impenetrable dissimulation; and yet the traps that he sets are so
palpable that, although he has to do with an idiot, in comparison
with whom any pig-headed imbecile would be a marvel of
perspicacity, every one possessed of the smallest relic of sense
would not allow himself to be decoyed by them for the space of
two minutes.
This, forsooth, is his scheme! Desdemona has espoused Othello;
she has chosen him, as he is, out of a thousand others more
worthy of her; she has left all for him; to all appearance she
loves him; Iago himself does not doubt it; hardly have they
received the nuptial benediction before they are separated;
Othello sets out with Cassio--observe, with Cassio; Desdemona
also departs for Cyprus; by accident the two parties, who had
left Venice at different times, arrive in Cyprus the same day,
within half an hour of one another. To the knowledge and in the
sight of all, Othello included, Cassio, the companion of his
voyage, has not been able to speak to Desdemona more than ten
minutes on the public road.
{280}
And yet on the afternoon of this same day, in the midst of the
first transports of a union which has been for so long a time
retarded, Iago takes upon himself to persuade the amorous Othello
that Desdemona, the gentle Desdemona, has betrayed him, before
even she has belonged to him--that she has delivered up her heart
and her person--to whom?--to Cassio, who has been able neither to
see her nor to converse with her. And Iago speaks of his passion
as a thing already ancient, and yet--and yet as a thing posterior
to her marriage with Othello; for he represents Cassio as
exclaiming,
"Cursed fate, that gave thee to the Moor!"
and Iago speaks of Cassio's intrigue with innumerable details and
interminable explanations.
Which is the greatest simpleton, the man who conceives such a
project, or the man who allows himself to be entrapped by it?
Will it be said that he succeeded? He succeeded according to the
representation of the author; but what will common sense say of
the matter?
The author is himself successful: but why? Because, such is the
intensity and vivacity of his original conception, that the most
revolting improbabilities, the most inconceivable absurdities,
pass by unperceived; because no one is so ungracious, no one has
time to notice the stratagems of the drama. It is, however,
another thing to offer these absurdities to be admired as merits.
And yet that is not without truth: from that moment when the
first insinuation escapes the lips of Iago, and reaches the ears
of the Moor--from the utterance of those fatal words, "Ay, well
said, whisper; with as little a web as this will I ensnare as
great a fly as Cassio"--to that awful moment when the curtain
falls on the corpses of the two lovers, the spectator is in a
state of breathless expectation. You might hear the flight of a
gnat across the room, and those are ill-judged spirits whose zeal
compels them to interrupt by their applause the anxiety which is
momentarily increasing.
{281}
In that first word all has been said, all has been determined.
Farewell forever to Desdemona! Farewell to Othello! Desdemona
only appears henceforth as the innocent bird struggling feebly in
the grasp of a vulture, but of a vulture who is himself furiously
struggling under the grasp of another vulture, and who avenges
himself by his treatment of his unhappy victim for the frightful
tortures which he is suffering in his own person.
The spectator looks upon this picture, not with that restless
curiosity which passes alternately from fear to hope, but, if we
may say so--and we do it fully sensible that there are important
differences--with something of that inexpressible anguish which
absorbs us when, in a court of justice, we are watching the vain
efforts of a criminal who is being hurried along to a fatal and
inevitable condemnation.
Othello has never thought, has never had occasion to think, how
strange, how incomprehensible is the sentiment which he has
inspired in Desdemona; now for the first time he thinks of it:
"Haply, for I am black,
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have; or, for I am declined
Into the vale of years."
One irregular taste, Iago suggests to him, indicates other
irregularities. Beyond a doubt she is lost--"she's gone."
{282}
This first suspicion, to use Schlegel's energetic language, is "a
drop of poison in his veins, and sets his whole blood in the
wildest ferment." The savage is again uppermost. The civilized
portion of his nature, which has never met him in this region,
which has only subdued him on the field of battle, is powerless
to hold him in check. The struggle goes on for some moments; for
some moments does Othello, the warrior, the statesman, the lord
of others and of himself, attempt to treat his own love as a
sportive flame, his jealousy as a folly.
"Exchange me for a goat,
When I shall turn the business of my soul
To such exsufflicate and blown surmises.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
Look here, Iago;
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
'Tis gone!"
But his efforts are vain; his defiance is fruitless; at the first
onslaught he sees his mighty courage fail, at the first shock of
battle he knows himself to be vanquished; he turns a last fond
look toward that which has so long charmed him; he remembers
dreamily the courser and the trumpet, the assault and the
victory:
"O now forever
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!
And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!"
