seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as to transform
himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask the general
for his place again? he would tell him he was a drunkard. He despised
himself. Iago, affecting to make light of it, said, that he, or any man
living, might be drunk upon occasion; it remained now to make the best
of a bad bargain; the general's wife was now the general, and could do
anything with Othello; that he were best to apply to the Lady Desdemona
to mediate for him with her lord; that she was of a frank, obliging
disposition, and would readily undertake a good office of this sort, and
set Cassio right again in the general's favour; and then this crack in
their love would be made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if
it had not been given for wicked purposes, which will after appear.
Cassio did as Iago advised him, and made application to the Lady
Desdemona, who was easy to be won over in any honest suit; and she
promised Cassio that she should be his solicitor with her lord, and
rather die than give up his cause. This she immediately set about in so
earnest and pretty a manner, that Othello, who was mortally offended
with Cassio, could not put her off. When he pleaded delay, and that it
was too soon to pardon such an offender, she would not be beat back, but
insisted that it should be the next night, or the morning after, or the
next morning to that at farthest. Then she showed how penitent and
humbled poor Cassio was, and that his offence did not deserve so sharp a
check. And when Othello still hung back, "What! my lord," said she,
"that I should have so much to do to plead for Cassio, Michael Cassio,
that came a courting for you, and oftentimes, when I have spoken in
dispraise of you, has taken your part! I count this but a little thing
to ask of you. When I mean to try your love indeed, I shall ask a
weighty matter." Othello could deny nothing to such a pleader, and only
requesting that Desdemona would leave the time to him, promised to
receive Michael Cassio again in favour.
It happened that Othello and Iago had entered into the room where
Desdemona was, just as Cassio, who had been imploring her intercession,
was departing at the opposite door: and Iago, who was full of art, said
in a low voice, as if to himself, "I like not that." Othello took no
great notice of what he said; indeed, the conference which immediately
took place with his lady put it out of his head; but he remembered it
afterwards. For when Desdemona was gone, Iago, as if for mere
satisfaction of his thought, questioned Othello whether Michael Cassio,
when Othello was courting his lady, knew of his love. To this the
general answering in the affirmative, and adding, that he had gone
between them very often during the courtship, Iago knitted his brow, as
if he had got fresh light on some terrible matter, and cried, "Indeed!"
This brought into Othello's mind the words which Iago had let fall upon
entering the room, and seeing Cassio with Desdemona; and he began to
think there was some meaning in all this: for he deemed Iago to be a
just man, and full of love and honesty, and what in a false knave would
be tricks, in him seemed to be the natural workings of an honest mind,
big with something too great for utterance: and Othello prayed Iago to
speak what he knew, and to give his worst thoughts words. "And what,"
said Iago, "if some thoughts very vile should have intruded into my
breast, as where is the palace into which foul things do not enter?"
Then Iago went on to say, what a pity it were, if any trouble should
arise to Othello out of his imperfect observations; that it would not be
for Othello's peace to know his thoughts; that people's good names were
not to be taken away for slight suspicions; and when Othello's curiosity
was raised almost to distraction with these hints and scattered words,
Iago, as if in earnest care for Othello's peace of mind, besought him to
beware of jealousy: with such art did this villain raise suspicions in
the unguarded Othello, by the very caution which he pretended to give
him against suspicion. "I know," said Othello, "that my wife is fair,
loves company and feasting, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances
well: but where virtue is, these qualities are virtuous. I must have
proof before I think her dishonest." Then Iago, as if glad that Othello
was slow to believe ill of his lady, frankly declared that he had no
proof, but begged Othello to observe her behaviour well, when Cassio was
by; not to be jealous nor too secure neither, for that he (Iago) knew
the dispositions of the Italian ladies, his country-women, better than
Othello could do; and that in Venice the wives let heaven see many
pranks they dared not show their husbands. Then he artfully insinuated
that Desdemona deceived her father in marrying with Othello, and carried
it so closely, that the poor old man thought that witchcraft had been
used. Othello was much moved with this argument, which brought the
matter home to him, for if she had deceived her father, why might she
not deceive her husband?
