In accordance with his resolve, Cassio appealed the next morning
to Desdemona, who with all the warmth of her affectionate nature
undertook his defence, and merrily promised to give her husband no
peace until he had pardoned the offender. Othello approaching at that
moment, Desdemona begged Cassio to remain and hear her speak, but the
young lieutenant was too much ashamed to face his General, and left
in some haste. Iago seized this chance to implant the first seeds of
suspicion in Othello, by exclaiming, as if without thinking, “Ha! I
like not that.”
“What dost thou say?” asked Othello.
“Nothing, my lord; or if--I know not what,” said Iago, craftily
pretending as if he wished to withdraw his words.
“Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?”
“Cassio, my lord!” with an air of great surprise. “No, sure, I cannot
think it, that he would steal away so guilty-like, seeing you coming.”
“I do believe it was he,” persisted Othello.
“How now, my lord; I have been talking with a suitor here, a man that
languishes in your displeasure,” said Desdemona, coming to meet her
husband.
“Who is it you mean?”
“Why, your lieutenant, Cassio,” answered Desdemona; and then, with
simple eloquence, she began to plead for the culprit. But Iago’s
remark had ruffled Othello’s temper.
“Went he hence now?” he asked abruptly.
“Ay, truly; so humbled that he hath left part of his grief with me, to
suffer with him. Good love, call him back.”
“Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.”
“But shall it be shortly?”
“The sooner, sweet, because of you,” said Othello, softening a little.
“Shall it be to-night at supper?”
“No, not to-night.”
“To-morrow dinner, then?”
“I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel.”
“Why, then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morning; or Tuesday noon, or
night; or Wednesday morning. I prithee, name the time, but let it not
exceed three days,” coaxed Desdemona with playful persistency. And she
went on pleading for Cassio with such winning sweetness that Othello
could resist no longer.
“Prithee, no more; let him come when he will. I can deny thee
nothing,” he exclaimed; and when Desdemona withdrew, happy at the
promise she had extorted, he cried, with a sudden return to all his
trust and affection, “Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! And
when I love thee not, chaos is come again.”
All might now have been well if Iago had not been at hand to pour his
poison into Othello’s ear. With diabolical cunning--a hint suggested
here, a half-retracted phrase there, an affectation of honesty that
seemed always checking itself for fear of speaking too openly--Iago
contrived to fix the basest suspicions on Cassio. With subtle craft he
made it appear as though everything he said were reluctantly dragged
from him, and, as on the night before, while making a great parade of
trying to shield Cassio, he succeeded in blackening him with unfounded
calumny.
Not content with this, he next, in a serpent-like manner, began to
insinuate suspicions against Desdemona, declaring that he would not on
any account let Othello know what was in his thought, and beseeching
him in the most meaning tone to beware of jealousy. Those who were
jealous, he said, lived a life of torture--doating, yet doubting;
mistrusting, yet loving.
“Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend me from jealousy!” he
ended fervently.
“Why--why is this?” demanded Othello, firing up, just as Iago had
hoped he would do. “Do you think I would lead a life of jealousy, to
follow still the changes of the moon with fresh suspicions? No; to be
once in doubt is once to be resolved.... No, Iago; I’ll see before
I doubt; when I doubt, prove; and on the proof there is no more but
this--away at once with love, and--_jealousy_.”
Iago remarked he was glad of that, for now he could show the love and
duty he bore Othello more frankly. Then he advised Othello to watch
his wife closely, and note her behaviour with Cassio, afterwards
pretending to draw back, and urging Othello to go no further into
the matter, but to leave it to time. So, having succeeded in making
Othello thoroughly unhappy, Iago took his leave.
“This fellow’s of exceeding honesty, and knows all qualities of human
dealings most skilfully,” thought the poor deceived Othello; and then,
as Desdemona herself came in sight, innocence and candour enthroned on
her brow, for a moment all mistrust melted. “If she be false, O, then
heaven mocks itself! I’ll not believe it.”
Desdemona had come to remind her husband that dinner was served, and
that the islanders invited as guests were waiting. Othello, who had
been greatly upset by his conversation with Iago, replied in such a
faint voice that Desdemona asked if he were ill.
“I have a pain upon my forehead here,” answered Othello.
