He had, he said, drunk one cup that night, and already it was affecting him. Iago laughed sympathetically and, good friend that he was, promised that, if Cassio would bring the gentlemen in, he, Iago, would drink up Cassio’s wine for him. “I’ll do it,” said Cassio reluctantly, “but it dislikes me.”
“If I can fasten but one cup upon him . . .” murmured Iago, when Cassio had gone. Cassio’s having a poor head for drinking was an unlooked-for advantage, of which Iago meant to take the fullest opportunity. But, as it turned out, there was no need for him to exert himself. The gentlemen of Cyprus had already forestalled him. In they came, some half dozen merry gentleman, among whom was the governor, and all bearing bottles of wine.
“ ’Fore God,” hiccuped Cassio, “they have given me a rouse already.”
“Good faith, a little one,” protested the governor, “not past a pint, as I am a soldier.”
They all sat down, and Cassio missed his chair, but no one remarked on it. Iago, the soul of good fellowship, called for more wine, and began to sing. “ ’Fore God, an excellent song!” sobbed Cassio, for he loved a good tune and was moved by it. Iago sang again, and Cassio drank again. “ ’Fore God this is a more exquisite song than the other!” he wept; and had more wine. At length, having been briefly religious and talked of his soul, he stood upright, or nearly so. “Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk,” he announced solemnly. He pointed to Iago. “This is my ancient.” He held up a hand and looked at it carefully. “This is my right hand,” he decided at length; and then had no difficulty in identifying the other as his left. “I am not drunk now,” he concluded, having displayed such clear-mindedness, “I can stand well enough, and speak well enough.” Everyone agreed and Cassio, after some trifling disagreement with his sword, left the hall. When he had gone, Iago sighed and confessed it saddened him to see so fine an officer as Cassio brought low by drink.
“Is he often thus?” asked the governor. Iago nodded. Every night. . . The governor wondered that the general should trust such a man. Should not the ensign tell Othello of the lieutenant’s infirmity? Iago shook his head. He was not the man to betray a friend’s weakness. Suddenly there was a commotion outside. A moment later the door burst open and Roderigo rushed in, fiercely pursued by the drunken Cassio. “A knave teach me my duty!” roared Cassio, belabouring Roderigo with sword and fist. “But I’ll beat the knave into a wicker bottle!”
“Good lieutenant,” cried the governor, seeking to intervene, “hold your hand!” “Let me go sir,” shouted Cassio, “or I’ll knock you o’er the mazzard!”
“Away I say,” whispered Iago to Roderigo, for his enraged pursuer had now turned upon the governor, “go out and cry a mutiny.” Gladly Roderigo fled, and left the hall to wild confusion. Chairs and tables were overturned, bottles smashed and candles sent to blazing ruin. The governor cried out as Cassio’s sword pierced him. An alarm bell began to ring and its brazen clamour filled the air.
“Hold, for your lives!”
Robed for the night, and gigantic in his anger, Othello stood in the hall.
“Hold, the general speaks to you,” echoed Iago; “hold, hold, for shame!” and he took up his proper place by his general’s side.
The fighting ceased and furiously the Moor demanded to know how it had begun. He asked Iago, from whom he knew he would get a plain, blunt answer. But Iago could not say. One moment all had been friends, and, in the next, they had been at each other’s throats. He asked Cassio. But Cassio was too drunk to speak. Last of all he asked the wounded governor.
“Worthy Othello,” said he. “I am hurt to danger. Your officer Iago can inform you . . .” The general turned again to his faithful ensign, and commanded him to speak.
“I had rather ha’ this tongue cut from my mouth,” muttered Iago, with such reluctance that all present admired him for the honesty of his feelings, “than it should do offence to Michael Cassio.” Then he went on to tell what had happened, but in such a way that he seemed to be defending Cassio rather than damning him. When he had done, Othello laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I know, Iago,” he said kindly, “thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, making it light to Cassio.” Then, sternly, he turned to his lieutenant, whose countenance was red with wine and shame. “Cassio,” he said, “I love thee, but never more be officer of mine.”