Iago begged pardon for having moved him; but Othello, assuming an
indifference, while he was really shaken with inward grief at Iago's
words, begged him to go on, which Iago did with many apologies, as if
unwilling to produce anything against Cassio, whom he called his friend:
he then came strongly to the point, and reminded Othello how Desdemona
had refused many suitable matches of her own clime and complexion, and
had married him, a Moor, which showed unnatural in her, and proved her
to have a headstrong will; and when her better judgment returned, how
probable it was she should fall upon comparing Othello with the fine
forms and clear white complexions of the young Italians her countrymen.
He concluded with advising Othello to put off his reconcilement with
Cassio a little longer, and in the meanwhile to note with what
earnestness Desdemona should intercede in his behalf; for that much
would be seen in that. So mischievously did this artful villain lay his
plots to turn the gentle qualities of this innocent lady into her
destruction, and make a net for her out of her own goodness to entrap
her: first setting Cassio on to entreat her mediation, and then out of
that very mediation contriving stratagems for her ruin.
The conference ended with Iago's begging Othello to account his wife
innocent, until he had more decisive proof; and Othello promised to be
patient; but from that moment the deceived Othello never tasted content
of mind. Poppy, nor the juice of mandragora, nor all the sleeping
potions in the world, could ever again restore to him that sweet rest,
which he had enjoyed but yesterday. His occupation sickened upon him. He
no longer took delight in arms. His heart, that used to be roused at the
sight of troops, and banners, and battle-array, and would stir and leap
at the sound of a drum, or a trumpet, or a neighing war-horse, seemed to
have lost all that pride and ambition which are a soldier's virtue; and
his military ardour and all his old joys forsook him. Sometimes he
thought his wife honest, and at times he thought her not so; sometimes
he thought Iago just, and at times he thought him not so; then he would
wish that he had never known of it; he was not the worse for her loving
Cassio, so long as he knew it not: torn to pieces with these distracting
thoughts, he once laid hold on Iago's throat, and demanded proof of
Desdemona's guilt, or threatened instant death for his having belied
her. Iago, feigning indignation that his honesty should be taken for a
vice, asked Othello, if he had not sometimes seen a handkerchief spotted
with strawberries in his wife's hand. Othello answered, that he had
given her such a one, and that it was his first gift. "That same
handkerchief," said Iago, "did I see Michael Cassio this day wipe his
face with." "If it be as you say," said Othello, "I will not rest till a
wide revenge swallow them up: and first, for a token of your fidelity, I
expect that Cassio shall be put to death within three days; and for that
fair devil (meaning his lady), I will withdraw and devise some swift
means of death for her."
Trifles light as air are to the jealous proofs as strong as holy writ. A
handkerchief of his wife's seen in Cassio's hand, was motive enough to
the deluded Othello to pass sentence of death upon them both, without
once inquiring how Cassio came by it. Desdemona had never given such a
present to Cassio, nor would this constant lady have wronged her lord
with doing so naughty a thing as giving his presents to another man;
both Cassio and Desdemona were innocent of any offence against Othello:
but the wicked Iago, whose spirits never slept in contrivance of
villany, had made his wife (a good, but a weak woman) steal this
handkerchief from Desdemona, under pretence of getting the work copied,
but in reality to drop it in Cassio's way, where he might find it, and
give a handle to Iago's suggestion that it was Desdemona's present.
Othello, soon after meeting his wife, pretended that he had a headache
(as he might indeed with truth), and desired her to lend him her
handkerchief to hold to his temples. She did so. "Not this," said
Othello, "but that handkerchief I gave you." Desdemona had it not about
her (for indeed it was stolen, as we have related). "How?" said Othello,
"this is a fault indeed. That handkerchief an Egyptian woman gave to my
mother; the woman was a witch and could read people's thoughts: she told
my mother, while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and my father
would love her; but, if she lost it, or gave it away, my father's fancy
would turn, and he would loathe her as much as he had loved her. She
dying gave it to me, and bade me, if I ever married, to give it to my
wife. I did so; take heed of it. Make it a darling as precious as your
eye." "Is it possible?" said the frighted lady. "'Tis true," continued
Othello; "it is a magical handkerchief; a sibyl that had lived in the
world two hundred years, in a fit of prophetic fury worked it; the
silkworms that furnished the silk were hallowed, and it was dyed in a
mummy of maidens' hearts conserved." Desdemona, hearing the wondrous
virtues of the handkerchief, was ready to die with fear, for she plainly
perceived she had lost it, and with it, she feared, the affections of
her husband. Then Othello started, and looked as if he were going to do
some rash thing, and still he demanded the handkerchief, which when she
could not produce, she tried to divert her husband from too serious
thoughts, and cheerfully told him she saw all his talk about the
handkerchief was only to put her off from her suit about Michael Cassio,
whom she went on to praise (as Iago had foretold), till Othello in
perfect distraction burst out of the room, and then Desdemona, though
unwillingly, began to suspect that her lord was jealous.
