Part 23

“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.

“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.”

Cymbeline

A Princess of Britain

Daughter of Cymbeline, King of Britain, and his acknowledged heir, Imogen had fallen into deep disgrace at Court, and incurred her father’s severest displeasure. Cymbeline had lately married a second wife, a widow with one son, and it had occurred to both the King and Queen that it would be an excellent plan for Imogen to marry this youth. But Cloten was a clownish, ill-conditioned lout, and Imogen had chosen to prefer as her husband a poor but worthy gentleman. Posthumus Leonatus had been her playfellow from childhood, for his parents dying when he was an infant, he had been adopted by Cymbeline, who brought him up almost as his own son. Though the King, Queen, and Cloten himself were enraged at the choice Imogen had made, and the courtiers were forced to appear as if they followed the royal example, not one of the latter but was glad at heart at the thing he pretended to scowl at. For while Cloten was, as one gentleman expressed it, “a thing too bad for bad report,” Leonatus was a man endowed with such outward personal grace, and such inward nobility of soul, that it would be difficult to find his equal through all the world. Even as a boy, most praised, most loved, he had come unharmed through the trying ordeal of being a Court favourite, drinking in all branches of learning as lightly as others do air; and the proof of his excellence was evident in the fact that so peerless a lady as Imogen had chosen him for her husband.

But Cymbeline, untouched by his merits, was indignant that his daughter had married “a beggar” when she might have had the only son of the Queen. He pronounced the sentence of banishment on Leonatus, and commanded that Imogen should be imprisoned at Court, under the custody of her step-mother.

The new Queen was a crafty, designing woman, whose chief aim at present was to secure the future throne for her boorish son. Cymbeline, it is true, had had two sons of his own, but they were both stolen when they were little more than babies, the eldest being only three, and the youngest, two years old. From the day of their disappearance no trace of them had ever been found. The Princess Imogen was now the only child, and as Cymbeline’s heir, the Queen was anxious to entice her into a marriage with her son. When this attempt failed, the Queen did not scruple to plan other and darker means to accomplish her purpose. She had some knowledge of medicine, and took pleasure in making perfumes and preserves from all sorts of herbs and simples. Under pretence of perfecting her knowledge, she begged from a physician, Cornelius--who had helped her with her studies--some most poisonous compounds, which would produce a languishing death. She said she did not intend to use them on human beings, but only on animals, to try their power, and apply the antidote, in order to discover their respective virtues and effects.

The good physician did not at all approve of such cruel experiments. He knew the Queen’s evil nature, and would not trust one of such malice with drugs of so deadly a kind. While, therefore, pretending to comply with the Queen’s request, he really gave her some harmless compounds which would only stupefy and dull the senses for awhile, but do no ultimate injury.

It was well that Cornelius acted so discreetly, for the Queen lost no time in putting her wicked schemes into practice.

When Leonatus, on his banishment, departed for Rome, he left behind him a most faithful, devoted servant, called Pisanio, who was to watch over and attend his dear wife. The crafty Queen tried to win over Pisanio to her interests, promising him large bribes if he would influence Imogen on behalf of her son. But Pisanio’s steadfast fidelity was not to be shaken. Seeing that all her fawning friendliness was not likely to achieve her aim, the Queen tried another method to remove Leonatus from her path. While talking with Pisanio, she cunningly let fall, as if by accident, the little box of drugs which she had obtained from Cornelius. When Pisanio picked it up, and would have returned it to her, she insisted on his keeping it, as an earnest of future good which she intended to bestow on him, explaining that it was a wonderful cordial by which she had five times redeemed the King from death. The Queen hoped that Pisanio, wishing to do his master good, would give him some of this cordial, which would certainly prove fatal. After the death of Leonatus, if Imogen still persisted in refusing to marry Cloten, the Queen determined that she, too, should have a taste of the poison, when the way would be clear for Cloten to ascend the throne.

* * * * *

While these things were happening in Britain, Leonatus had reached Rome. Here, at the house of a friend, Philario, he happened to meet some acquaintances that he had known in younger days--one a Frenchman, and another an Italian called Iachimo. The Frenchman reminded him of a quarrel which they had had on the occasion of their former meeting, which, he said, was of a slight and trivial nature. But Leonatus, with his ripened judgment, would not admit that the cause of the quarrel was altogether slight.

“Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?” inquired Iachimo.

The Frenchman replied that a dispute had arisen as to which of the ladies, whom each loved in his own country, was to be most praised; and that Leonatus had asserted that his, in Britain, was the fairest, most virtuous, wise, and constant; and that her favour was less easily to be won than the rarest of the ladies in France.

“That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion is by this time worn out,” laughed Iachimo.

“She holds her virtue still, and I my mind,” returned Leonatus.

“You must not so far prefer her before our ladies of Italy,” said Iachimo, still in the same jesting way.

But Leonatus was in earnest, and, in spite of the good-natured bantering of the others, he persisted in extolling the charms and excellence of Imogen.

