Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  “I never knew a woman love man so,” said Iago. “Alas, poor rogue, I think i’faith she loves me,” said Cassio, with a boastful smile. And so it went on, with Iago most skilfully encouraging Cassio to talk freely of Bianca, while the hidden listener supposed the talk to be about his wife.

  Presently Bianca herself appeared and, far from destroying Iago’s device, she supported it, for she had brought with her the handkerchief which she now displayed angrily to Cassio. “This is some minx’s token,” she said, tossing it contemptuously to him.

  “After her, after her!” urged Iago, as the lady swept indignantly away. “Faith, I must,” laughed Cassio, hastening after, “she’ll rail i’ the street else!”

  “How shall I murder him, Iago?” pleaded the Moor, creeping out of the concealment in which he had endured the torments of hell. And yet, in all his darkness, there still flickered a fragile light as he thought of his beloved Desdemona and how she once had been. “But yet the pity of it, Iago!” he wept, “O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!”

  “If you be so fond over her iniquity . . .” murmured Iago, anxiously; but there was no need, for, in the very next moment, Othello was plunged back into his night of madness and hate. “I will chop her into messes!” he raged and then, more calmly, though more terribly: “get me some poison, Iago, this night . . .”

  “Do it not with poison,” said Iago quickly. Like many a man whose soul is black as pitch, he was careful to keep his hands clean, as if, at the last judgement, he would be able to stand, like a Sunday schoolboy, presenting spotless palms. “Strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated.”

  “Good, good, the justice of it pleases,” agreed the Moor; and Iago, confident now that he had harnessed Othello’s very nobility to his own ends, undertook to murder Cassio by midnight. No sooner had the murders been determined upon, than a trumpet sounded from within the castle, as if to seal the double deaths.

  Lodovico, a great man in Venice and ambassador from the Duke, had arrived with a letter for Othello from the senate. He stepped out into the darkened gardens attended by torch-bearing servants and with the Lady Desdemona by his side. Othello received the letter with elaborate courtesy; and, while he read it, Lodovico inquired about Cassio, and was surprised to learn that he and the general were estranged. “But you shall make all well,” said Desdemona.

  “Are you sure of that?” Othello’s voice was harsh and sudden, but as he was still reading the letter it was supposed his words concerned what he read. The letter had commanded him to return to Venice and to leave Cassio in his place. This news, conjectured Lodovico, might well account for the general’s frowns. The talk returned to Cassio, and Desdemona again spoke up on his behalf. “Devil!” shouted Othello; and struck her in the face! Lodovico exclaimed in amazement; he could scarcely believe what he had seen.

  “I have not deserved this,” whispered Desdemona, her white cheek stained with the Moor’s furious hand. “I will not stay to offend you,” she said, and turned to go.

  “I do beseech your lordship,” protested Lodovico, outraged by this treatment of Brabantio’s daughter, “call her back!”

  Othello shrugged his shoulders and called, “Mistress!” contemptuously. Desdemona turned. “What would you with her, sir?” asked the Moor. “Who, I, my lord?” said Lodovico. “Ay, you did wish that I would make her turn,” answered the Moor wildly. “Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on, and turn again . . .” He talked in fits and jerks, sometimes to Lodovico, sometimes to his wife and sometimes, it seemed, to his distracted self. Savagely he dismissed Desdemona, who went, with eyes brimming with uncomprehending tears; then, with a great effort at calmness, he bade Lodovico sup with him. “You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus,” he said. His wandering gaze fell upon Iago. “Goats and monkeys!” he shouted frantically, and rushed into the castle.

  “Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate call all in all sufficient?” wondered Lodovico. “This the noble nature, whom passion could not shake?”

  “He is much changed,” admitted Iago sadly, and went on to confide to the ambassador that it was only loyalty that prevented him telling what he knew concerning his general. “I am sorry that I am deceived in him,” said Lodovico grimly; and, together with Iago left the garden that, like Eden, had witnessed a temptation and a fall.

  His wife was a whore. The Moor was sure of it. Whenever she spoke, it was of Cassio. Whenever she pleaded, it was for Cassio. Whenever she praised, it was Cassio. Closely he questioned her assistant, Emilia. Nothing. He accused the whore herself. Nothing—nothing but denial. “What, not a whore?” he demanded incredulously. “No, as I shall be saved!” cried Desdemona. “I cry you mercy then,” apologised the Moor with a mocking bow, “I took you for that cunning whore of Venice that married with Othello . . .” He would listen to her no more. Iago had told the truth. Iago was a soldier and had no cause to lie. The women lied to protect themselves. He flung some money at Emilia, as was due to her as keeper of a whorehouse, and left the room.

