Wretchedly he told her; and wretchedly begged her to come away.
“Go, get thee hence,” she answered, with a dignity that would have humbled a king, “for I will not away.”
The old priest, who had meant so well and done so ill, crept away from the consequence of his endeavours; and left Juliet alone with her dead.
Longingly she kissed Romeo’s lips in the hope that some poison still remained on them. There was none; so she took his dagger and pressed it lovingly into her heart.
So, in old Verona, died Juliet and Romeo, who loved at last sight no less than at their first. The fathers—old Capulet and Montague—were grief-stricken by the tragic deaths of their children, and ashamed that their old hate had brought it about. They vowed eternal friendship to one another; and now the Capulets and Montagues, and old Verona, live only in the great love of Juliet and Romeo.
Othello
Night in Venice. A narrow street, dark as sin, with but a single lamp, like a false moon, shakily doubling itself in the water. Two men stood together. One, Roderigo, a slender young gentleman with a disappointed face, a disappointed voice, and disappointed feathers in his bonnet, said:
“I take it much unkindly that thou, Iago, who hast had my purse as if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.”
“If ever I did dream of such a matter,” returned Iago, angrily, “abhor me!” He was shorter than his companion, but very sturdy and compact, with every inch of him expressing energy. He was a soldier . . .
“Thou told’st me thou didst hold him in thy hate,” persisted Roderigo, his lip quivering.
Iago scorned to deny it. His hatred for the man Roderigo had referred to was an honest hatred. Indeed, both he and Roderigo had cause enough to dislike that proud, boastful, vain personage, that “thicklips”, as Roderigo contemptuously called him. He was a Moor and as black as a stove; and he had done both of them a bad turn. He was high general of the Venetian forces and had promoted, to be his second-in-command, one Michael Cassio, a fellow, in Iago’s words, “that never set a squadron in the field, nor the division of a battle knows more than a spinster.” By all the rights of service and seniority, the place should have been Iago’s; but he had been overlooked.
“ ’Tis the curse of service,” sighed the soldier bitterly, “preferment goes by letter and affection, not by the old gradation . . .”
The Moor’s offence against Roderigo struck no less deep. Even as he had denied to Iago a coveted place, so he had to Roderigo, a place in the bed of Desdemona, Senator Brabantio’s wondrously beautiful daughter, a female of whom the young man had entertained the fondest hopes. That very night, the thicklips had married her. It was the shock of this that had caused Roderigo to reproach Iago, whom he had paid to assist him.
“Call up her father,” urged Iago, anxious to make amends. “Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight . . .”
“Here is her father’s house!” cried Roderigo, readily following wherever Iago led. “What ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho?” he shouted; and banged, with moth-like fists, upon the door outside which he had so long sighed in vain.
“Awake! What ho, Brabantio!” bellowed Iago, in parade ground tones, for he judged that Roderigo’s efforts would not have roused a mouse. “Thieves, thieves, thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags!”
The house shook. Invisible feet stumbled upon invisible stairs. Voices called, and sudden yellow light sketched round the shuttered windows. A casement opened, and, like an ancient cannon, Brabantio’s venerable head poked forth and thundered loud annoyance. He looked down and saw two shadowy ruffians lurking below. One was known to him: he was the fool who had been pestering his door in pursuit of his daughter; the other he knew not. What the devil were they doing, shouting and banging and turning the night into bedlam? More casements opened and the tall dark mansion broke out all over with night-capped heads, like a plague of angry boils.
“Zounds, sir,” shouted the unknown villain, loud enough for all Venice to hear, “you are robbed! Even now, very now, an old black ram is tupping your white ewe!”
“What profane wretch art thou?” roared the senator.
“I am one, sir,” returned the wretch, retiring a little, “that come to tell you, your daughter, and the Moor, are now making the beast with two backs.”
The Moor and his daughter? The foul suggestion, so foully uttered, chilled the father’s blood. Grey-faced with anger, he rushed away to assure himself that his daughter was still secure.
