It is enough. And if it were not enough, has he not sometimes seen a handkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand? Yes, it was his first gift to her.

I know not that; but such a handkerchief-- I am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day See Ca.s.sio wipe his beard with.

'If it be that,' he answers--but what need to test the fact? The 'madness of revenge' is in his blood, and hesitation is a thing he never knew. He pa.s.ses judgment, and controls himself only to make his sentence a solemn vow.

The Oth.e.l.lo of the Fourth Act is Oth.e.l.lo in his fall. His fall is never complete, but he is much changed. Towards the close of the Temptation-scene he becomes at times most terrible, but his grandeur remains almost undiminished. Even in the following scene (III. iv.), where he goes to test Desdemona in the matter of the handkerchief, and receives a fatal confirmation of her guilt, our sympathy with him is hardly touched by any feeling of humiliation. But in the Fourth Act 'Chaos has come.' A slight interval of time may be admitted here. It is but slight; for it was necessary for Iago to hurry on, and terribly dangerous to leave a chance for a meeting of Ca.s.sio with Oth.e.l.lo; and his insight into Oth.e.l.lo's nature taught him that his plan was to deliver blow on blow, and never to allow his victim to recover from the confusion of the first shock. Still there is a slight interval; and when Oth.e.l.lo reappears we see at a glance that he is a changed man. He is physically exhausted, and his mind is dazed.[100] He sees everything blurred through a mist of blood and tears. He has actually forgotten the incident of the handkerchief, and has to be reminded of it. When Iago, perceiving that he can now risk almost any lie, tells him that Ca.s.sio has confessed his guilt, Oth.e.l.lo, the hero who has seemed to us only second to Coriola.n.u.s in physical power, trembles all over; he mutters disjointed words; a blackness suddenly intervenes between his eyes and the world; he takes it for the shuddering testimony of nature to the horror he has just heard,[101] and he falls senseless to the ground.

When he recovers it is to watch Ca.s.sio, as he imagines, laughing over his shame. It is an imposition so gross, and should have been one so perilous, that Iago would never have ventured it before. But he is safe now. The sight only adds to the confusion of intellect the madness of rage; and a ravenous thirst for revenge, contending with motions of infinite longing and regret, conquers them. The delay till night-fall is torture to him. His self-control has wholly deserted him, and he strikes his wife in the presence of the Venetian envoy. He is so lost to all sense of reality that he never asks himself what will follow the deaths of Ca.s.sio and his wife. An ineradicable instinct of justice, rather than any last quiver of hope, leads him to question Emilia; but nothing could convince him now, and there follows the dreadful scene of accusation; and then, to allow us the relief of burning hatred and burning tears, the interview of Desdemona with Iago, and that last talk of hers with Emilia, and her last song.

But before the end there is again a change. The supposed death of Ca.s.sio (V. i.) satiates the thirst for vengeance. The Oth.e.l.lo who enters the bed-chamber with the words,

It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,

is not the man of the Fourth Act. The deed he is bound to do is no murder, but a sacrifice. He is to save Desdemona from herself, not in hate but in honour; in honour, and also in love. His anger has pa.s.sed; a boundless sorrow has taken its place; and

this sorrow's heavenly: It strikes where it doth love.

Even when, at the sight of her apparent obduracy, and at the hearing of words which by a crowning fatality can only reconvince him of her guilt, these feelings give way to others, it is to righteous indignation they give way, not to rage; and, terribly painful as this scene is, there is almost nothing here to diminish the admiration and love which heighten pity.[102] And pity itself vanishes, and love and admiration alone remain, in the majestic dignity and sovereign ascendancy of the close.