So Cassio was ruined; and it seemed to that unhappy young man, as everyone left the hall, that all the world now shunned him. Except for Iago. That sturdy fellow had been the only one who had taken his part and spoken up for him . . . even though it had done no good. It was Iago who stayed behind, came up to him, patted him on the back and bade him be of good cheer. Ah! he was a real man, a real friend! Thank God for fellows like honest Iago! But it was no use. He was done for. He had lost his good name. He began to weep, for he was still fuddled with drink. Then Iago, shrewd fellow that he was, persuaded him that all was not lost. There was still a way by which he might regain the general’s trust. “Our general’s wife is now the general,” said Iago; and suggested that Cassio should beg Desdemona to intercede with her husband on his behalf.
“You advise me well,” said Cassio, upon such reflection as he was capable.
“I protest,” said his good friend Iago, “in the sincerity of love and honest kindness.”
In the morning, Cassio, through the good offices of Iago’s wife, Emilia, who was Desdemona’s attendant, approached his general’s wife. They met in the gardens outside the castle, and the bright sunshine mingled their shadows as they talked. Iago had advised him well. Desdemona readily embraced his cause, and proved herself to be the “fair warrior” of Othello’s greeting. She vowed she would not rest till she had gained a victory and restored Cassio to her husband’s favour. “Madam, here comes my lord,” warned Emilia, as Othello and his ensign approached. Hastily Cassio departed, for he did not feel equal, at that moment, to facing his general.
“Ha, I like not that,” muttered Iago, observing the quick leave-taking.
Othello frowned, as if a pin had pricked him. “Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?”
“Cassio, my lord?” said Iago doubtfully, “no, sure, I cannot think it, that he would sneak away so guilty-like, seeing you coming.”
But it had been Cassio. Desdemona admitted it as soon as Othello asked; and straightway began to beg and wheedle her husband into restoring the fallen lieutenant to his place. Othello tried to put her off but she so persisted, using her charms for weapons, that the great general was forced to acknowledge defeat. “Prithee no more,” he laughed, “let him come when he will. I will deny thee nothing.”
Desdemona, with Emilia attending her, departed in triumph. “Excellent wretch,” sighed Othello, gazing after her, “perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee, and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.”
“My noble lord—” began Iago hesitantly; and then fell silent. Othello frowned again. (Again the pinprick). What was it his ensign found so hard to say? Something concerning Cassio. Little by little Othello dragged it out of him. Iago had not liked the familiarity with which Cassio had treated Desdemona. Had Cassio known the lady for long? Why yes, for almost as long as had Othello himself. Iago looked troubled, but would say no more. Othello pressed him, for something of Iago’s uneasiness had communicated itself to him. He knew his ensign to be a plain blunt soldier who always spoke his mind. Why did he not do so now? He knew him to be a fellow not given to fancies; so what was it he knew about Cassio and Desdemona? Fear clutched at Othello’s heart. His love for Desdemona was so great that the dread of losing her always lay in ambush. Fiercely he demanded that Iago should tell him what was in his mind. Stoutly Iago refused. His thoughts were his own and they might easily be unfounded. To let Othello know them might well be destructive of Othello’s peace and his own honour as a man.
“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,” said the worthy soldier, shaking his head, “is the immediate jewel of their souls.” He paused, and smiled ruefully.
“Who steals my purse, steals trash,” he said, thinking not a little of Roderigo, that “trash of Venice” as he had once called him, who had been his purse but who had now served his turn; “ ’tis something, nothing; ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands: but he that filches from me my good name . . .” Thus Iago did indeed speak his thoughts, though none but he guessed how. He glanced at the great general by his side, a giant of a man who might, with one blow of his arm, have sent Iago headless to hell. He smiled inwardly. The Moor was unsettled. His confidence was shaken and his trust in his wife was already being nibbled at. “She did deceive her father, marrying you,” he said softly, shrewdly feathering his poisoned darts with enough of truth to give them a surer aim, “and when she seemed to shake and fear your looks, she loved them most.” When at length he departed, he begged Othello not to give way to unreasoning jealousy. After all, his own suspicions might be groundless. The general should satisfy himself. Perhaps it would be wiser for him to hold off giving Cassio back his place, and see if Desdemona’s pleadings became more urgent.