At their parting in Britain Imogen had given her husband as a remembrance a diamond ring, which had been her mother’s, and which she held very precious; and Leonatus, on his part, had clasped on her arm a bracelet.

Iachimo now said laughingly that if only he had the chance of a few minutes’ conversation with Imogen he would soon win her affection,--in fact, he was ready to wager the half of his estate against Leonatus’s ring that there was no lady in the world of whom he could not say the same.

Leonatus began to get annoyed, and Philario begged them to let the subject drop. But Iachimo would not give in. He now said he wished he had wagered his whole estate. He would lay ten thousand ducats against Leonatus’s ring that if he went to the Court of Britain he would bring back evidence that Imogen’s favour was by no means so hard to win as Leonatus imagined.

Leonatus, stung by Iachimo’s remarks, and longing to prove the falsity of his assertions, and to punish him for his impertinence, said he would accept the wager. But he would wager gold against Iachimo’s gold; the ring he held as dear as his finger--it was part of it.

Iachimo accused him of fearing to lose the wager, and said he was wise in declining to risk his ring, which so irritated Leonatus that he accepted the challenge.

“I dare you to this match; here’s my ring,” he exclaimed.

“I will not have this wager,” said Philario.

But both Leonatus and Iachimo declared it should go on, and proceeded to settle the conditions, and to have them lawfully recorded. Only Leonatus further determined that, if Iachimo succeeded in winning his wager owing to Imogen’s fault or weakness, Leonatus would cast off his wife utterly; she was not worth debate. If, on the other hand, Iachimo’s advances were repulsed with the contempt they deserved, Iachimo should answer with his sword for his impertinence.

To this Iachimo agreed, and without delay he started for Britain.

Arrived at the Court of Cymbeline, he was introduced to Imogen as the bearer of letters from Leonatus. She received him with charming frankness and cordiality, delighted to welcome one of whom her husband wrote as bestowing much kindness on him. In accordance with a plan Iachimo had thought out, he replied in answer to Imogen’s eager questions concerning Leonatus that he was quite well, exceedingly pleasant, and very merry and gamesome--in fact, he was called “the Briton reveller.”

Imogen was somewhat surprised and a little hurt to hear this, for at home Leonatus was, if anything, of a grave and melancholy disposition.

“_I_ never saw him sad,” protested Iachimo; and further he added, Leonatus always laughed loudly when one of his companions, a Frenchman, seemed sorrowful because he had left behind him in his own country a lady whom he loved. “Fancy a man sighing for the bondage of any woman!” Leonatus had said.

It pained Imogen to think that Leonatus cared so little about her, as Iachimo’s words implied; but when this smooth-tongued Italian gentleman went on to pity her for the way in which her husband seemed to have forgotten her, and counselled her to take revenge, she began to be on her guard.

“Revenge?” she said. “How should I be revenged? If this be true, how should I be revenged?”

Iachimo replied that if Leonatus cared so little about her as to be able to amuse himself happily with all the most riotous companions in Rome, why, then, let Imogen waste no longer any thought on him, but bestow her affection on one who was ready to be her devoted friend and servant. _He_--Iachimo--would never neglect her as Leonatus had done.

Imogen interrupted these silky speeches with indignant scorn, and ordered Iachimo to leave her presence instantly. “What ho, Pisanio!“ she cried, to summon her faithful attendant, for she would not listen to another word from this insulting stranger.

Then, with supple guile, Iachimo suddenly changed his tactics, and burst into the most glowing praise of Leonatus. He implored Imogen’s pardon, and declared that all he had said was quite false, and only to test her love. Leonatus was one of the best and truest of men--“he sits among men like a descended god; he hath a kind of honour sets him off, more than mortal seeming.”

Iachimo’s present words made amends to Imogen for his unworthy artifice, and she pardoned him, and resumed all her former gracious charm of manner.

“I had almost forgotten to entreat your grace in a small request,” said Iachimo, as he was taking his leave. “And yet of moment, too, for it concerns your lord; myself and other noble friends are partners in the business.”

“Pray, what is it?” asked Imogen.

Iachimo answered that Leonatus and about a dozen of his friends in Rome had joined together to buy a present for the Emperor. He, as their agent, had purchased this in France; it was plate of rare device, and jewels of rich and exquisite form. They were of great value, and being a stranger in Britain, Iachimo was anxious to have them in safe keeping. Might he beg of Imogen to take them under her protection?

“Willingly; and I will pledge mine honour for their safety,” responded Imogen. “Since my lord hath interest in them, I will keep them under my own protection, in my bedchamber.”

“They are in a trunk, attended by my men,” said Iachimo. “I will make bold to send them to you, only for this night. I must leave to-morrow. Therefore, if you please to greet your lord with writing, do it to-night.”

“I will write,” said Imogen. “Send your trunk to me; it shall be safely kept and faithfully yielded to you. You are very welcome.”