“Farewell, for I must leave you,” muttered Iago rapidly to Roderigo. Much as he hated the Moor, it would be foolishness to stay and be produced against him; “for necessity of present life,” he admitted with a rueful smile that went straight to Roderigo’s understanding heart, “I must show out a flag, and sign of love. . .” Nonetheless, before he made off, he told Roderigo where the Moor might be found, so that he and Brabantio might have their revenge.
Moments after there was a howl of anguish from the house. The discovery had been made. Brabantio’s daughter had betrayed her father’s trust, and was gone! There was a violent commotion and Brabantio, sword in hand and with a robe flung hastily over his nightgown, rushed out like a madman. Servants, wrenched from sleep, half-dressed, bearing torches and weapons, crowded after.
“Who would be a father!” Brabantio cried aloud to the stars in the sky; and then to the despised Roderigo who, for a son-in-law, would have been an angel beside “the old black ram”, “O that you had had her! Do you know where we may apprehend her and the Moor?”
Roderigo knew, and eagerly led the way; and was much encouraged by the betrayed father’s heartfelt thanks.
Othello, the Moor of Venice, stepped out of the inn where he and his new wife had retired for the night. The thicklips, the old black ram, was tall and dignified, as became the great general in whom Venice had placed her trust. Splendidly robed, he enriched the night. Soldierly attendants waited respectfully upon him; and at his side stood his sturdy, faithful ensign, Iago.
Anxiously the ensign warned his general of Brabantio’s wrath, which had been so foully abusive of the Moor that Iago admitted that his hand had gone to his sword. “Nine or ten times,” he said gruffly, “I had thought to have yerked him here, under the ribs.”
Othello smiled. The fierce loyalty of the plain-spoken, rough soldier warmed his heart; but an old gentleman’s intemperate words should not be answered with blows. “Let him do his spite,” said the Moor gently; and his voice was as dark and rich as his complexion. “My services, which I have done the signiory, shall out-tongue his complaints . . .”
Even as he spoke, torches and dark figures, bulky with shadows, came hastening towards them. Iago, fearing it was Brabantio with armed assistance, drew his sword. He begged Othello to go within; but it was not in the Moor’s nature to hide. However, it was not the outraged father, but Michael Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, with officers, who had come in search of the general.
“The duke does greet you, general,” said Cassio, saluting courteously, “and he requires your haste post-haste appearance, even on the instant.”
The senate was in urgent session on account of warlike news from Cyprus, and Othello’s presence was anxiously awaited. Othello nodded and bade Cassio wait while he returned briefly to the inn.
“What makes he here?” asked Cassio, when Othello had gone.
“Faith,” chuckled Iago, “he tonight hath boarded a land carrack . . .”
“I do not understand.”
“He’s married,” explained Iago; but before he could reveal to whom, the Moor had returned, wearing the chain and seal and buckling on the sword that denoted his high office. It was then that Brabantio, with Roderigo by his side, and a troop of armed friends and servants at his heels, rushed, like a crowd of angry fireflies, out of the night. Cassio and his men drew their weapons. Othello raised his hand. “Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust ’em!” he said; and such was his bearing and manner that he was i
nstantly obeyed. “Good signior,” he continued, turning to Brabantio, “you should more command with years than with your weapons.”
“O thou foul thief!” shouted Brabantio, raging helplessly before the calm dignity of the Moor. “Where has thou stowed my daughter? Damned as thou art, thou hast enchanted her . . .”
He demanded that the Moor should be dragged off to prison; but this could not be. The Duke had sent for Othello, so the outraged father could do no more than to go with the black thief of his fair daughter, to lay his grievance before the senate.
In the sombre council chamber of the Duke’s palace, the rich robed senators sat in gravely troubled state. White beards grew whiter as conflicting rumour blew a hostile Turkish fleet hither and thither, swelling its size and its threat to Cyprus with every gust that came. Then Othello entered. Every face turned towards the great general with such eager welcome that those who accompanied him were quite overlooked.
“I did not see you,” said the Duke to Brabantio, whose temper had not been improved by having been ignored; “welcome gentle signior, we lacked your counsel and your help tonight.”