Chaos has come and gone; and the Oth.e.l.lo of the Council-chamber and the quay of Cyprus has returned, or a greater and n.o.bler Oth.e.l.lo still. As he speaks those final words in which all the glory and agony of his life--long ago in India and Arabia and Aleppo, and afterwards in Venice, and now in Cyprus--seem to pa.s.s before us, like the pictures that flash before the eyes of a drowning man, a triumphant scorn for the fetters of the flesh and the littleness of all the lives that must survive him sweeps our grief away, and when he dies upon a kiss the most painful of all tragedies leaves us for the moment free from pain, and exulting in the power of 'love and man's unconquerable mind.'

3

The words just quoted come from Wordsworth's sonnet to Toussaint l'Ouverture. Toussaint was a Negro; and there is a question, which, though of little consequence, is not without dramatic interest, whether Shakespeare imagined Oth.e.l.lo as a Negro or as a Moor. Now I will not say that Shakespeare imagined him as a Negro and not as a Moor, for that might imply that he distinguished Negroes and Moors precisely as we do; but what appears to me nearly certain is that he imagined Oth.e.l.lo as a black man, and not as a light-brown one.

In the first place, we must remember that the brown or bronze to which we are now accustomed in the Oth.e.l.los of our theatres is a recent innovation. Down to Edmund Kean's time, so far as is known, Oth.e.l.lo was always quite black. This stage-tradition goes back to the Restoration, and it almost settles our question. For it is impossible that the colour of the original Oth.e.l.lo should have been forgotten so soon after Shakespeare's time, and most improbable that it should have been changed from brown to black.

If we turn to the play itself, we find many references to Oth.e.l.lo's colour and appearance. Most of these are indecisive; for the word 'black' was of course used then where we should speak of a 'dark'

complexion now; and even the nickname 'thick-lips,' appealed to as proof that Oth.e.l.lo was a Negro, might have been applied by an enemy to what we call a Moor. On the other hand, it is hard to believe that, if Oth.e.l.lo had been light-brown, Brabantio would have taunted him with having a 'sooty bosom,' or that (as Mr. Furness observes) he himself would have used the words,

her name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine own face.

These arguments cannot be met by pointing out that Oth.e.l.lo was of royal blood, is not called an Ethiopian, is called a Barbary horse, and is said to be going to Mauritania. All this would be of importance if we had reason to believe that Shakespeare shared our ideas, knowledge and terms. Otherwise it proves nothing. And we know that sixteenth-century writers called any dark North-African a Moor, or a black Moor, or a blackamoor. Sir Thomas Elyot, according to Hunter,[103] calls Ethiopians Moors; and the following are the first two ill.u.s.trations of 'Blackamoor'

in the Oxford _English Dictionary_: 1547, 'I am a blake More borne in Barbary'; 1548, '_Ethiopo_, a blake More, or a man of Ethiope.' Thus geographical names can tell us nothing about the question how Shakespeare imagined Oth.e.l.lo. He may have known that a Mauritanian is not a Negro nor black, but we cannot a.s.sume that he did. He may have known, again, that the Prince of Morocco, who is described in the _Merchant of Venice_ as having, like Oth.e.l.lo, the complexion of a devil, was no Negro. But we cannot tell: nor is there any reason why he should not have imagined the Prince as a brown Moor and Oth.e.l.lo as a Blackamoor.

_t.i.tus Andronicus_ appeared in the Folio among Shakespeare's works. It is believed by some good critics to be his: hardly anyone doubts that he had a hand in it: it is certain that he knew it, for reminiscences of it are scattered through his plays. Now no one who reads _t.i.tus Andronicus_ with an open mind can doubt that Aaron was, in our sense, black; and he appears to have been a Negro. To mention nothing else, he is twice called 'coal-black'; his colour is compared with that of a raven and a swan's legs; his child is coal-black and thick-lipped; he himself has a 'fleece of woolly hair.' Yet he is 'Aaron the Moor,' just as Oth.e.l.lo is 'Oth.e.l.lo the Moor.' In the _Battle of Alcazar_ (Dyce's _Peele_, p. 421) Muly the Moor is called 'the negro'; and Shakespeare himself in a single line uses 'negro' and 'Moor' of the same person (_Merchant of Venice_, III. v. 42).

