be known. Even though Antony’s as intimate with her as it’s possible to be, she’ll always ultimately be a mystery, he’ll always want more. She is so mutable, the whole of her can never be grasped. He’ll always crave her, even as he sates his desires again and again. Because (let’s be frank) other women cloy the appetites they feed. You get sick of them, they become too sweet, too predictable; familiarity eventually breeds contempt. Not Cleopatra, though. She makes hungry where most she satisfies. She can give herself to Antony again and again, and he’ll always want more, need more from her, keep coming back to her, utterly obsessed and enthralled—and utterly in love. For vilest things become themselves in her: even when she’s behaving badly it’s perversely attractive; even her faults and her worst features are peculiarly fascinating. The holy priests bless her when she is riggish, when she goes too far, is immoral, wanton, simply naughty: she’s indulged, like a child. She gets away with anything and everything, always has and always will. No, Antony will never leave her. Don’t be stupid.