{283}
After this cry, all the struggle within him ceases. In proportion
as jealousy spreads its ravages in this spirit which is already
wrecked, we can watch the reappearance under all the most hideous
forms of the semi-brutish nature; we may see its growth; we may
hear its roar; a creature not to be controlled by reason, deaf to
the accents of truth, insensible to utterances of tenderness,
unapproachable by moral evidence, which, in the wildness of its
fury, passes from one extreme to another, now delighting, with
savage joy, in its own detailed recital, in terms of the most
revolting barbarity, of the outrage which it contemplates, crying
out,
"O, blood, Iago, blood!"
And then, in conclusion, falling, without knowing how or why,
from rage down to despair.
Humanity has altogether forsaken him, except it be in his
frequently returning fits of emotion, pity, or regret; but these
are always provoked by the remembrance of Desdemona's charms--by
ideas which are connected with sensual enjoyments; and perhaps,
also, it may yet lurk in certain glimmerings of a rough equity,
such as may be found under the Bedouin's tent or in a bandit's
cavern: "For she had eyes and chose me." And when Iago proposes
to him to "strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath
contaminated," he replies, "Good, good; the justice of it
pleases; very good."
There is, however, no trace of the sentiments which he ought to
have imbibed by his connection with civilized and polite society;
no respect for himself or for others, no remembrance of
kindnesses; he gives directions for a base act of
assassination--that of Cassio; he strikes Desdemona brutally, in
presence of the messengers of the Senate and of his own officers,
in public, and in his own private interviews with her; he treats
her as the most abandoned of women, heaping upon her the
bitterest sarcasms and the most degrading epithets.
{284}
The sight of an heroic soul thus debased by its ferocity down to
the level of the mere animal would almost of necessity
contaminate the dignity of art, had not the poet brought it into
constant contrast with the graceful, pure, and truly celestial
figure of Desdemona. Never has any artist portrayed with greater
delicacy that astonishment which is felt by an innocent soul
when, for the first time, the overflow of its warm affection is
repulsed by a hard word or a severe look--its timid efforts to
turn the repulse into wanton playfulness, to renew a tender and
free exchange of sentiment and thought, to exercise for some
moments that pleasant and transient ascendency which shall afford
the young spouse many bright recollections in days yet to come.
In proportion as this new character of Othello develops itself,
we may see (so to speak)--through that transparent poetry of
which Shakspeare alone possesses the secret--the mild
countenance of Desdemona gradually lose its serenity. The first
idea that presents itself to her mind is, that Othello's
roughness--that roughness for which she had prepared herself long
before--has somewhat too soon made its appearance. But her heart
is immediately resigned--she has an excuse ready at hand:
"Nay, we must think men are not gods;
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridal."
And when Othello strikes her in public, she is content only to
weep and to say, "I have not deserved this."
{285}
But when Othello bursts out into rage against her, when he loads
her with outrageous reproaches, when he reviles her as a
shameless prostitute, her voice fails her, the blood which rushes
to her face stifles all utterance; she sinks rather under the
confusion of hearing such language than because it is Othello who
addresses her: some feeble sighs, some useless protests, are her
only defense; she has seen her fate written in the terrific looks
of her husband. She lowers her head, and directs Emilia to spread
upon her couch her wedding-dress, in which she desires to be
enshrouded; she offers her breast to the knife as a "stainless
sacrifice" (another of Schlegel's happy expressions), as a lamb
which has been accustomed only to bound and frolic in its native
meadows, and which walks to the altar without knowing why, and
licks the hand which is conducting it thither.
This it is precisely which explains the inexpressible charm and
painful interest of this scene, which we have already alluded to;
a scene which, placed entirely apart from this, would transgress
the proper limits of a work of art.
Othello, when he has taken leave of the messengers of the Senate,
says, with a rugged, severe tone of voice, to Desdemona, "Get you
to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith; look it be
done." Her reply is, "I will, my lord." This is the sentence of
death, and she knows it; but not even a thought of disobedience
enters her mind; she does not dream of securing the least
assistance: Othello has spoken.
The scene in which she undresses herself, before retiring to her
bed, is then most truly for her that respite of a quarter of an
hour which is granted to criminals before they are conducted to
punishment. In vain does she attempt to suggest a different mood
to Emilia, or to practice deception upon herself by turning her
thoughts to any trifling subjects that may arise: the inmost
conviction of her soul rises in rebellion against every word.
{286}
And, for the agitated spectator, this scene is of a similar
character; he counts the minutes, he clings to the least thing,
he asks impatiently why there is still no other knot to untie, no
other clasp to unloose; his wishes would almost urge him to take
hold on Desdemona's robe and save her from impending fate.
Tragic poets, behold your master! learn a lesson from him, if you
can!
