poets seems to create in somewhat the same manner as Nature. In the same
way, as Malone pointed out, Othello's exclamation, 'Goats and monkeys!'
(IV. i. 274) is an unconscious reminiscence of Iago's words at III. iii.
403.]
LECTURE VI
OTHELLO
1
Evil has nowhere else been portrayed with such mastery as in the
character of Iago. Richard III., for example, beside being less subtly
conceived, is a far greater figure and a less repellent. His physical
deformity, separating him from other men, seems to offer some excuse for
his egoism. In spite of his egoism, too, he appears to us more than a
mere individual: he is the representative of his family, the Fury of the
House of York. Nor is he so negative as Iago: he has strong passions, he
has admirations, and his conscience disturbs him. There is the glory of
power about him. Though an excellent actor, he prefers force to fraud,
and in his world there is no general illusion as to his true nature.
Again, to compare Iago with the Satan of _Paradise Lost_ seems almost
absurd, so immensely does Shakespeare's man exceed Milton's Fiend in
evil. That mighty Spirit, whose
form had yet not lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than archangel ruined and the excess
Of glory obscured;
who knew loyalty to comrades and pity for victims; who
felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined
His loss;
who could still weep--how much further distant is he than Iago from
spiritual death, even when, in procuring the fall of Man, he completes
his own fall! It is only in Goethe's Mephistopheles that a fit companion
for Iago can be found. Here there is something of the same deadly
coldness, the same gaiety in destruction. But then Mephistopheles, like
so many scores of literary villains, has Iago for his father. And
Mephistopheles, besides, is not, in the strict sense, a character. He is
half person, half symbol. A metaphysical idea speaks through him. He is
earthy, but could never live upon the earth.
Of Shakespeare's characters Falstaff, Hamlet, Iago, and Cleopatra (I
name them in the order of their births) are probably the most wonderful.
Of these, again, Hamlet and Iago, whose births come nearest together,
are perhaps the most subtle. And if Iago had been a person as attractive
as Hamlet, as many thousands of pages might have been written about him,
containing as much criticism good and bad. As it is, the majority of
interpretations of his character are inadequate not only to
Shakespeare's conception, but, I believe, to the impressions of most
readers of taste who are unbewildered by analysis. These false
interpretations, if we set aside the usual lunacies,[107] fall into two
groups. The first contains views which reduce Shakespeare to
commonplace. In different ways and degrees they convert his Iago into
an ordinary villain. Their Iago is simply a man who has been slighted
and revenges himself; or a husband who believes he has been wronged, and
will make his enemy suffer a jealousy worse than his own; or an
ambitious man determined to ruin his successful rival--one of these, or
a combination of these, endowed with unusual ability and cruelty. These
are the more popular views. The second group of false interpretations is
much smaller, but it contains much weightier matter than the first. Here
Iago is a being who hates good simply because it is good, and loves evil
purely for itself. His action is not prompted by any plain motive like
revenge, jealousy or ambition. It springs from a 'motiveless malignity,'
or a disinterested delight in the pain of others; and Othello, Cassio
and Desdemona are scarcely more than the material requisite for the full
attainment of this delight. This second Iago, evidently, is no
conventional villain, and he is much nearer to Shakespeare's Iago than
the first. Only he is, if not a psychological impossibility, at any rate
not a _human_ being. He might be in place, therefore, in a symbolical
poem like _Faust_, but in a purely human drama like _Othello_ he would
be a ruinous blunder. Moreover, he is not in _Othello_: he is a product
of imperfect observation and analysis.
Coleridge, the author of that misleading phrase 'motiveless malignity,'
has some fine remarks on Iago; and the essence of the character has been
described, first in some of the best lines Hazlitt ever wrote, and then
rather more fully by Mr. Swinburne,--so admirably described that I am
tempted merely to read and illustrate these two criticisms. This plan,
however, would make it difficult to introduce all that I wish to say. I
propose, therefore, to approach the subject directly, and, first, to
consider how Iago appeared to those who knew him, and what inferences
may be drawn from their illusions; and then to ask what, if we judge
from the play, his character really was. And I will indicate the points
where I am directly indebted to the criticisms just mentioned.