  Desdemona wept in bewildered despair. She no longer knew her husband. Surely the savage, foul-tongued Moor who had just departed could not be the great and gentle Othello she had married? She begged Emilia bring in Iago, Iago, good Iago, would know what was amiss. But Iago could supply no reason for his general’s distraction other than troubled affairs of state. Emilia wondered if the cause of the Moor’s change had been because some damnable villain had poisoned his mind . . . even as Iago’s mind had once been poisoned against his wife with a slander about her and the Moor. “You are a fool, go to!” said Iago sharply; and then, in answer to Desdemona’s plea that he should speak with Othello on her behalf, he said gruffly: “I pray you, be content: ’tis but his humour; the business of the state does him offence.” “If’twere no other—” faltered Desdemona, with sudden hope. “ ’Tis but so, I warrant you,” said Iago quickly. “Go in,” he urged, when trumpets announced the serving of supper, “and weep not; all things shall be well.” So the two women departed, and neither of them knew their husbands: the one no longer saw the man in the monster, and the other had never seen the monster in the man.

  A forlorn figure crept into the room; a miserable, neglected, ill-used figure, an emptied purse: Roderigo. He had come to complain bitterly of his treatment. He had given Iago enough jewels, as he put it, that would have “half corrupted a votarist”, for Desdemona; and had got nothing in return. Now he was ruined. Patiently Iago listened; and effortlessly persuaded the wretched Roderigo into hoping again. If he would do but one thing, then success was assured. What thing? Why, kill Cassio! Though Roderigo had sunk as low in spirits as in money, so that he had nothing left to lose, he still shrank from undertaking murder. But the ruinous road on which he’d embarked was too steep and slippery for him to stop; and it needed little persuasion on Iago’s part for him to take the final step. He was to lie in wait for Cassio outside Bianca’s house, between twelve and one o’clock. Iago himself would be on hand, so that, if Roderigo failed in his first attempt, Iago would complete the deed. “It is now high suppertime, and the night grows to waste,” murmured Iago, pushing Roderigo from the room: “about it!”

  With the ending of supper, Othello seemed calmer, as if some inner conflict had been resolved. He left the table in company with Lodovico and bade Desdemona go to bed and dismiss Emilia for the night. He himself would join her presently. When he had gone, Emilia expressed some uneasiness, but Desdemona shook her head. “We must not now displease him,” she said. Emilia sighed and began to unpin her mistress’s hair. As she did so, Desdemona began to hum an air. She stopped and smiled sadly. “My mother had a maid called Barbary,” she said, “she was in love, and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her; she had a song of ‘willow’, an old thing ’twas, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it; that song tonight will not go from my mind.” She sang the song in a quiet, lost voice, and when she finished, bade Emilia leave her. “Good night,” she murmured; “mine eyes do itch;
does that bode weeping?”

  The night was black and airless, as if a thick blanket lay over the town, blindfolding the stars. In an obscure street, voices whispered. “Here stand behind this bulk, straight will he come, wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home, quick, quick, fear nothing . . .” “Be near at hand,” pleaded the other, “I may miscarry in’t.” There was a mutter of impatience, then: “Here at thy hand, be bold, and take thy sword!” Faint fingers were pressed by firm ones round the weapon’s hilt, and faint conscience was smothered by firm resolve. Soundlessly the whisperers parted, each to his station.

  “Whether he kill Cassio,” weighed up Iago, who had no great confidence in the ferocity of Roderigo, “or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, every way makes my game . . .” But it would be better, he reflected, for both to die: Roderigo because, if he lived, he would demand the return of the jewels he had given Iago for Desdemona; and Cassio—“if Cassio do remain,” he breathed, in a sudden rage of envy, “he has a daily beauty in his life that makes me ugly: and besides, the Moor may unfold me to him . . .”

  There was a sound of footsteps descending stairs. A door opened and Cassio, buttoning up his coat, came yawning out of Bianca’s house. He had had a pleasant evening. He stepped into the street; and at once the night was full of thrusts and stabs and murder! Roderigo’s blade, fierce as grass, pricked Cassio’s coat. Cassio shouted, turned and pierced his attacker through. Roderigo shrieked and fell. Then came Iago, quick as thought, stabbed Cassio from behind, and fled.