The scene in which the Moor kills Desdemona surprised the public;
but their surprise was not of long duration, and was soon changed
into fullest approval. Accustomed as they were to see this scene
lengthened out in Rossini's opera--to watch the imposing
attitudes of Madame Pasta, or the efforts of Madame Malibran, to
save her life, the brevity of the English original at first
astonished them. But, at the same time, the dialogue, so concise,
so rapid, moving so directly to the mark--those ambiguous, and,
at the same time, distracted words which Othello mutters in
suppressed tones of voice; that inexorable determination which he
has made, and which he executes with agitated haste, with
bursting heart and teeth closely set, hardly daring to look upon
his victim, but without even a momentary wavering--Desdemona's
entreaties, short, tender, timid: so much so, that they only show
her concern for life; her replies, in which all the bold
confidence of innocence declares itself, when Othello alludes to
her handkerchief, which had been found on Cassio:
"He found it there!"
{287}
and, when Othello declares to her that Cassio has confessed his
crime:
"He will not say so."
Words of simple sublimity, which Mademoiselle Mars renders with
an accent of corresponding simplicity and sublimity; those cries
from without which hasten the fatal stroke, and, as it were,
nerve the arm of Othello--all this was most deeply felt,
applauded as far as the emotion which it caused would allow,
and--if we may say so without suggesting any comparison that
would be invidious--the tragic scene appeared as superior to the
lyric scene as the tragedy of Othello itself is superior to the
libretto which is sold for thirty sous at the entrance of the
Opéra Bouffon.
Immediately after this scene an incident follows which, we are
perfectly aware, has been much applauded by all critics, which is
greatly celebrated in all modern poetical criticism, which is
even strongly commended by philosophers as an inimitable touch of
nature.
Emilia enters the chamber, and Desdemona in her last moments yet
finds enough strength left to accuse herself of her own death,
and to exculpate Othello:
"Nobody: I myself: Farewell!
Commend me to my kind lord: Oh, farewell!"
We must give our testimony that there was no effect whatever
produced by these words, and we will freely confess that we
should always doubt whether there ought to be any.
Let the critics fulminate against us, let them, if they will,
launch their thunder-bolts against us; but it has always appeared
to us that this short passage betrays a theatrical artifice, and
that here it is the poet who speaks to us through the mouth of
his character. It has always appeared to us that this last
expiring utterance of Desdemona involves an idea far too
complicated, far too refined--a prevision, a precaution, which
harmonize neither with her position, nor even with her character.
{288}
Since the day of her marriage, Desdemona has regarded herself as
Othello's property--as a thing of which Othello is the absolute
master, to use or abuse at his pleasure--as a slave whom he may
beat or kill, according as his fancy may lead him; how then came
she to think all at once that Othello could run any risk so far
as she was concerned, or that it was necessary to place him under
shelter from a criminal prosecution? Let her kiss Othello's hand
when dying; this is quite in keeping with her character--but for
her to give her evidence in his favor, by anticipating the
proceedings in a court of justice, is not.
Whether we are right or wrong is yet to be seen; this, however,
is of little importance. For the fact we can vouch--we repeat
it--that these words made little or no impression.
On the other hand, we can hardly say enough in praise of the last
scene--a scene about which the critics say little, but which is,
in our humble opinion, one of the most admirable in the whole
piece, and which produced an impression worthy of its
transcendent beauty.
Hardly has Desdemona breathed out her last sigh, scarcely has the
blind fury of Othello satiated himself, when the scene changes,
his reason returns, the light of truth bursts upon him like a
flood, and encounters him on all sides. Not by the explanations
of Emilia is he undeceived, nor even by the confessions of Iago.
Half an hour previously he would not have listened to any thing
of the kind, but now he anticipates it all.
{289}
Even as he had attempted at first to summon his good sense and
firmness to his assistance, against the first assaults of
jealousy, so now he attempts to summon his frenzy and blind
infatuation to his assistance, against the clamorous reproaches
of his reason. He cries out with affected brutality, when
speaking of Desdemona:
"She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell,
'Twas I that killed her."
He calls with vaunting impetuosity upon Iago,
"Honest, honest Iago!"
to afford him shelter and protection; he constrains himself to
recount once more the baseness which he has always before spoken
of in accents of wild fury; but now his language is involuntarily
changed:
"'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows
That she with Cassio has the act of shame
A thousand times committed."
Vain efforts! he is at length compelled to contemplate himself as
he really is. Deprived of a being of spotless goodness, whom he
adored, he now sees himself as others see him, the object not
only of horror, but also of derision and contempt. Such epithets
as calumniator, murderer assassin, are too gentle for him--he is
an infuriated mad man, an enraged wild beast, a bull goaded by
the gad-fly, or which has thrown itself, with determination to
trample under its feet and to gore with its horns, upon a piece
of red cloth which a malicious hand has placed before its eyes.
He is in exactly the same position as Ajax, in Sophocles, at the
moment when he recovers his senses, after his unhappy mania has
departed.