But two warnings are first required. One of these concerns Iago's
nationality. It has been held that he is a study of that peculiarly
Italian form of villainy which is considered both too clever and too
diabolical for an Englishman. I doubt if there is much more to be said
for this idea than for the notion that Othello is a study of Moorish
character. No doubt the belief in that Italian villainy was prevalent in
Shakespeare's time, and it may perhaps have influenced him in some
slight degree both here and in drawing the character of Iachimo in
_Cymbeline_. But even this slight influence seems to me doubtful. If Don
John in _Much Ado_ had been an Englishman, critics would have admired
Shakespeare's discernment in making his English villain sulky and
stupid. If Edmund's father had been Duke of Ferrara instead of Earl of
Gloster, they would have said that Edmund could have been nothing but an
Italian. Change the name and country of Richard III., and he would be
called a typical despot of the Italian Renaissance. Change those of
Juliet, and we should find her wholesome English nature contrasted with
the southern dreaminess of Romeo. But this way of interpreting
Shakespeare is not Shakespearean. With him the differences of period,
race, nationality and locality have little bearing on the inward
character, though they sometimes have a good deal on the total
imaginative effect, of his figures. When he does lay stress on such
differences his intention is at once obvious, as in characters like
Fluellen or Sir Hugh Evans, or in the talk of the French princes before
the battle of Agincourt. I may add that Iago certainly cannot be taken
to exemplify the popular Elizabethan idea of a disciple of Macchiavelli.
There is no sign that he is in theory an atheist or even an unbeliever
in the received religion. On the contrary, he uses its language, and
says nothing resembling the words of the prologue to the _Jew of Malta_:
I count religion but a childish toy,
And hold there is no sin but ignorance.
Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_ might have said this (and is not more likely
to be Shakespeare's creation on that account), but not Iago.
I come to a second warning. One must constantly remember not to believe
a syllable that Iago utters on any subject, including himself, until one
has tested his statement by comparing it with known facts and with other
statements of his own or of other people, and by considering whether he
had in the particular circumstances any reason for telling a lie or for
telling the truth. The implicit confidence which his acquaintances
placed in his integrity has descended to most of his critics; and this,
reinforcing the comical habit of quoting as Shakespeare's own statement
everything said by his characters, has been a fruitful source of
misinterpretation. I will take as an instance the very first assertions
made by Iago. In the opening scene he tells his dupe Roderigo that three
great men of Venice went to Othello and begged him to make Iago his
lieutenant; that Othello, out of pride and obstinacy, refused; that in
refusing he talked a deal of military rigmarole, and ended by declaring
(falsely, we are to understand) that he had already filled up the
vacancy; that Cassio, whom he chose, had absolutely no practical
knowledge of war, nothing but bookish theoric, mere prattle, arithmetic,
whereas Iago himself had often fought by Othello's side, and by 'old
gradation' too ought to have been preferred. Most or all of this is
repeated by some critics as though it were information given by
Shakespeare, and the conclusion is quite naturally drawn that Iago had
some reason to feel aggrieved. But if we ask ourselves how much of all
this is true we shall answer, I believe, as follows. It is absolutely
certain that Othello appointed Cassio his lieutenant, and _nothing_ else
is absolutely certain. But there is no reason to doubt the statement
that Iago had seen service with him, nor is there anything inherently
improbable in the statement that he was solicited by three great
personages on Iago's behalf. On the other hand, the suggestions that he
refused out of pride and obstinacy, and that he lied in saying he had
already chosen his officer, have no verisimilitude; and if there is any
fact at all (as there probably is) behind Iago's account of the
conversation, it doubtless is the fact that Iago himself was ignorant of
military science, while Cassio was an expert, and that Othello explained
this to the great personages. That Cassio, again, was an interloper and
a mere closet-student without experience of war is incredible,
considering first that Othello chose him for lieutenant, and secondly
that the senate appointed him to succeed Othello in command at Cyprus;
and we have direct evidence that part of Iago's statement is a lie, for
Desdemona happens to mention that Cassio was a man who 'all his time had
founded his good fortunes' on Othello's love and had 'shared dangers'
with him (III. iv. 93). There remains only the implied assertion that,
if promotion had gone by old gradation, Iago, as the senior, would have
been preferred. It may be true: Othello was not the man to hesitate to
promote a junior for good reasons. But it is just as likely to be a pure
invention; and, though Cassio was young, there is nothing to show that
he was younger, in years or in service, than Iago. Iago, for instance,
never calls him 'young,' as he does Roderigo; and a mere youth would not
have been made Governor of Cyprus. What is certain, finally, in the
whole business is that Othello's mind was perfectly at ease about the
appointment, and that he never dreamed of Iago's being discontented at
it, not even when the intrigue was disclosed and he asked himself how he
had offended Iago.