  Lodovico and his companions, who had been walking back to their vessel, heard the violent commotion. They were seized with alarm. Othello, who had accompanied them, heard Cassio’s voice, crying out for a surgeon. So! Iago had kept his word! Faithful Iago had killed for his friend’s sake. “Thou teachest me!” he whispered, and crept back to the castle and his faithless wife.

  The groans and cries had fetched out someone with a light. Thankfully Lodovico recognized Iago, the Moor’s sturdy ensign. He was in his shirt as if the commotion had roused him from sleep. He searched the dark and found Cassio lying in agony from a savage wound in his leg. Who had attacked him? “O help me!” came a faint voice. “That’s one of them,” groaned Cassio. “O murderous slave!” shouted Iago, “O villain!” and, like the loyal soldier he was, rushed upon Cassio’s attacker with an avenging blade.

  “O damned Iago!” screamed Roderigo, as he saw, in one frightful instant, the truth of Iago. “O inhuman dog!” Then Iago’s dagger entered his heart. He died, and Iago was secure.

  People came forward from the dark. Bianca rushed from her house, saw Cassio and cried aloud over his wound. The ground was searched; the dead attacker found. “Lend me a light!” cried Iago, who, in great concern, seemed everywhere at once. “Know we this face or no? Alas, my friend and my dear countryman Roderigo? No—yes, sure—O heaven, Roderigo!”

  How had it come about? None could say. The only one who could have told, was dead. Sternly Iago turned upon Bianca: “This is the fruit of whoring,” he said, and charged her with complicity in the crime. A chair was fetched and Iago helped the wounded Cassio into it. Honest Iago, good friend and faithful assistant to all.

  The Moor, tall in his white and silver robe, stood beside his sleeping wife. By the light of a candle he gazed down upon her and marvelled at her pale beauty. “Yet she must die,” he whispered, “else she’ll betray more men.” He knelt and, with great tenderness, kissed her lips. He was calm and gentle once more, and might indeed have been the noble Othello Desdemona had married. He kissed her again. She awoke and smiled up at him. “Will you come to bed, my lord?” Slowly he shook his head. “Have you prayed tonight, Desdemona?” “Ay, my lord.” Sombrely he urged her to think of any sin she might have omitted and for which she might beg heaven’s forgiveness. “I would not kill thy soul,” he said. “Talk you of killing?” cried Desdemona, in sudden fear. He nodded; and Desdemona began to plead for her life. But Iago had done his work too well, and all Othello’s nobility and strength of purpose was directed to one terrible end. Desdemona’s pleadings and frantic denials of guilt served only to change him to iron. “O banish me, my lord, but kill me not!” she wept, reaching up to embrace her murderer. He thrust her away. She clutched at his hand. “Kill me tomorrow, let me live tonight!” He flung her back upon the bed. “But half an hour,” she pleaded, “but while I say one prayer!” “ ’Tis too late!” panted the Moor, his breast heaving and his eyes wild at the horror of what he was about to do. He seized a pillow and, with his black hands like huge spiders, forced it down upon Desdemona’s terrified face. She struggled, cried out to God, but the Moor was implacable and her cries and struggles grew fainter and fainter until, at last, both were stilled.

  “My lord, my lord!” Distracted, he thought the cry was his wife’s, and he forced the pillow down harder; then he understood it was Emilia, outside the door. He became frightened and did not know what to do. “If she come in,” he muttered, “she’ll sure speak to my wife . . .” Then bleak misery seized him as the full knowledge of what he had done flooded his soul. “My wife! My wife! What wife? A ha’ no wife . . .” Emilia called again. Quickly he drew the bed curtains and let the woman in. She came with tumbled news of murders in the street. Roderigo killed and Cassio wounded. (“Not Cassio killed?”)

  “O Lord, what cry is that?” Emilia had heard a voice, as frail as air. She rushed to the bed, drew back the curtain and discovered the dying Desdemona. She looked in terror, shouted for help, then stared in accusation at the distracted Moor. “O who has done this deed?” she cried.

  “Nobody, I myself,” sighed Desdemona from her deathbed, “farewell.” For the first and only time, Desdemona had betrayed her husband: to innocence. Othello had killed her life, but not her love.