The horror of most American critics (Mr. Furness is a bright exception) at the idea of a black Oth.e.l.lo is very amusing, and their arguments are highly instructive. But they were antic.i.p.ated, I regret to say, by Coleridge, and we will hear him. 'No doubt Desdemona saw Oth.e.l.lo's visage in his mind; yet, as we are const.i.tuted, and most surely as an English audience was disposed in the beginning of the seventeenth century, it would be something monstrous to conceive this beautiful Venetian girl falling in love with a veritable negro. It would argue a disproportionateness, a want of balance, in Desdemona, which Shakespeare does not appear to have in the least contemplated.'[104] Could any argument be more self-destructive? It actually _did_ appear to Brabantio 'something monstrous to conceive' his daughter falling in love with Oth.e.l.lo,--so monstrous that he could account for her love only by drugs and foul charms. And the suggestion that such love would argue 'disproportionateness' is precisely the suggestion that Iago _did_ make in Desdemona's case:

Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul _disproportion_, thoughts unnatural.

In fact he spoke of the marriage exactly as a filthy-minded cynic now might speak of the marriage of an English lady to a negro like Toussaint. Thus the argument of Coleridge and others points straight to the conclusion against which they argue.

But this is not all. The question whether to Shakespeare Oth.e.l.lo was black or brown is not a mere question of isolated fact or historical curiosity; it concerns the character of Desdemona. Coleridge, and still more the American writers, regard her love, in effect, as Brabantio regarded it, and not as Shakespeare conceived it. They are simply blurring this glorious conception when they try to lessen the distance between her and Oth.e.l.lo, and to smooth away the obstacle which his 'visage' offered to her romantic pa.s.sion for a hero. Desdemona, the 'eternal womanly' in its most lovely and adorable form, simple and innocent as a child, ardent with the courage and idealism of a saint, radiant with that heavenly purity of heart which men worship the more because nature so rarely permits it to themselves, had no theories about universal brotherhood, and no phrases about 'one blood in all the nations of the earth' or 'barbarian, Scythian, bond and free'; but when her soul came in sight of the n.o.blest soul on earth, she made nothing of the shrinking of her senses, but followed her soul until her senses took part with it, and 'loved him with the love which was her doom.' It was not prudent. It even turned out tragically. She met in life with the reward of those who rise too far above our common level; and we continue to allot her the same reward when we consent to forgive her for loving a brown man, but find it monstrous that she should love a black one.[105]

There is perhaps a certain excuse for our failure to rise to Shakespeare's meaning, and to realise how extraordinary and splendid a thing it was in a gentle Venetian girl to love Oth.e.l.lo, and to a.s.sail fortune with such a 'downright violence and storm' as is expected only in a hero. It is that when first we hear of her marriage we have not yet seen the Desdemona of the later Acts; and therefore we do not perceive how astonishing this love and boldness must have been in a maiden so quiet and submissive. And when we watch her in her suffering and death we are so penetrated by the sense of her heavenly sweetness and self-surrender that we almost forget that she had shown herself quite as exceptional in the active a.s.sertion of her own soul and will. She tends to become to us predominantly pathetic, the sweetest and most pathetic of Shakespeare's women, as innocent as Miranda and as loving as Viola, yet suffering more deeply than Cordelia or Imogen. And she seems to lack that independence and strength of spirit which Cordelia and Imogen possess, and which in a manner raises them above suffering. She appears pa.s.sive and defenceless, and can oppose to wrong nothing but the infinite endurance and forgiveness of a love that knows not how to resist or resent. She thus becomes at once the most beautiful example of this love, and the most pathetic heroine in Shakespeare's world. If her part were acted by an artist equal to Salvini, and with a Salvini for Oth.e.l.lo, I doubt if the spectacle of the last two Acts would not be p.r.o.nounced intolerable.

