CAESAR                                  Good brother,

Let me request you off. Our graver business

Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let’s part.

You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb

Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue

Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost

Anticked us all. What needs more words? Good night.

Good Antony, your hand.

POMPEY                                 I’ll try you on the shore.

ANTONY         And shall, sir. Give’s your hand.

POMPEY                                 O, Antony,

You have my father house. But what, we are friends!

Come down into the boat.

[Exeunt all but Enobarbus and Menas]          (2.7.112-122)

 

Caesar tries to salvage something of his dignity and control, and is also, unfailingly, the politician, setting up his next meeting. And he has to keep Antony at his side more than at Pompeys’s; that’s the crucial consideration that’s emerged. So he reminds Antony of their relationship: good brother, that is, brother-in-law, let me request you off. Very polite, but unequivocal. Time for us to go ashore; please come with me. Our graver business frowns at this levity: really, there’s too much at stake here, we’ve got too many serious problems and issues to manage, and we can’t afford the time, the distraction, the hangover—any of it. We’ve got to get back to work. (There’s a touch of shame in Caesar’s words; he’s a bit embarrassed at what even he’s got up to, and he’s perhaps trying to shame Antony too. Good luck with that.) But he’s remaining polite and courteous; that’s how Caesar stays in control, with the odd barb. Gentle lords—yes, even the pirates and the rebels—let’s part. You see we have burnt our cheeks, oof, bit red in the face with all this wine, your wonderful hospitality! Strong Enobarb is weaker than the wine (you know it’s time to call it quits when even Enobarbus is the worse for wear; hard stare from Enobarbus, who is fine, thank you very much) and—a calculated note of self-deprecation to end with—mine own tongue splits what it speaks. Look at me, stumbling over my words! Splits what it speaks enables a good drunken schlur. The wild disguise has almost anticked us all—almost, but not quite. Some of us have got a grip, and not allowed these revels, this bacchanalian loss of inhibition, to make fools of us, grotesque monsters. Antick here mostly means fool or madman—as in Hamlet’s antic disposition—but it’s also antique, old, a rueful acknowledgement that these are some of the great heroes of antiquity, and they are drunk. What needs more words? (Caesar realizes he’s said too much, that he’s totally killing the vibe, that he’s got to get out of there.) Good night! Good Antony, your hand. You are coming with me, I’m not leaving you here with Pompey, I don’t trust you an inch. Pompey knows exactly what’s going on: I’ll try you on the shore; you’ve got my number, eh, we’ll do this again, have another session at my place? And shall, sir; yes, that’d be good, says Antony, one in the eye for Caesar. Give us your hand. (There’s scope here for a big hug, another niggle for the chilly Caesar, who likes good firm handshakes, not too long, not these more intimate bonding rituals.) O, Antony, you have my father’s house, says Pompey, the old grudge. You owe me. A despairing note: he’s thrown away his claims, allowed his grievances to be set aside. But what, we are friends! Come down into the boat: they have to be rowed to shore from Pompey’s ship, although it’s a detail that could well be cut, especially in a modern dress production. Almost the end of the scene, as the drunken Romans start to exit; some productions leave at least one, insensible.