What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then she
accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be sure
that some untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles had puddled
his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And she said,
"Men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance from them
when they are married, which they show us on the bridal day." And she
beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness.
Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly of
being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom:
and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the heavy day! why do you
weep?" And Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of evils with
fortitude--poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had
broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and
smelled so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she had never
been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied
with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like
sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make her bed,
and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach
their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello
might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a child when she
was chidden. And this was all the complaint which this gentle lady
made.
Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow her, soon
fell into a slumber, the effect of her troubled spirits, when Othello
entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he had meditated of
putting his lady to death. But when he saw her asleep, he thought he
would not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white
than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die; else (as he said)
she would live to betray more men, as she had done him. Then he kissed
her for the last time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, that he
must needs kiss her again: and he wept, but he said they were cruel
tears.
Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon Othello, and
she saw him gnaw his under lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was
always fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death, and
to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this innocent
wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her
fault, and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said)
she had given him; and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear
herself he suddenly would hear no more, but covering her up in the
bed-clothes, stifled her till she died.
In this instant of time was brought into the house Cassio, wounded and
bleeding, whom Iago had set one of his creatures on to assassinate; but
the fellow not succeeding in his attempt to kill Cassio (whom he
wounded, but not mortally,) and being himself killed by Iago to prevent
discovery, in his pockets were found certain letters, which made the
guilt of Iago, and the innocence of Cassio, clear beyond all doubt; and
Cassio now came to beg pardon of Othello, and to ask wherein he had
offended him, that he had employed Iago to murder him.
This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, who now plainly saw
that he was no better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent
lady) had been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of which
discovery making life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and
throwing himself upon the body of his dear injured lady, expired.
These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in the
bystanders, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he was
wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never
gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. He had
loved not wisely, but too well; and his manly eyes (when he learned his
mistake), though not used to weep on every small occasion, dropped tears
as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead all his
former merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained
for his successor but to put the utmost censure of the law in force
against Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to send word to
the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned general.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE
Pericles, Prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his dominions,
to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of
Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in
revenge for a discovery which the prince had made of a shocking deed
which the emperor had done in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to
pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his
people in the hands of his able and honest minister, Helicanus, Pericles
set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath of
Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased.
The first place which the prince directed his course to was Tarsus, and
hearing that the city of Tarsus was at that time suffering under a
severe famine, he took with him store of provisions for its relief. On
his arrival he found the city reduced to the utmost distress; and, he
coming like a messenger from heaven with his unhoped-for succour, Cleon,
the governor of Tarsus, welcomed him with boundless thanks. Pericles
had not been here many days, before letters came from his faithful
minister, warning him that it was not safe for him to stay at Tarsus,
for Antiochus knew of his abode, and by secret emissaries despatched for
that purpose sought his life. Upon receipt of these letters Pericles put
out to sea again, amidst the blessings and prayers of a whole people who
had been fed by his bounty.
He had not sailed far, when his ship was overtaken by a dreadful storm,
and every man on board perished except Pericles, who was cast by the
sea-waves naked on an unknown shore, where he had not wandered long
before he met with some poor fishermen, who invited him to their homes,
giving him clothes and provisions. The fishermen told Pericles the name
of their country was Pentapolis, and that their king was Simonides,
commonly called the good Simonides, because of his peaceable reign and
good government. From them he also learned that King Simonides had a
fair young daughter, and that the following day was her birthday, when a
grand tournament was to be held at court, many princes and knights being
come from all parts to try their skill in arms for the love of Thaisa,
this fair princess. While the prince was listening to this account, and
secretly lamenting the loss of his good armour, which disabled him from
making one among these valiant knights, another fisherman brought in a
complete suit of armour that he had taken out of the sea with his
fishing-net, which proved to be the very armour he had lost. When
Pericles beheld his own armour, he said, "Thanks, Fortune; after all my
crosses you give me somewhat to repair myself. This armour was
bequeathed to me by my dead father, for whose dear sake I have so loved
it, that whithersoever I went, I still have kept it by me, and the rough
sea that parted it from me, having now become calm, hath given it back
again, for which I thank it, for, since I have my father's gift again, I
think my shipwreck no misfortune."