Of course this later impression of Desdemona is perfectly right, but it must be carried back and united with the earlier before we can see what Shakespeare imagined. Evidently, we are to understand, innocence, gentleness, sweetness, lovingness were the salient and, in a sense, the princ.i.p.al traits in Desdemona's character. She was, as her father supposed her to be,

a maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself.

But suddenly there appeared something quite different--something which could never have appeared, for example, in Ophelia--a love not only full of romance but showing a strange freedom and energy of spirit, and leading to a most unusual boldness of action; and this action was carried through with a confidence and decision worthy of Juliet or Cordelia. Desdemona does not shrink before the Senate; and her language to her father, though deeply respectful, is firm enough to stir in us some sympathy with the old man who could not survive his daughter's loss. This then, we must understand, was the emergence in Desdemona, as she pa.s.sed from girlhood to womanhood, of an individuality and strength which, if she had lived, would have been gradually fused with her more obvious qualities and have issued in a thousand actions, sweet and good, but surprising to her conventional or timid neighbours. And, indeed, we have already a slight example in her overflowing kindness, her boldness and her ill-fated persistence in pleading Ca.s.sio's cause. But the full ripening of her lovely and n.o.ble nature was not to be. In her brief wedded life she appeared again chiefly as the sweet and submissive being of her girlhood; and the strength of her soul, first evoked by love, found scope to show itself only in a love which, when harshly repulsed, blamed only its own pain; when bruised, only gave forth a more exquisite fragrance; and, when rewarded with death, summoned its last labouring breath to save its murderer.

Many traits in Desdemona's character have been described with sympathetic insight by Mrs. Jameson, and I will pa.s.s them by and add but a few words on the connection between this character and the catastrophe of _Oth.e.l.lo_. Desdemona, as Mrs. Jameson remarks, shows less quickness of intellect and less tendency to reflection than most of Shakespeare's heroines; but I question whether the critic is right in adding that she shows much of the 'unconscious address common in women.' She seems to me deficient in this address, having in its place a frank childlike boldness and persistency, which are full of charm but are unhappily united with a certain want of perception. And these graces and this deficiency appear to be inextricably intertwined, and in the circ.u.mstances conspire tragically against her. They, with her innocence, hinder her from understanding Oth.e.l.lo's state of mind, and lead her to the most unlucky acts and words; and unkindness or anger subdues her so completely that she becomes pa.s.sive and seems to drift helplessly towards the cataract in front.

In Desdemona's incapacity to resist there is also, in addition to her perfect love, something which is very characteristic. She is, in a sense, a child of nature. That deep inward division which leads to clear and conscious oppositions of right and wrong, duty and inclination, justice and injustice, is alien to her beautiful soul. She is not good, kind and true in spite of a temptation to be otherwise, any more than she is charming in spite of a temptation to be otherwise. She seems to know evil only by name, and, her inclinations being good, she acts on inclination. This trait, with its results, may be seen if we compare her, at the crises of the story, with Cordelia. In Desdemona's place, Cordelia, however frightened at Oth.e.l.lo's anger about the lost handkerchief, would not have denied its loss. Painful experience had produced in her a conscious principle of rect.i.tude and a proud hatred of falseness, which would have made a lie, even one wholly innocent in spirit, impossible to her; and the clear sense of justice and right would have led her, instead, to require an explanation of Oth.e.l.lo's agitation which would have broken Iago's plot to pieces. In the same way, at the final crisis, no instinctive terror of death would have compelled Cordelia suddenly to relinquish her demand for justice and to plead for life. But these moments are fatal to Desdemona, who acts precisely as if she were guilty; and they are fatal because they ask for something which, it seems to us, could hardly be united with the peculiar beauty of her nature.

This beauty is all her own. Something as beautiful may be found in Cordelia, but not the same beauty. Desdemona, confronted with Lear's foolish but pathetic demand for a profession of love, could have done, I think, what Cordelia could not do--could have refused to compete with her sisters, and yet have made her father feel that she loved him well.