“So did I yours,” returned Brabantio, who had not come to prevent the loss of Cyprus to the Turk, but the loss of his daughter to the Moor. Witchcraft must have been practised upon her, for by no other means could she have been persuaded to leave her father’s house for the black embraces of Othello. Accordingly, the father demanded the full rigour of the law.
“What in your own part can you say to this?” asked the Duke, turning to the general. Although the state had need of Othello, neither the Duke nor the senate could dismiss Brabantio’s complaint without a hearing; for he, too, was a senator.
“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,” answered the Moor quietly, “that I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, it is most true: true, I have married her . . .” He spread out his hands. His wrongdoing amounted to no more than that. He sighed. He was a soldier and not practised in courtly speech. He knew that his rough tongue was unlikely to recommend him to the present assembly. “Yet,” he went on, “by your gracious patience, I will a round, unvarnish’d tale deliver, of my whole course of love, what drugs, what charms, what conjuration,” he smiled, “and what mighty magic, for such proceedings I am charged withal, I won his daughter.”
The Moor’s answer had been gentle; but its very gentleness only served to aggravate Brabantio the more. Loudly he insisted that witchcraft had been used—until the Duke somewhat impatiently suggested that witchcraft and magic were not very sensible charges to bring. The senators also were anxious to have done with this domestic dispute and to return to the more important matters of state.
“Send for the lady,” offered the Moor, “and let her speak of me before her father.” There was a general murmur of approval, for this seemed the wisest course. Othello despatched his ensign, Iago, to fetch Desdemona; and while all awaited her appearance, Othello begged leave to tell how he had won her love.
“Say it, Othello,” said the Duke; and the grave senators settled back in their seats to listen and to judge.
“Her father loved me, oft invited me,” began Othello, with a courteous bow towards the stony-faced Brabantio, “still questioned me the story of my life, from year to year: the battles, sieges, fortunes, that I have passed . . .”
As the Moor told of how he had related the strange and wonderful adventures of his life, and how Desdemona had listened breathless, been called away, and hastened back and begged to hear all again, and how she’d sighed, “ ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; ’twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful . . .” the deep music of Othello’s voice filled the chamber and drew the old senators forward in their seats. Some stroked their white beards, some rested their chins upon their fists, and here and there, hastily fastened robes parted to betray nightgowns—as if they were returning to the dreams from which they had been summoned. “This is the only witchcraft I have used,” said the Moor softly, as Desdemona entered the chamber. “Here comes the lady, let her witness it.”
“I think,” said the Duke with a smile, “this tale would win my daughter too.”
Desdemona, radiant in her bride joy, stood before the solemn assembly; but she had eyes only for her husband, and the brightness of her love seemed to dim the torches in their sconces. Even before her father demanded of her where her chief duty lay, he knew the answer, for it was written in her looks. Her duty, and her heart with it, now belonged to the Moor. So Brabantio, with a bitter sigh, accepted what he could not change. And the senate, with much relief that all had ended in love, turned their attention back to matters of war. Othello was to sail at once for Cyprus and command the garrison there. It was agreed that Desdemona should join him; she should sail attended by the general’s faithful ensign, Iago, and be waited upon by Iago’s wife. So the business of the night was concluded. The Duke and senators left the chamber; but not before Brabantio had turned and stared sombrely at his daughter’s husband. “Look to her, Moor,” he said, “have a quick eye to see: she has deceived her father, and may thee.”
Two remained behind. They were the two whom the Moor had, all unknowingly, injured: Roderigo, the disappointed lover, and Iago, the disappointed ensign. Roderigo was all for drowning himself.
“Drown thyself?” jeered Iago. “Drown cats and blind puppies!” The silly young gentleman should put such thoughts right out of his mind. Instead, he should put money in his purse and follow his love to Cyprus. Did he not know that a Venetian lady like Desdemona would soon tire of her barbaric Moor, and look elsewhere for her entertainment? And where else should she look than to Roderigo? “Therefore put money in thy purse,” urged Iago; and swore he would use all his skill for Roderigo to gain his heart’s desire.
The forlorn young gentleman revived, and, like a weed after rain, put forth tiny flowers of hope. Iago was a shrewd fellow, and Roderigo was fortunate to have him for a friend. True, he was something of a rogue, but he was an honest rogue and he always took Roderigo into his confidence. You could trust a man like that.
