[Illustration]
“Honest Iago”
Brave, generous, of a free and open nature, Othello the Moor had won
high honour in the state of Venice, for, although dark in colouring
and of an alien race, he was one of her most renowned generals, and
time after time had carried her arms to victory. When, therefore,
alarming news reached Venice that the Turkish hordes were again
threatening to invade some of her most valued territories, it was to
the Moorish warrior Othello that the Venetian senators turned at once
to avert the threatened danger.
Othello’s frank, valiant nature had won him many friends, but close
at hand, where he little suspected it, was one subtle and dangerous
enemy. Iago, one of his under-officers, hated him with a deadly
venom. Iago was a brave soldier, but a man of utterly unscrupulous
character. He had been with Othello through several campaigns, and
when a chance for promotion came had hoped, through high personal
influence, to obtain the envied position of Othello’s lieutenant. In
his own opinion, Iago thoroughly merited this post, but when suit was
made to Othello he evaded the petitioners, and finally put an end to
their hopes by saying that he had already chosen his officer.
“And what was he?” demanded Iago disdainfully. “Forsooth, a great
arithmetician--one Michael Cassio, a Florentine that never set a
squadron in the field, nor knows the division of a battle more than a
spinster, unless by bookish theory; mere prattle without practice is
all his soldiership. But he, in good time, must be his lieutenant, and
I--God bless the mark!--his Moorship’s ancient.”
Burning for revenge, Iago, instead of declining the inferior position
of “ancient,” or ensign-bearer, accepted it, but only to serve his own
purpose. “In following Othello, I follow but myself,” he declared.
“Heaven is my judge, not for love and duty, but seeming so, for my
peculiar end.” For Iago prided himself on the skill with which he
could conceal his real feelings, and under a mask of the bluntest
honesty he began to work out a scheme of diabolical cunning.
There was a certain senator of Venice at that time called Brabantio,
who had an only daughter, named Desdemona. Brabantio was very fond
of Othello, and often invited him to his house, and questioned him
concerning the story of his life--the battles, sieges, fortunes,
through which he had passed. Othello recounted all his adventures from
year to year, from his boyish days to the moment when he was speaking;
he told of disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood and field;
of hair-breadth escapes; of being taken by the foe and sold into
slavery; of his redemption from captivity; and then of his travels
in all sorts of wild and extraordinary places. He described the vast
caves and barren deserts that he had seen; rough quarries, rocks, and
hills, whose heads touched heaven; cannibals that eat each other, and
queer tribes of savages whose heads grow beneath their shoulders.
Desdemona, the gentle daughter of Brabantio, dearly loved to hear
these thrilling stories, and was quite fascinated by the valorous
soldier who had passed through such strange experiences. Hastily
despatching her household affairs, she would come again and again to
listen greedily to Othello, often weeping for pity when she heard of
some distressful stroke he had suffered in his youth. His story being
done, she would sigh, and swear, “in faith, ’twas strange--’twas
passing strange; ’twas pitiful--’twas wondrous pitiful!” She wished
she had not heard it, and yet she wished that heaven had made her such
a man; and she bade Othello, if he had a friend who loved her, that
he would but teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her.
Upon this hint, Othello spoke. Desdemona loved him for the dangers he
had passed, and Othello loved Desdemona because she pitied him.
This was the simple explanation of what her father, furious with
rage, put down to witchcraft, for he could not believe that his
timid daughter could really have fallen in love with such an alarming
person as the swarthy Moor. But, as Desdemona said, she saw Othello’s
visage in his mind, and the valour and nobility of his nature made her
forget the darkness of his complexion. Knowing her father’s violent,
unreasonable disposition, and fearing that he would never give his
consent, Desdemona quietly left her home one night without consulting
him, and was married to Othello.
Now was Iago’s opportunity. Finding out by some means what was taking
place, he informed a rejected suitor of Desdemona’s called Roderigo, a
brainless Venetian youth, and together they went to Brabantio’s house,
and in high glee roused him, and told the news that Othello had stolen
away his daughter. Having raised the alarm, and set them on the trail
where they would be likely to find Othello, Iago thought it discreet
to retire, for he did not wish it to appear as if he had anything to
do with the matter. To Othello, he afterwards laid all the blame on
Roderigo, declaring that several times he was so enraged with him that
he could almost have killed him for the abusive way in which he had
spoken of Othello.