Though the air was still and warm, the Moor shivered and swayed slightly, as a tall tree might be swayed by a small breeze, once it is rotted within. Desdemona returned with Emilia to remind him that the islanders were awaiting him for dinner. He answered faintly. She expressed concern. He pleaded a headache as the reason. She offered to bind the place with her handkerchief. “Let it alone,” he said, brushing her hand aside, “come, I’ll go in with you.” She took his arm and together they went into the castle. The handkerchief fell unnoticed to the ground.
Emilia picked it up. She recognized it. It had been the Moor’s first gift to Desdemona, and she had always set great store by it. Iago, Emilia’s husband, had often asked about it. She smiled to herself. She would have it copied for him. She was sure he would be pleased. Even as the idea came to her, Iago appeared. She teased him with the handkerchief but he was too quick for her. He snatched it and would not give it up. She told him her mistress would be distressed to lose it. He shook his head. He had a use for it—and such was his cheerful smile that she could not suppose he meant any harm. She left him with the handkerchief in his hand. He was laughing . . .
“I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin, and let him find it,” he murmured. He let it flutter from his fingers. “Trifles light as air are to the jealous, confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.”
Othello, having left the table, came out once more into the castle gardens: the soft golden sunshine was turned as hard and yellow as brass. He frowned and gnawed his lip and shook his head as if he was caught in an invisible net of flies.
“Look where he comes,” breathed Iago; “not poppy nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owed’st yesterday.”
“Avaunt, be gone!” cried Othello, seeing his ensign watching him with concern, “thou hast set me on the rack . . .”
Silently Iago exulted. Skilful soldier that he was, he had brought down an enemy a thousand times greater than himself. “Is’t possible, my lord?” he exclaimed, in honest amazement when he perceived the huge extent of the Moor’s anguish. The deadly seeds he had planted had lodged in a richer soil than ever he’d dared hope. Othello was great in all things: great in nature, great in war, great in love, and great in his despair. Like a coin turned, the noble head had become the unnatural beast.
“Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore,” raged the Moor, “be sure of’t, give me the ocular proof . . .” He seized his ensign by the throat and threatened to kill him if the accusation prove false.
“Take note, take note, O world,” cried Iago, struggling to free himself, “to be direct and honest is not safe . . .”
At once, Othello repented of his violence towards the honest soldier who had, after all, done no more than speak his mind. But, nonetheless, he demanded proof that Desdemona had been false with Cassio. Iago demurred. To observe them in the act would not be easy; even, as he put it, “were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, as salt as wolves; in pride . . .” However, there had been an occasion when he had overheard Cassio murmuring in his sleep of his love for Desdemona, and cursing the Moor for having her. In addition, he spoke of a certain handkerchief, spotted with strawberries, that he believed to be Desdemona’s, that he had seen in Cassio’s hand.
This last, this trifle light as air, did indeed prove strong as holy writ. The handkerchief that, to Othello, had been the symbol of his love, now became the symbol of love betrayed, and of vengeance. Savagely he demanded blood. “Within these three days let me hear thee say that Cassio’s not alive.”
“My friend is dead,” said Iago quietly. Although he had planned only for anguish, ruin and despair, now that murder entered into the design, he accepted it. Just as other men were led by Iago, so was Iago led by his own devices—and willingly, too, for he knew that his own life stood in danger if Cassio should live to prove him a liar.