“That’s with watching. Let me but bind it hard; within this hour it
will be well,” said Desdemona, holding out a handkerchief beautifully
embroidered with strawberries.
“Your napkin is too little,” said Othello, putting the handkerchief
from him, where it dropped, unheeded, to the ground. “Let it alone.
Come, I’ll go in with you.”
“I am very sorry that you are not well,” said Desdemona with the
simple wistfulness of a child.
When they had gone, the handkerchief was picked up by Emilia, wife of
Iago, who was very glad to find it, for her husband had often begged
her to steal it for him. But Desdemona so loved the token--for it was
the first remembrance Othello had given her, and he had begged her
never to part with it--that she always kept it carefully about her, to
kiss and talk to.
“I’ll have the work taken out, and give it to Iago,” said Emilia to
herself. “What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I only do it to
please his whim.”
But Emilia was already half repenting of what she had done, before she
gave the handkerchief to Iago, and she might possibly have refused
to part with it at all if Iago had not put an end to the matter by
cunningly snatching it from her with one hand, while he pretended to
caress her with the other. Directly it was safely in his possession he
dropped the amiable tone he had assumed, and harshly ordered away his
wife.
Iago was delighted to have got this handkerchief, for he meant to make
a wicked use of it. He was going to lose it in Cassio’s lodgings,
and let the young lieutenant find it, when he would take care that
Othello should think it was a present from Desdemona. Iago knew that
“Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs
of holy writ,” and seeing Othello approach, he marked with fiendish
satisfaction the cloud of gloom and trouble that rested on his brow.
“Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owned
yesterday,” he said to himself maliciously.
Othello’s peace of mind was, indeed, gone for ever, and all joy and
interest in life were over.
“Oh, now, for ever, farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars that make ambition virtue!
O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, the
spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and
all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Farewell!
Othello’s occupation’s gone.”
“Is it possible, my lord?” murmured Iago, with feigned sympathy.
Othello turned on him with sudden fury, and gripped him by the throat.
“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue! Be sure of it!” he cried,
shaking him violently.
[Illustration: “Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue!”]
Iago pretended to be deeply aggrieved by Othello’s distrust, and said
if necessary he could bring proofs of what he said.
“Tell me but this,” he went on: “have you not sometimes seen a
handkerchief, spotted with strawberries, in your wife’s hand?”
“I gave her such a one; it was my first gift.”
Iago said he did not know about that, but such a handkerchief he had
seen in Cassio’s possession that very day.
Naturally, after that, Othello could not fail to believe that
Desdemona had given away his cherished gift to Cassio. He took the
first opportunity to ask her for it, when, of course, she was unable
to produce it. She had already been greatly distressed at the loss
of her treasure, and now was so alarmed by the violent way in which
Othello kept demanding it, that she dared not own it was lost, and
only said she had it not about her at that moment.
“That is a fault,” said Othello, frowning darkly. “That handkerchief
was given to my mother by an Egyptian. She was a charmer, and could
almost read the thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it,
it would make her amiable, and her husband would love her; but if she
lost it, or made a gift of it, her husband would get to loathe her.
She, dying, gave it me, and bade me, when my fate would have me marry,
to give it to my wife. I did so; and take heed of it! Hold it most
precious; to lose it or give it away were such calamity as nothing
else could match.”
“Is it possible?” faltered Desdemona.
“’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it: a sibyl, who numbered in
the world two hundred years, sewed the work; the worms were hallowed
that spun the silk, and it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful
conserved of maidens’ hearts.”
“Indeed! Is it true?” said Desdemona, getting more and more alarmed.
“Most true. Therefore look to it well,” said Othello in a threatening
manner.
Desdemona still persisted that the handkerchief was not lost, and
remembering her promise to Cassio, she most unwisely chose this
ill-starred moment again to urge her suit. Her innocent good-nature
was the final stroke to Othello’s jealous wrath, and harshly
repeating, “The handkerchief! the handkerchief!” he strode away in
ungovernable fury.
Worked up to madness by the diabolical arts of Iago, he saw in his
young wife’s apparent simplicity and candour nothing but the most
clever deceit, and he determined to punish her supposed insincerity in
the most terrible manner.