  “She’s like a liar gone to burning hell!” shrieked Othello, turning away from Desdemona’s sightless eyes. “ ’Twas I that killed her!” He could not endure the pain of forgiveness, which made his just vengeance small. “She was false as water!” he shouted, in answer to Emilia’s bitter denunciations. “Thou as rash as fire!” cried Emilia. “Cassio did top her!” insisted Othello, striving, with all his might, to make the woman comprehend that he had killed for guilt. “Ask thy husband else . . .” “My husband?” “Thy husband!” But she would not understand, and it was as if she did not know such a man. “I say thy husband,” repeated Othello furiously: “dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago.”

  Emilia faltered. “If he say so,” she whispered, “may his pernicious soul rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart.” She shook her head. It was not possible. She knew her husband. She loved him. He could never have kept hidden such monstrous wickedness. The Moor was mad. She shouted out for help. People came running. They burst into the bedchamber, stared in amazement and horror at the murdered Desdemona, and her murderer standing over her, stiff as wood. Iago was among them. Frantically Emilia demanded of him whether he had told Othello that Desdemona had been false. “I told him what I thought,” said Iago, looking hard at the Moor. “But did you ever tell him she was false?” “I did,” said Iago, not taking his eyes from Othello’s, as if to keep his soul in chains. “You told a lie!” screamed Emilia, as she, like Roderigo, saw for the first time, the truth of Iago, “an odious, damned lie!” He bade her hold her tongue. She would not. She cursed him, she raged at him . . . “What, are you mad?” muttered Iago, his composure shaken as his wife so turned upon him. “I charge you, get you home!”

  Suddenly Othello uttered a howl of despair and sank down upon the bed beside his murdered wife! Despairingly he sought to justify what he had done. He still believed in Iago. It was the very necessity of his soul. The handkerchief—he had seen it in Cassio’s hand.

  “Oh God, O heavenly God!” cried out Emilia and before Iago could stop her, she told all, that she had found the handkerchief and had given it to her husband. “Filth, thou liest!” snarled Iago; but, seeing that she was believed, mo
ved at her, quick as a viper, and thrust his dagger into her side. As she fell dying, he fled, leaving behind consternation and intolerable dismay.

  Othello rose. His sword was in his hand. The onlookers fell back, fearing that he was mad. But Othello’s madness was passed. “Be not afraid,” he said, “though you do see me weaponed: here is my journey’s end.” His voice had recovered its marvellous deep music, even as his mind had recovered the nobility of his soul. But it was too late. “O ill-starred wench,” he sighed, gazing down upon the quiet Desdemona, “pale as they smock . . .” Then measureless grief overcame him, and he wept for Desdemona dead.

  Iago had been seized, and now was brought back. Lodovico and officers accompanied him, and the wounded Cassio was carried in. Othello stared at the man who had ruined him. Iago stood before him, secured on either side by guards. “If that thou be’est a devil,” cried Othello suddenly, “I cannot kill thee!” He struck at Iago with his sword. Iago staggered in the arms that held him. “I bleed, sir, but not killed,” he muttered contemptuously. “I am not sorry neither,” said Othello wearily, giving up his sword. “I’d have thee live, for in my sense ’tis happiness to die.”

  “O thou Othello, that wert once so good,” said Lodovico sadly, “what should be said of thee?”

  “Why anything,” returned Othello, “an honourable murderer, if you will: for nought I did in hate, but all in honour.” He turned to Cassio. “Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil, why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?”

  “Demand me nothing,” said Iago, grim with hatred for the world, “what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word.” The foulness of his soul had been exposed, and he knew it; but envious pride prevented his making confession.

  “You must forsake this room, and go with us,” said Lodovico, gently, to the Moor, “your power and your command is taken off.” Othello listened and nodded. The officers moved forward to take him. The Moor held up his hand, and such was the dignity of his bearing that they fell back. “Soft you, a word or two before you go,” he begged. “I have done the state some service, and they know’t; no more of that; I pray you in your letters, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of them as they are; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice; then must you speak of one that loved not wisely, but too well . . .” He spoke gently, and with a sad smile as he recalled his past valour and set it beside his present distress. He seemed so much at peace with himself that none noticed that he had drawn a dagger from his robe. Yet even if they’d seen it, none would have had the heart to stay his hand as he stabbed himself to the heart.