The next day Pericles, clad in his brave father's armour, repaired to
the royal court of Simonides, where he performed wonders at the
tournament, vanquishing with ease all the brave knights and valiant
princes who contended with him in arms for the honour of Thaisa's love.
When brave warriors contended at court tournaments for the love of
kings' daughters, if one proved sole victor over all the rest, it was
usual for the great lady for whose sake these deeds of valour were
undertaken, to bestow all her respect upon the conqueror, and Thaisa did
not depart from this custom, for she presently dismissed all the princes
and knights whom Pericles had vanquished, and distinguished him by her
especial favour and regard, crowning him with the wreath of victory, as
king of that day's happiness; and Pericles became a most passionate
lover of this beauteous princess from the first moment he beheld her.
The good Simonides so well approved of the valour and noble qualities of
Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well learned
in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of this royal
stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a
private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Simonides disdain to accept of
the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's
affections were firmly fixed upon him.
Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he received
intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects of
Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, and talked of
placing Helicanus upon his vacant throne. This news came from Helicanus
himself, who, being a loyal subject to his royal master, would not
accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know
their intentions, that he might return home and resume his lawful right.
It was matter of great surprise and joy to Simonides, to find that his
son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned Prince of Tyre; yet
again he regretted that he was not the private gentleman he supposed him
to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired son-in-law
and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to the perils of the
sea, because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles himself wished her to
remain with her father till after her confinement, but the poor lady so
earnestly desired to go with her husband, that at last they consented,
hoping she would reach Tyre before she was brought to bed.
The sea was no friendly element to unhappy Pericles, for long before
they reached Tyre another dreadful tempest arose, which so terrified
Thaisa that she was taken ill, and in a short space of time her nurse
Lychorida came to Pericles with a little child in her arms, to tell the
prince the sad tidings that his wife died the moment her little babe was
born. She held the babe towards its father, saying, "Here is a thing too
young for such a place. This is the child of your dead queen." No tongue
can tell the dreadful sufferings of Pericles when he heard his wife was
dead. As soon as he could speak, he said, "O you gods, why do you make
us love your goodly gifts, and then snatch those gifts away?" "Patience,
good sir," said Lychorida, "here is all that is left alive of our dead
queen, a little daughter, and for your child's sake be more manly.
Patience, good sir, even for the sake of this precious charge." Pericles
took the new-born infant in his arms, and he said to the little babe,
"Now may your life be mild, for a more blusterous birth had never babe!
May your condition be mild and gentle, for you have had the rudest
welcome that ever prince's child did meet with! May that which follows
be happy, for you have had as chiding a nativity as fire, air, water,
earth, and heaven could make to herald you from the womb! Even at the
first, your loss," meaning in the death of her mother, "is more than all
the joys, which you shall find upon this earth to which you are come a
new visitor, shall be able to recompense."
The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having a
superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the storm
would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queen should
be thrown overboard; and they said, "What courage, sir? God save you!"
"Courage enough," said the sorrowing prince: "I do not fear the storm;
it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this
fresh new seafarer, I wish the storm was over." "Sir," said the sailors,
"your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and
the storm will not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though
Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he
patiently submitted, saying, "As you think meet. Then she must
overboard, most wretched queen!" And now this unhappy prince went to
take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, he
said, "A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; no light, no fire;
the unfriendly elements forget thee utterly, nor have I time to bring
thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into
the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the humming waters must
overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor
bring me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my jewels, and bid
Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go
about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewell to my
Thaisa."
They brought Pericles a large chest, in which (wrapped in a satin
shroud) he placed his queen, and sweet-smelling spices he strewed over
her, and beside her he placed rich jewels, and a written paper, telling
who she was, and praying if haply any one should find the chest which
contained the body of his wife, they would give her burial: and then
with his own hands he cast the chest into the sea. When the storm was
over, Pericles ordered the sailors to make for Tarsus. "For," said
Pericles, "the babe cannot hold out till we come to Tyre. At Tarsus I
will leave it at careful nursing."