2
It is necessary to examine in this manner every statement made by Iago.
But it is not necessary to do so in public, and I proceed to the
question what impression he made on his friends and acquaintances. In
the main there is here no room for doubt. Nothing could be less like
Iago than the melodramatic villain so often substituted for him on the
stage, a person whom everyone in the theatre knows for a scoundrel at
the first glance. Iago, we gather, was a Venetian[108] soldier,
eight-and-twenty years of age, who had seen a good deal of service and
had a high reputation for courage. Of his origin we are ignorant, but,
unless I am mistaken, he was not of gentle birth or breeding.[109] He
does not strike one as a degraded man of culture: for all his great
powers, he is vulgar, and his probable want of military science may well
be significant. He was married to a wife who evidently lacked
refinement, and who appears in the drama almost in the relation of a
servant to Desdemona. His manner was that of a blunt, bluff soldier, who
spoke his mind freely and plainly. He was often hearty, and could be
thoroughly jovial; but he was not seldom rather rough and caustic of
speech, and he was given to making remarks somewhat disparaging to human
nature. He was aware of this trait in himself, and frankly admitted that
he was nothing if not critical, and that it was his nature to spy into
abuses. In these admissions he characteristically exaggerated his fault,
as plain-dealers are apt to do; and he was liked none the less for it,
seeing that his satire was humorous, that on serious matters he did not
speak lightly (III. iii. 119), and that the one thing perfectly obvious
about him was his honesty. 'Honest' is the word that springs to the lips
of everyone who speaks of him. It is applied to him some fifteen times
in the play, not to mention some half-dozen where he employs it, in
derision, of himself. In fact he was one of those sterling men who, in
disgust at gush, say cynical things which they do not believe, and then,
the moment you are in trouble, put in practice the very sentiment they
had laughed at. On such occasions he showed the kindliest sympathy and
the most eager desire to help. When Cassio misbehaved so dreadfully and
was found fighting with Montano, did not Othello see that 'honest Iago
looked dead with grieving'? With what difficulty was he induced, nay,
compelled, to speak the truth against the lieutenant! Another man might
have felt a touch of satisfaction at the thought that the post he had
coveted was now vacant; but Iago not only comforted Cassio, talking to
him cynically about reputation, just to help him over his shame, but he
set his wits to work and at once perceived that the right plan for
Cassio to get his post again was to ask Desdemona to intercede. So
troubled was he at his friend's disgrace that his own wife was sure 'it
grieved her husband as if the case was his.' What wonder that anyone in
sore trouble, like Desdemona, should send at once for Iago (IV. ii.
106)? If this rough diamond had any flaw, it was that Iago's warm loyal
heart incited him to too impulsive action. If he merely heard a friend
like Othello calumniated, his hand flew to his sword; and though he
restrained himself he almost regretted his own virtue (I. ii. 1-10).