In another part of the gardens, Desdemona and Emilia strolled together. Desdemona was well-pleased with her victory over her husband and sent for Cassio, for surely now was the time when he would get back his place. Then she fell to wondering where she could have lost her handkerchief. “I know not, madam,” muttered Emilia, looking the other way. Then Othello came and stood before his wife with countenance of frowning ebony. She smiled at him and reminded him of his promise. “What promise, chuck?” he asked, and the endearment came out harshly. “I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you,” she answered; and was troubled to see her husband suddenly rub his eyes as if they pained him. “I have a salt and sullen rheum offends me,” he said, “lend me thy handkerchief.” “Here, my lord,” she offered. Othello stared at it. He shook his head. “That which I gave you,” he said. She grew uneasy. The deep music that she loved so well in her husband’s voice was changed. It sounded hard and menacing. “I have it not about me,” she said, but Othello was not satisfied. The handkerchief had been more than a love token. It had belonged to his mother. It had been given to her by a magician who had warned her that if ever she lost it or parted with it, so she would lose her husband’s love. In vain Desdemona protested it was not lost; and, hoping to turn his thoughts from the handkerchief, she reminded him of Cassio. “I pray let Cassio be received again.” “Fetch me that handkerchief!” demanded the Moor. “Come, come, you’ll never meet a more sufficient man,” urged Desdemona. “The handkerchief!” “I pray talk me of Cassio,” begged Desdemona. “The handkerchief!” shouted Othello, his fury mounting as Desdemona unknowingly damned herself with every word. At last he could bear it no longer and hastened away, leaving his wife fearful and amazed. “Sure there’s some wonder in this handkerchief,” she said to Emilia. “I am most unhappy in the loss of it.” Emilia bit her lip. She knew she should have spoken before; now it was too late.
Cassio came, and sadly Desdemona told him that Othello’s mood was such that now was not the time to speak with him. Then, seeing Cassio crestfallen, she promised she would go after her husband and beg him again on Cassio’s behalf. Cassio looked hopeful, and Desdemona bade him walk about the gardens till he was sent for. This he did; and, in his strollings among the groves and lawns, met his mistress, Bianca, and gave her a handkerchief he had found in his lodgings. He asked her to have it copied, for it was a pretty trifle and it pleased him . . .
Presently he turned back towards the castle, for the reddened sun was sinking and making long graves for all the trees. Suddenly he saw Iago standing, and Othello lying senseless at his feet. “What’s the matter?” he cried out, hastening towards them. Iago turned. His face was filled with concern. “My lord is fall’n into an epilepsy,” he said in great agitation, “this is his second fit, he had one yesterday.” “Rub him about the temples,” urged Cassio; but Iago motioned him away. “Do you withdraw yourself a little while,” he advised, “he will recover straight.” With many a backward glance, Cassio went away, for already the general
had begun to groan and stir and stare about him wildly.
“How is it, general?” inquired Iago with rough tenderness, “have you not hurt your head?”
“Dost thou mock me?” whispered Othello, for his fit had come upon him when Iago had told him that Cassio had confessed that he had lain with Desdemona. All his strength had left him and the world had rushed up about him as if to swallow him. He stood up, but was still unsteady and confused. He leaned upon Iago’s shoulder, and was grateful to the sturdy ensign who stood by him in all things. Iago begged him to go stand among the trees, for Cassio was returning. If the general concealed himself, he would hear, with his own ears, the truth of his suspicions and so be removed from the torment of doubt.
As Cassio drew near, Othello, the great general, the noble Moor of Venice, hid among the trees like a furtive savage.
“How do you now, lieutenant?” greeted Iago, affectionately putting his arm about Cassio’s shoulders, the better to guide him nearer to, or further from, the listening Othello, as the occasion demanded. Cassio sadly shook his head. “Ply Desdemona well,” said Iago loudly, “and you are sure on’t.” Then, drawing him away, said softly, and with a knowing dig in the ribs, “Now if this suit lay in Bianca’s power, how quickly should you speed!” Cassio laughed, and his laughter was yet another poisoned arrow in Othello’s heart, for the Moor, having heard only Desdemona mentioned, thought that Cassio laughed contemptuously at his wife.
Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories Page 23