And I doubt if Cordelia, 'falsely murdered,' would have been capable of those last words of Desdemona--her answer to Emilia's 'O, who hath done this deed?'

n.o.body: I myself. Farewell.

Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!

Were we intended to remember, as we hear this last 'falsehood,' that other falsehood, 'It is not lost,' and to feel that, alike in the momentary child's fear and the deathless woman's love, Desdemona is herself and herself alone?[106]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 85: One instance is worth pointing out, because the pa.s.sage in _Oth.e.l.lo_ has, oddly enough, given trouble. Desdemona says of the maid Barbara: 'She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her.' Theobald changed 'mad' to 'bad.' Warburton read 'and he she loved forsook her, And she proved mad'! Johnson said 'mad' meant only 'wild, frantic, uncertain.' But what Desdemona says of Barbara is just what Ophelia might have said of herself.]

[Footnote 86: The whole force of the pa.s.sages referred to can be felt only by a reader. The Oth.e.l.lo of our stage can never be Shakespeare's Oth.e.l.lo, any more than the Cleopatra of our stage can be his Cleopatra.]

[Footnote 87: See p. 9.]

[Footnote 88: Even here, however, there is a great difference; for although the idea of such a power is not suggested by _King Lear_ as it is by _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, it is repeatedly expressed by persons _in_ the drama. Of such references there are very few in _Oth.e.l.lo_. But for somewhat frequent allusions to h.e.l.l and the devil the view of the characters is almost strictly secular. Desdemona's sweetness and forgivingness are not based on religion, and her only way of accounting for her undeserved suffering is by an appeal to Fortune: 'It is my wretched fortune' (IV. ii. 128). In like manner Oth.e.l.lo can only appeal to Fate (V. ii. 264):

but, oh vain boast!

Who can control his fate?]

[Footnote 89: Ulrici has good remarks, though he exaggerates, on this point and the element of intrigue.]

[Footnote 90: And neither she nor Oth.e.l.lo observes what handkerchief it is. Else she would have remembered how she came to lose it, and would have told Oth.e.l.lo; and Oth.e.l.lo, too, would at once have detected Iago's lie (III. iii. 438) that he had seen Ca.s.sio wipe his beard with the handkerchief 'to-day.' For in fact the handkerchief had been lost _not an hour_ before Iago told that lie (line 288 of the _same scene_), and it was at that moment in his pocket. He lied therefore most rashly, but with his usual luck.]

[Footnote 91: For those who know the end of the story there is a terrible irony in the enthusiasm with which Ca.s.sio greets the arrival of Desdemona in Cyprus. Her ship (which is also Iago's) sets out from Venice a week later than the others, but reaches Cyprus on the same day with them:

Tempests themselves, high seas and howling winds, The gutter'd rocks and congregated sands-- Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel-- As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona.

So swiftly does Fate conduct her to her doom.]

[Footnote 92: The dead bodies are not carried out at the end, as they must have been if the bed had been on the main stage (for this had no front curtain). The curtains within which the bed stood were drawn together at the words, 'Let it be hid' (V. ii. 365).]

[Footnote 93: Against which may be set the scene of the blinding of Gloster in _King Lear_.]

[Footnote 94: The reader who is tempted by it should, however, first ask himself whether Oth.e.l.lo does act like a barbarian, or like a man who, though wrought almost to madness, does 'all in honour.']

[Footnote 95: For the actor, then, to represent him as violently angry when he cashiers Ca.s.sio is an utter mistake.]

[Footnote 96: I cannot deal fully with this point in the lecture. See Note L.]

[Footnote 97: It is important to observe that, in his attempt to arrive at the facts about Ca.s.sio's drunken misdemeanour, Oth.e.l.lo had just had an example of Iago's unwillingness to tell the whole truth where it must injure a friend. No wonder he feels in the Temptation-scene that 'this honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.']