Such seemed Iago to the people about him, even to those who, like
Othello, had known him for some time. And it is a fact too little
noticed but most remarkable, that he presented an appearance not very
different to his wife. There is no sign either that Emilia's marriage
was downright unhappy, or that she suspected the true nature of her
husband.[110] No doubt she knew rather more of him than others. Thus we
gather that he was given to chiding and sometimes spoke shortly and
sharply to her (III. iii. 300 f.); and it is quite likely that she gave
him a good deal of her tongue in exchange (II. i. 101 f.). He was also
unreasonably jealous; for his own statement that he was jealous of
Othello is confirmed by Emilia herself, and must therefore be believed
(IV. ii. 145).[111] But it seems clear that these defects of his had not
seriously impaired Emilia's confidence in her husband or her affection
for him. She knew in addition that he was not quite so honest as he
seemed, for he had often begged her to steal Desdemona's handkerchief.
But Emilia's nature was not very delicate or scrupulous about trifles.
She thought her husband odd and 'wayward,' and looked on his fancy for
the handkerchief as an instance of this (III. iii. 292); but she never
dreamed he was a villain, and there is no reason to doubt the sincerity
of her belief that he was heartily sorry for Cassio's disgrace. Her
failure, on seeing Othello's agitation about the handkerchief, to form
any suspicion of an intrigue, shows how little she doubted her husband.
Even when, later, the idea strikes her that some scoundrel has poisoned
Othello's mind, the tone of all her speeches, and her mention of the
rogue who (she believes) had stirred up Iago's jealousy of her, prove
beyond doubt that the thought of Iago's being the scoundrel has not
crossed her mind (IV. ii. 115-147). And if any hesitation on the subject
could remain, surely it must be dispelled by the thrice-repeated cry of
astonishment and horror, 'My husband!', which follows Othello's words,
'Thy husband knew it all'; and by the choking indignation and desperate
hope which we hear in her appeal when Iago comes in:
Disprove this villain if thou be'st a man:
He says thou told'st him that his wife was false:
I know thou did'st not, thou'rt not such a villain:
Speak, for my heart is full.
Even if Iago _had_ betrayed much more of his true self to his wife than
to others, it would make no difference to the contrast between his true
self and the self he presented to the world in general. But he never did
so. Only the feeble eyes of the poor gull Roderigo were allowed a
glimpse into that pit.
The bearing of this contrast upon the apparently excessive credulity of
Othello has been already pointed out. What further conclusions can be
drawn from it? Obviously, to begin with, the inference, which is
accompanied by a thrill of admiration, that Iago's powers of
dissimulation and of self-control must have been prodigious: for he was
not a youth, like Edmund, but had worn this mask for years, and he had
apparently never enjoyed, like Richard, occasional explosions of the
reality within him. In fact so prodigious does his self-control appear
that a reader might be excused for feeling a doubt of its possibility.
But there are certain observations and further inferences which, apart
from confidence in Shakespeare, would remove this doubt. It is to be
observed, first, that Iago was able to find a certain relief from the
discomfort of hypocrisy in those caustic or cynical speeches which,
being misinterpreted, only heightened confidence in his honesty. They
acted as a safety-valve, very much as Hamlet's pretended insanity did.
Next, I would infer from the entire success of his hypocrisy--what may
also be inferred on other grounds, and is of great importance--that he
was by no means a man of strong feelings and passions, like Richard, but
decidedly cold by temperament. Even so, his self-control was wonderful,
but there never was in him any violent storm to be controlled. Thirdly,
I would suggest that Iago, though thoroughly selfish and unfeeling, was
not by nature malignant, nor even morose, but that, on the contrary, he
had a superficial good-nature, the kind of good-nature that wins
popularity and is often taken as the sign, not of a good digestion, but
of a good heart. And lastly, it may be inferred that, before the giant
crime which we witness, Iago had never been detected in any serious
offence and may even never have been guilty of one, but had pursued a
selfish but outwardly decent life, enjoying the excitement of war and of
casual pleasures, but never yet meeting with any sufficient temptation
to risk his position and advancement by a dangerous crime. So that, in
fact, the tragedy of _Othello_ is in a sense his tragedy too. It shows
us not a violent man, like Richard, who spends his life in murder, but a
thoroughly bad, _cold_ man, who is at last tempted to let loose the
forces within him, and is at once destroyed.
3
In order to see how this tragedy arises let us now look more closely
into Iago's inner man. We find here, in the first place, as has been
implied in part, very remarkable powers both of intellect and of will.