How Iachimo won his Wager

The trunk sent by Iachimo was duly placed for security in Imogen’s chamber, but it was no plate or jewels that it contained. That night, when the Princess slept, a lighted taper still burning in the room, and near at hand the book she had been reading ere she fell asleep, the lid of the trunk was lifted, and a man stepped out. It was Iachimo. With rapid glance he surveyed the room, carefully studying every detail, what pictures there were, where the window was placed, what was the adornment of the bed, the arras, the figures and the story represented. But even this was not sufficient for his purpose. He stealthily approached the bed, and while Imogen lay wrapt in deep sleep, he slipped from her arm the bracelet which Leonatus had given her, noting at the same time, on the pure whiteness of her skin, a little mole with five spots, like the crimson spots in the bottom of a cowslip. Next he took up the book she had been reading, looked carefully at the title, and observed the exact passage in the tale where she had left off. Then, satisfied with his ignoble work, he went back into the trunk. The lid shut with a spring, and once more there was apparently nothing in the room to disturb the innocent serenity of the sleeping Princess.

In the morning early came an unwelcome suitor. Cloten, the Queen’s son, had been advised to try the effects of music on the hard-hearted lady, who unceasingly repulsed his advances. He therefore ordered some musicians to attend outside her chamber window, and sing a charming little “aubade”--that is, a song of the nature of a serenade, but sung at dawn to waken the sleeper instead of during the night. The song chosen was an especially pretty one, with a wonderfully sweet air, and Cloten hoped it would not fail to touch Imogen’s heart.

“Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phœbus ’gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise!”

Imogen liked the pretty music, but she was sorry not to be able to thank Cloten properly for his trouble, for she disliked him as heartily as ever, and, vexed by his importunity, was forced to tell him so. Cloten tried to persuade her to give up her husband, saying that the contract which she pretended with that “base wretch, one bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes, with scraps of the Court,” was no contract, and that the marriage could easily be dissolved.

Imogen, furious that this contemptible creature should thus dare to insult the noble Leonatus, indignantly heaped scorn on Cloten, telling him that he was too base even to be her husband’s groom; that he would be too much honoured, and be worthy of envy, if he were styled the under hangman of his kingdom. In short, she ended, the meanest garment that Leonatus had ever worn was dearer in her eyes than a hundred thousand men such as Cloten.

Imogen had already had cause that morning for grave distress, for she had discovered the loss of her bracelet, and was greatly upset about it. Leaving her clownish wooer to brood sullenly over this unusual plain-speaking (for all the gentlemen at Court flattered and fawned on Cloten to his face, though they roundly abused him behind his back), Imogen now called her faithful Pisanio, and bade him tell her waiting-woman to make the most careful search for the missing jewel.

“It was thy master’s; I would not lose it for a revenue of any King’s in Europe. I _think_ I saw it this morning; I am confident last night it was on my arm; I kissed it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord that I kiss aught but him,” she ended, with a melancholy attempt at a little jest.

Alas, poor Imogen, if she had only known how fatally near the truth came her lightly-spoken words!

At that same moment Iachimo was speeding back to Rome with his unwelcome tidings. At first Leonatus took for granted that Iachimo must have lost his wager; he had an answer ready for everything that the latter could say; but little by little the wily Italian contrived to make it appear that Imogen had been far too generous in the favours and friendliness she had lavished on this stranger. He had seen her chamber, he said, and forthwith he described all the tapestry of silk and silver with which it was hung. The chimney was south of the room, and the story of the huntress Diana was wonderfully carved as the subject of the chimney-piece. The roof of the chamber was fretted with golden cherubs; the andirons on the hearth were two winking Cupids of silver, each standing on one foot.

Leonatus was forced to admit that all this was true; but still, he said, it did not prove that Iachimo had won his wager.

Then, with a self-assured air of triumph, Iachimo produced the bracelet, which he declared Imogen had taken from her arm to give him.

Leonatus, with one last effort to preserve his belief in Imogen’s love and fidelity, suggested that perhaps she had taken off the bracelet to send it to him.

“She writes so to you, doth she?” asked Iachimo cunningly. But alas, Imogen’s letter, which he had himself conveyed, made no mention of such a fact.

“O, no, no, no! It’s true. Here, take this too!” cried Leonatus, handing Iachimo the ring which he had wagered. And he broke out into a torrent of despairing scorn for the utter falsehood and inconstancy of all women.

“Have patience, sir, and take your ring again,” counselled Philario, who all through this interview had keenly distrusted the plausible Iachimo. “It is not yet won. Probably Imogen lost the bracelet; or who knows if one of her women, being bribed, has not stolen it from her?”

“Very true, and so I hope he came by it,” said Leonatus. “Return me my ring, and give me some stronger proof than this, for the bracelet was stolen.”

Then Iachimo told of the little mole which he had noticed on the white skin of Imogen, and Leonatus could no longer refuse to admit that he had lost his wager.