DESDEMONA.

Indeed! is't true?

OTh.e.l.lO.

Most veritable, therefore look to't well.

DESDEMONA.

Then would to heaven that I had never seen it!

OTh.e.l.lO.

Ha! wherefore!

DESDEMONA.

Why do you speak so startingly and rash?

OTh.e.l.lO.

Is't lost,--Is't gone? Speak, is it out of the way?

DESDEMONA.

Heavens bless us!

OTh.e.l.lO.

Say you?

DESDEMONA.

It is not lost--but what an' if it were?

OTh.e.l.lO.

Ha!

DESDEMONA.

I say it is not lost.

OTh.e.l.lO.

Fetch it, let me see it.

DESDEMONA.

Why so I can, sir, but I will not now, &c.

Desdemona, whose soft credulity, whose turn for the marvellous, whose susceptible imagination had first directed her thoughts and affections to Oth.e.l.lo, is precisely the woman to be frightened out of her senses by such a tale as this, and betrayed by her fears into a momentary tergiversation. It is most natural in such a being, and shows us that even in the sweetest natures there can be no completeness and consistency without moral energy.[53]

With the most perfect artlessness, she has something of the instinctive, unconscious address of her s.e.x; as when she appeals to her father--

So much duty as my mother show'd To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge, that I may profess Due to the Moor, my lord.

And when she is pleading for Ca.s.sio--

What! Michael Ca.s.sio!

That came a wooing with you; and many a time.

When I have spoken of you disparagingly, Hath ta'en your part?

In persons who unite great sensibility and lively fancy, I have often observed this particular species of address, which is always unconscious of itself, and consists in the power of placing ourselves in the position of another, and imagining, rather than perceiving, what is in their hearts. We women have this _address_ (if so it can be called) naturally, but I have seldom met with it in men. It is not inconsistent with extreme simplicity of character, and quite distinct from that kind of art which is the result of natural acuteness and habits of observation--quick to perceive the foibles of others, and as quick to turn them to its own purposes; which is always conscious of itself, and, if united with strong intellect, seldom perceptible to others. In the mention of her mother, and the appeal to Oth.e.l.lo's self-love, Desdemona has no design formed on conclusions previously drawn; but her intuitive quickness of feeling, added to her imagination, lead her more safely to the same results, and the distinction is as truly as it is delicately drawn.

When Oth.e.l.lo first outrages her in a manner which appears inexplicable, she seeks and finds excuses for him. She is so innocent that not only she cannot believe herself suspected, but she cannot conceive the existence of guilt in others.

Something, sure, of state, Either from Venice, or some unhatch'd practice Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, Hath puddled his clear spirit.

'Tis even so-- Nay, we must think, men are not G.o.ds, Nor of them look for such observances As fit the bridal.

And when the direct accusation of crime is flung on her in the vilest terms, it does not anger but stun her, as if it transfixed her whole being; she attempts no reply, no defence; and reproach or resistance never enters her thought.

Good friend, go to him--for by this light of heaven I know not how I lost him: here I kneel:-- If e'er my will did trespa.s.s 'gainst his love, Either in discourse of thought or actual deed; Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form; Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much, And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.

And there is one stroke of consummate delicacy surprising, when we remember the lat.i.tude of expression prevailing in Shakspeare's time, and which he allowed to his other women generally: she says, on recovering from her stupefaction--

Am I that name, Iago?

IAGO.

What name, sweet lady?

DESDEMONA.

That which she says my lord did say I was.

So completely did Shakspeare enter into the angelic refinement of the character.

Endued with that temper which is the origin of superst.i.tion in love as in religion,--which, in fact makes love itself a religion,--she not only does not utter an upbraiding, but nothing that Oth.e.l.lo does or says, no outrage, no injustice, can tear away the charm with which her imagination had invested him, or impair her faith in his honor; "Would you had never seen him!" exclaims Emilia.

DESDEMONA.

So would not I!--my love doth so approve him, That even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns Have grace and favor in them.

There is another peculiarity, which, in reading the play of Oth.e.l.lo, we rather feel than perceive: through the whole of the dialogue appropriated to Desdemona, there is not one general observation. Words are with her the vehicle of sentiment, and never of reflection; so that I cannot find throughout a sentence of general application. The same remark applies to Miranda: and to no other female character of any importance or interest; not even to Ophelia.

The rest of what I wished to say of Desdemona, has been antic.i.p.ated by an anonymous critic, and so beautifully, so justly, so eloquently expressed, that I with pleasure erase my own page, to make room for his.