Though Othello had come to the terrible conclusion that Desdemona must
die, he could not prevent his thoughts dwelling again and again on all
the charm and loveliness of his dear young wife. This did not suit
Iago’s purpose, for he was afraid lest Othello should relent before
his revenge was accomplished. So he did his utmost in every way to
incite Othello still more against Desdemona. He cunningly reminded him
of Brabantio’s parting words, and said if Desdemona had deceived her
father in concealing her affection for Othello, why should she not
equally deceive her husband in concealing her affection for someone
else?
“She shall not live--no, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it,
and it hurts my hand,” said Othello. Then, “O, the world hath not a
sweeter creature!”
“Nay, that’s not your way,” said Iago, ill-pleased.
“I do but say what she is,” returned Othello. “So delicate with her
needle; an admirable musician--O, she will sing the savageness out of
a bear; of so high and plenteous wit and invention----”
“She’s the worse for all this,” said Iago.
“O, a thousand, thousand times,” agreed Othello; then he added
wistfully: “And, then, of so gentle a condition!”
“Ay, too gentle,” sneered Iago.
“Nay, that’s certain;--but, yet, the pity of it, Iago! O, Iago, the
pity of it, Iago!”
But one might better have appealed for compassion to a tiger in
sight of his prey. Iago knew nothing of pity. He had only one aim in
view--to gratify his revenge. If Othello would kill Desdemona, he
said, he would undertake Cassio.
Emilia, Iago’s wife, was a sharp-tongued, outspoken woman, devoted
to her young mistress, and when she saw how jealous and violent
Othello was becoming, she did not scruple to tell him plainly that he
was utterly wrong in his distrust. But Othello, urged on by Iago’s
cunning, was now past all reason. By this time he was firmly convinced
that Desdemona’s simple sweetness of manner was nothing but the most
skilful hypocrisy, and that it was his duty to put her out of the
world, so that she should betray no more people.
When he spoke to his wife that day after his interview with Iago,
his words were so strange and menacing that Desdemona was quite
frightened.
[Illustration: “Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?”]
“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?” she cried piteously. “I
understand a fury in your words, but not the words.”
Othello answered with a torrent of angry accusations, which utterly
bewildered Desdemona, and then he abruptly left her, while Emilia
vainly tried to soothe and comfort her. This good woman was not slow
to express her indignation at Othello’s shameful behaviour, and
loudly announced her opinion that he was being deceived by “some base
notorious knave, some scurvy fellow!”
“Oh, heaven, that thou would’st make such people known, and put in
every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world,
even from the east to the west!” she cried, with flashing eyes.
This was not very pleasant hearing for Iago, who was standing by, and
he harshly told Emilia she was a fool, and bade her be silent. Then,
when Desdemona appealed to him, asking what she should do to win her
lord again, Iago pretended to think it was only a little ill-temper
on Othello’s part, that business of the State had offended him, and
consequently he was out of humour with Desdemona.
There was some colour for this suggestion, for a special commission
had just arrived from Venice, commanding Othello to return home, and
deputing Cassio as Governor of Cyprus in his place.
Iago saw that, if he wanted to dispose of Cassio, there was no time
to be lost, for Iago himself would be obliged to leave the island in
Othello’s suite. He therefore contrived to incite his feeble-minded
tool Roderigo to set upon Cassio in the dark that very night and
murder him. The attempt, however, was not successful. Roderigo only
managed to wound Cassio, and was himself badly injured in return.
Some passers-by--the messengers from Venice--hearing groans in the
street, stopped to give help, but it was too dark to distinguish the
sufferers. The next person to arrive on the scene was Iago himself,
with a light, and coming across the wounded Roderigo, and fearing he
would betray his share in the plot, he treacherously stabbed him to
death. Cassio was then carefully conveyed away for his wounds to be
dressed.
* * * * *
That night, when Desdemona was preparing for bed, a strange melancholy
seemed to take possession of her. Emilia, who was in attendance, tried
to divert her mind by getting her to join in a little idle talk, but
Desdemona’s thoughts were running on sad themes.
“My mother had a maid called Barbara,” she said musingly. “She was in
love, and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her. She had a song
of ‘willow’: an old thing it was, but it expressed her fortune, and
she died singing it; that song to-night will not go from my mind.”
And presently, as Emilia helped her to disrobe, Desdemona began
singing in a sweet, plaintive key:
“The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow!
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;--
Sing willow, willow, willow.
“Sing all a green willow must be my garland;
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve.
“Nay, that’s not next. Hark! Who is it that knocks?”