Iago's insight, within certain limits, into human nature; his ingenuity
and address in working upon it; his quickness and versatility in dealing
with sudden difficulties and unforeseen opportunities, have probably no
parallel among dramatic characters. Equally remarkable is his strength
of will. Not Socrates himself, not the ideal sage of the Stoics, was
more lord of himself than Iago appears to be. It is not merely that he
never betrays his true nature; he seems to be master of _all_ the
motions that might affect his will. In the most dangerous moments of his
plot, when the least slip or accident would be fatal, he never shows a
trace of nervousness. When Othello takes him by the throat he merely
shifts his part with his usual instantaneous adroitness. When he is
attacked and wounded at the end he is perfectly unmoved. As Mr.
Swinburne says, you cannot believe for a moment that the pain of torture
will ever open Iago's lips. He is equally unassailable by the
temptations of indolence or of sensuality. It is difficult to imagine
him inactive; and though he has an obscene mind, and doubtless took his
pleasures when and how he chose, he certainly took them by choice and
not from weakness, and if pleasure interfered with his purposes the
holiest of ascetics would not put it more resolutely by. 'What should I
do?' Roderigo whimpers to him; 'I confess it is my shame to be so fond;
but it is not in my virtue to amend it.' He answers: 'Virtue! a fig!
'tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus. It all depends on our will.
Love is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come,
be a man.... Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a
guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.' Forget for a
moment that love is for Iago the appetite of a baboon; forget that he is
as little assailable by pity as by fear or pleasure; and you will
acknowledge that this lordship of the will, which is his practice as
well as his doctrine, is great, almost sublime. Indeed, in intellect
(always within certain limits) and in will (considered as a mere power,
and without regard to its objects) Iago _is_ great.
To what end does he use these great powers? His creed--for he is no
sceptic, he has a definite creed--is that absolute egoism is the only
rational and proper attitude, and that conscience or honour or any kind
of regard for others is an absurdity. He does not deny that this
absurdity exists. He does not suppose that most people secretly share
his creed, while pretending to hold and practise another. On the
contrary, he regards most people as honest fools. He declares that he
has never yet met a man who knew how to love himself; and his one
expression of admiration in the play is for servants
Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves.
'These fellows,' he says, 'have some soul.' He professes to stand, and
he, attempts to stand, wholly outside the world of morality.
The existence of Iago's creed and of his corresponding practice is
evidently connected with a characteristic in which he surpasses nearly
all the other inhabitants of Shakespeare's world. Whatever he may once
have been, he appears, when we meet him, to be almost destitute of
humanity, of sympathetic or social feeling. He shows no trace of
affection, and in presence of the most terrible suffering he shows
either pleasure or an indifference which, if not complete, is nearly so.
Here, however, we must be careful. It is important to realise, and few
readers are in danger of ignoring, this extraordinary deadness of
feeling, but it is also important not to confuse it with a general
positive ill-will. When Iago has no dislike or hostility to a person he
does _not_ show pleasure in the suffering of that person: he shows at
most the absence of pain. There is, for instance, not the least sign of
his enjoying the distress of Desdemona. But his sympathetic feelings are
so abnormally feeble and cold that, when his dislike is roused, or when
an indifferent person comes in the way of his purpose, there is scarcely
anything within him to prevent his applying the torture.
What is it that provokes his dislike or hostility? Here again we must
look closely. Iago has been represented as an incarnation of envy, as a
man who, being determined to get on in the world, regards everyone else
with enmity as his rival. But this idea, though containing truth, seems
much exaggerated. Certainly he is devoted to himself; but if he were an
eagerly ambitious man, surely we should see much more positive signs of
this ambition; and surely too, with his great powers, he would already
have risen high, instead of being a mere ensign, short of money, and
playing Captain Rook to Roderigo's Mr. Pigeon. Taking all the facts, one
must conclude that his desires were comparatively moderate and his
ambition weak; that he probably enjoyed war keenly, but, if he had money
enough, did not exert himself greatly to acquire reputation or position;
and, therefore, that he was not habitually burning with envy and
actively hostile to other men as possible competitors.