Such words as
"O, gull! O, dolt!
As ignorant as dirt!"
are showered down upon Othello from all sides. At first he holds
down his head, abandoned to his self-recriminations--he is
disarmed like a child.
{290}
"I am not valiant, neither,
But every puny whipster gets my sword."
But immediately he adds, and this relieves him,
"But why should honor outlive honesty?
Let it go, all."
And then,
"I have seen the day,
That, with this little arm and this good sword,
I have made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop. But O, vain boast!
Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now.
Be not afraid though you do see me weapon'd.
Here is my journey's end--here is my butt
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismayed? 'Tis a lost fear:
Make but a rush against Othello's breast,
And he retires."
Then he falls upon the body of Desdemona, uttering wild,
inarticulate cries, which it is impossible to hear without a
shudder of grief and sympathy.
However, this paroxysm of humiliation and despair only lasts for
a moment. Othello soon recovers his self-possession. In
proportion as reason regains its empire in him, he, in his turn,
regains his accustomed ascendency over all the circumstances that
surround him. Two or three stern and significant words show that
he has determined in his own soul what course he shall pursue. He
seizes another sword, and none of those present will dare now to
deprive him of it. In the presence of Cassio, he excuses himself
with nobleness and simplicity; he contemplates with a look of
indifference, in which there is a mixture of disdain, the
preparations made to secure his person; and when, at last,
Ludovico advances toward him, and, in an already half-intimidated
tone, orders him to be in readiness to take his departure to
Venice, under a strong escort, in order to appear before the
Senate, he interrupts him with the words,
"Soft you; a word or two before you go."
{291}
See here, again, the mighty power of the poet; how much he can
indicate by a single stroke. Ludovico shall depart alone, such is
Othello's determination; Othello is not to go at all, such is his
wish; no one is to dispose of him but himself; he will not hear
one remark on this point. He then proceeds, in a strain of
dignified sadness:
"I have done the state some service, and they know it;
No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice; then must you speak
Of one that loved, not wisely, but too well:
Of one not easily jealous; but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away
Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this."
This said, and after having provided, as far as is possible for
him, for his good name, he returns to self-revenge--he turns,
with all the lofty pride of his indignant spirit, against that
miserable body which he is about to chastise as a rebellious
slave, as a ferocious animal which has dared to trample upon its
master, and has thereby abandoned him to dishonor; and, seeking
for words expressive of the direst insult, which recall at once
what he was, and the works of his life, and what he has always
most bitterly despised, he says,
"And say, besides, that in Aleppo, once,
Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him--thus."
{292}
We have dilated on the effect produced by this faithful and, we
may say, literal translation of "Othello," because this effect
seemed to us to augur very favorably for the French theatre. The
piece was better played than any of the master-pieces of our
dramatic writers is at this time; it has been better judged than
any other piece, so far as we know, ever has been; for it has
been judged sincerely, without prejudice, without any spirit of
partisanship, and each scene has been estimated according to its
true value.
If the public will resolutely maintain this freedom of mind, if
they will continue henceforth, on every renewed attempt, to
applaud only what seems to them to be good, to condemn that which
strikes them as bad, to take up an attitude of indifference to
things which are in themselves indifferent, it will, by these
means, do much for art, and still more for its own gratification.
It will save us the annoyance of an inundation of those
imitations of the romantic school of the drama which already
threaten to supersede the imitations of the classical school.
After we have tried, for a hundred years, under a thousand
different names, endless variations on the "Andromaque," the
"Mérope," and the "Zaïre"--variations, however, which are devoid
of all the beauties which belong to the originals--we shall be
preserved from the misfortune of experiencing, under a thousand
other names, and perhaps during another hundred years, mere
repetitions of "Macbeth," "Othello," or "William Tell," minus the
real beauties of "Macbeth," "Othello," and "William Tell."
{293}
The beautiful can never be the result of imitation: what is
really imitated are the defects, the exterior forms, the
mannerism of great poets; and when the public, in its
unreflecting enthusiasm for great poets, allows itself to applaud
even their faults, or merely their mannerism, it is sure to have
very soon more than enough of these.
Let those who are attached to the romantic school be well assured
that this school will not establish itself among us by means of
reversed reproductions of old works of art in a thin, transparent
disguise, nor by counterfeits foisted upon us under the pretense
of being borrowed. Let them traduce the beautiful productions of
foreign literature, line by line; their work will not be thrown
away; but, in Heaven's name, let them not produce these as
novelties, and present them before us as fruits which are
indigenous to their soil. They would not even have the excuse of
their colleagues--originality must always be original. And let
not the public allow themselves to be duped--never let them
applaud a modern author merely because he can dress himself up in
the plumage of a great master.