“It’s the wind,” said Emilia.
Desdemona listened for a moment, then went on with her song.
“I called my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow;”
Desdemona’s voice faltered and stopped. Emilia’s duties were done,
and, bidding her good-night, Desdemona let her depart, and presently
closed her sorrowful eyes in sleep.
Now had come the moment that Othello had chosen for his dark deed. As
he drew near and saw his beautiful young wife lying in all the calm
repose of innocent slumber, for an instant his soul melted with pity
and love, and, bending over her, he kissed her tenderly. But once
more he hardened his heart by thinking of the cause that had led him
to decide on such an act, and a fresh wave of jealous fury suddenly
taking possession of him, he seized the pillows, and held them over
Desdemona until life seemed extinct.
There came a furious knocking at the door. Emilia’s voice was heard
outside, demanding admittance. Othello paused to consider.
“What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My
wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O, heavy
hour!”
And Othello with a heavy groan hid his face in his hands.
Again came the knocking.
“I do beseech you that I may speak with you, O good my lord.”
Othello drew the curtains of the bed, and unlocked the door. Emilia,
in great excitement, had come to bring the news of Roderigo’s death.
As she was speaking, a strange sort of moan caught her attention.
She knew her lady’s voice, and, rushing to the bed, tore aside the
curtains.
“Help! help, ho! Help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet
mistress, speak!”
“A guiltless death I die,” murmured Desdemona.
“O, who hath done this deed?”
“Nobody; I myself. Farewell! Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!”
And with a little sigh the gentle spirit passed away.
Othello immediately declared that Desdemona had spoken falsely; it
was he who had killed her. Emilia turned on him with bitterest rage
and contempt, whereupon he began to explain his reasons for what he
had done, saying that it was Iago who had revealed everything to him.
Emilia could scarcely believe such a thing. She shouted lustily to
rouse the alarm, and when, among others, Iago himself hurried in, she
taxed him with what Othello had said.
“I told him what I thought, and told no more than what he found
himself was apt and true,” said Iago, brazenly.
[Illustration: “I told him what I thought.”]
“You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; upon my soul a lie, a wicked
lie,” cried the distracted Emilia, and it was vain for Iago to try to
silence his wife; before everyone she proclaimed him for the villain
he was.
Alas, poor Othello, he began to see he had been tricked. But one point
he still clung to--the handkerchief. Desdemona had certainly given
away his cherished gift to Cassio.
“O, thou dull Moor!” cried Emilia. “The handkerchief thou speakest
of, I found by chance and gave my husband, for often with solemn
earnestness he begged of me to steal it.... She give it Cassio? No,
alas! I found it, and I gave it to my husband.”
“Thou liest!” said Iago.
“By heaven, I do not--I do not, gentlemen!”
Furious against his wife, Iago had already tried once to stab her, but
she had evaded him, and the other men in the room had protected her.
He now made another attempt, which was more successful, and Emilia
fell to the ground.
“O, lay me by my mistress’s side!” she begged.
And there, a few minutes later, she died, with Desdemona’s song of
“Willow, willow, willow” on her lips, and protesting with her dying
breath the innocence of her dear lady.
Now, indeed, the end had come for Othello, and all the anguish of
unavailing remorse racked his soul.
“O, Desdemona, Desdemona! Dead!” his heart-broken wail rang through
the room.
But it was all in vain now--vain his agony of love and sorrow; vain
his pleading; vain his scalding tears; vain the bitter scorn with
which he lashed his guilty spirit.
Cold, cold, pale and still, lay his beautiful young wife, her ears
deaf to all voices of earth, and frozen on her silent lips the smile
with which she had died.
Othello’s power and command were taken away, and Cassio ruled in
Cyprus. But little cared Othello for this; all worldly ambition was
over. As the gentlemen and officers were about to leave the chamber
of death, taking Iago with them as their prisoner, Othello, with a
dignified gesture, stayed them.
“Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the State some
service, and they know it. No more of that. I pray you in your
letters, when you shall relate these unlucky deeds, speak of me as I
am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then you must
speak of one that loved not wisely but too well; of one not easily
jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in the extreme; of one whose
hand, like the base Indian, threw a pearl away richer than all his
tribe.... Set you down this; and say besides, that in Aleppo once,
where a malignant and a turbaned Turk beat a Venetian and traduced the
State, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him--thus.”
And at the last word Othello plunged a dagger into his heart.
With failing strength he dragged his steps to the bed, and fell on the
dead body of Desdemona.
“I kissed thee ere I killed thee,” came his dying whisper. “No way but
this: killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”