Brabantio immediately called up his servants, and set out to look for
the culprits; but before he found them the mischief was done--Othello
and Desdemona were securely married.
* * * * *
In the Council Chamber at Venice, though it was night time, the Duke
and senators were holding an important meeting. News had come that a
fleet of Turkish galleys was bearing down on Cyprus; and though the
rumours were conflicting as to the number of the fleet and its present
position, there was no doubt that the danger was imminent, and that
preparations for defence must at once be set on foot. Messengers were
sent to summon both Othello and Brabantio. As it happened, the latter
was already on his way to appeal to the Duke to punish Othello, and
happening to fall in with Othello, the two arrived at the same moment.
“Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you against the public
enemy,” said the Duke. Then, turning to Brabantio, he added
courteously: ”I did not see you; welcome, gentle signor; we lacked
your counsel and your help to-night.”
“So did I yours,” replied Brabantio; and he proceeded to pour forth
his complaint, saying that it was not anything he had heard of
business which had called him from his bed, nor did the public anxiety
make any impression on him, for his own private grief was of so
overbearing a nature that it swallowed up all other concerns.
The Duke, much concerned, asked what was the matter, whereupon
Brabantio in the bitterest terms accused Othello of having bewitched
his daughter, for, he said, it was quite against nature that she could
have fallen in love with him if she had been in her proper senses.
The Duke asked Othello what he could say in answer to the charge.
Then Othello, in a manly but modest fashion, gave a straightforward
account of what had really happened, and so convincing were his words
that the Duke was quite won over to his side, and at the end exclaimed
heartily, “I think this tale would win my daughter too!” He tried to
persuade Brabantio to make the best of the matter, but the old senator
was relentless. All that he would do was to transfer the blame to his
daughter, when Desdemona, on being sent for, confirmed everything
Othello had said. Her father bade her say to whom in all the assembled
company she owed most obedience. Desdemona, with modesty but decision,
replied that she saw a divided duty--that she was indebted to her
father for life and education, and that she loved and respected him as
a daughter; but even as her own mother had left her father, preferring
Brabantio, so Desdemona claimed that she had as much right to leave
her father and follow her husband Othello.
Brabantio was quite unmoved by this argument.
“God be with you! I have done,” he said roughly, and in a few
heartless words he handed over his daughter to Othello. “Look to her,
Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; she has deceived her father, and may
thee,” was his final cruel taunt.
“My life upon her faith!” cried Othello indignantly, as he clasped his
weeping young wife in his arms.
The next question to decide was where Desdemona should stay during her
husband’s absence. She begged so earnestly to be allowed to accompany
him to the war that Othello joined his voice to hers, and the Duke
gave them leave to settle the matter as they chose. Othello was
obliged to start that very night, and Desdemona was to follow later
under the escort of his officer, “honest Iago,” to whose care Othello
especially committed her, and whose wife Emilia he begged might attend
on her.
If Othello had but known it, “honest Iago” at that very moment was
already weaving his plans of villainy, and was sneering inwardly
at his General’s open and trustful nature, which made him so easy
to be deceived. The sweetest revenge which occurred to Iago was to
bring discord between Othello and the beautiful young wife whom he
loved so devotedly. Iago therefore determined to set cunningly to
work to implant a feeling of jealousy in Othello’s mind. Like many
warm-hearted and affectionate people, Othello was extremely passionate
and impulsive. Once his feelings were aroused, he rushed forward
blindly in the direction in which a clever villain might lure him,
and being so absolutely truthful and candid himself, he was utterly
unsuspicious of falsehood in others.
Iago’s weapon was not far to seek, and he had, moreover, the
satisfaction of feeling that he would enjoy a double revenge, for it
was Michael Cassio, Othello’s new lieutenant, on whom he fixed as
a fitting tool. Cassio was young, handsome, attractive, a general
favourite, especially with women, where his graceful manners always
won him favour. He was already greatly liked by Desdemona, for when
Othello came to woo her, Cassio was his frequent companion, and often
carried messages between them. What, then, more natural than that a
young girl like Desdemona should presently grow tired of her elderly
and war-beaten husband, and turn for amusement to this charming young
gallant? Such, at least, was Iago’s reasoning, and such was the poison
which he intended to pour into the ear of the guileless Othello.