CLEOPATRA Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round?
MESSENGER Round, even to faultiness.
CLEOPATRA For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.
Her hair—what colour?
MESSENGER Brown, madam; and her forehead
As low as she would wish it.
CLEOPATRA [giving money] There’s gold for thee.
Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
I will employ thee back again. I find thee
Most fit for business. Go, make thee ready.
Our letters are prepared.
[Exit Messenger] (3.3.29-37)
There may be a pregnant pause as Cleopatra digests the fact of Octavia’s age—that she is, it seems (much) younger than Cleopatra herself—but she recovers? shrugs it off? is gloriously unconcerned? continues, putting a brave face on it, but is obviously just going through the motions? Whatever, she ploughs on. Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round? What does Octavia actually look like? (And Cleopatra may perform her own ‘ideal’ face to the messenger, turning in profile, lifting her chin.) Oh, her face is round, even to faultiness—the messenger is back on message. Octavia has chubby cheeks! Her face is not a perfect slender oval, quite the reverse. Cleopatra’s relieved at this: for the most part, too, they are foolish that are so. Silly, round-faced Octavia; well, she can be written off even more. And her hair—what colour? Again the messenger can be relieved; he knows that he can truthfully describe something which is not the ideal, for Octavia’s hair is brown, madam. Then, on his own initiative, having finally grasped exactly how he’s being expected to spin this, he adds that Octavia’s forehead is as low as she would wish it, low and scowling rather than the high clear forehead of the ideal.
He’s done it, and lived to tell the tale: Cleopatra is, at least for now, satisfied at this messenger’s account of her lover’s new bride, at least temporarily mollified and reassured. There’s gold for thee, she says. And even a word of almost apology: thou must not take my former sharpness ill. Don’t mind me, I can go a bit far sometimes. Nothing personal. The messenger breathes a sigh of relief, collects his fee, turns to go—he needs to sleep for a week, do his washing, catch up with everything—but no, Cleopatra has other plans. I will employ thee back again: he’s off on another mission, back to Rome right away. I find thee most fit for business. The poor messenger, who aimed only to survive his mission and the telling of it, has in fact performed it too well, and Cleopatra wants a repeat, because she now trusts him. Go, make thee ready. Prepare to leave again immediately, just a quick shower, bite to eat, and a change of clothes. Our letters are prepared, just waiting for you to pick them up and set off again. Off you go! Chop chop!