“No more of drowning, do you hear?” cried Iago, clapping him on the back.
“I am changed,” said Roderigo, bravely.
“Go to; farewell! Put money enough in your purse.”
As Roderigo hastened away, Iago stared thoughtfully after him. He grinned amiably, and murmured: “Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.” Then his brow darkened, and all pleasantry slipped from his face. Only hatred remained, hatred for the Moor. He had confided in Roderigo that he hated the Moor because he had promoted Cassio over him; but there was another reason that was far stronger. He suspected that Othello had slept with his wife. He had no proof of this; he had only suspicion based upon rumour. But it was enough. He told no one, because he was not a man who could endure being laughed at. He kept it within himself where it grew and grew like an ulcer on his soul. His very veins ran with poison. He began to pace to and fro, muttering to himself as thoughts of how he might obtain his revenge flickered through his mind. The Moor was an open man and trusted him; so much the worse for the Moor. Cassio was a handsome fellow, and spendthrift of his charm; so much the worse for Cassio. “Let me see . . . after some time, to abuse Othello’s ear, that he is too familiar with his wife . . .” Suddenly he ceased his pacings. He laughed aloud and slapped his knee in triumphant delight.
“I ha’t, it is engendered,” he cried; “Hell and night must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light!”
A villainous sky and a villainous sea that rushed up to meet it, and villainous winds that blew where they chose, had smashed and bewildered the Turkish fleet, and blown the three vessels from Venice many miles apart. Cassio’s ship was the first to arrive at Cyprus; then came the vessel bearing Desdemona with Iago and Emilia, his wife. Most courteously, and fondly, too, Cassio greeted his general’s lady; and Iago observed with shrewd interest how the handsome young lieutenant could no more help striving to charm the beautiful Desdemona than he could h
elp breathing. Then Othello’s ship was sighted, and presently he came ashore to the loud rejoicing of the garrison and the people of the town.
In flying saffron cloak, bright armour and plumed helmet cradled in his arm, the great general strode forward to greet his wife.
“O my fair warrior!” he cried.
“My dear Othello!” she answered; and their embrace, she fair, he black, was like the engulfing of day by all-conquering night.
“O you are well tuned now,” murmured Iago, the eternal observer, “but I’ll set down the pegs that make this music, as honest as I am.”
When the rapt lovers had departed and the onlookers had drifted away, Iago drew near his Venetian friend. Roderigo had followed Iago’s advice. He had sold his property, filled his purse, and come to Cyprus, brave as a lily, though still somewhat green from the rigour of the sea. Had Roderigo noticed, Iago asked quietly, how fondly Desdemona and Cassio had met? Roderigo had, and had taken it for mere courtesy. Iago shook his head. “Lechery,” he murmured, “by this hand; an index and prologue to the history of lust . . .” Roderigo was amazed, but then Iago was a shrewd fellow and knew more about such matters than he did. You could trust a fellow like Iago to know what was what. In short, Iago had no difficulty in persuading his friend into believing what he wanted to believe: that Desdemona had already tired of the ageing black Moor and was casting about for some younger, fairer object for her desires. If Roderigo still hoped to succeed, Cassio must be got rid of. Roderigo nodded as vigorously as he could, and listened while Iago, whose thoughts had not been idle, proposed his scheme. That night, Cassio was to be the officer of the watch. Now Cassio was a hot-tempered fellow and, if Roderigo provoked him into a fight, he would be discredited and the way to Desdemona would be clear. Roderigo beamed happily, and went away thanking his stars that a clever fellow like Iago was his friend and not his enemy.
“Welcome, Iago,” said Cassio, coming briskly into the hall of the garrison castle; “we must to the watch.” Being newly appointed, the young man was most prompt and careful in his duty. Iago, however, the seasoned soldier and good-humoured friend, pointed out that it was far too early, and suggested that they should drink Othello’s health with some gentlemen of Cyprus who were waiting outside. Regretfully Cassio shook his head. “Not tonight, good Iago,” he protested; “I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking . . .”
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 22
