The Shakespeare Story-Book

The first sight on which his eyes opened was the loving face of Cordelia. For a moment the King thought it must be some spirit from heaven, and could scarcely believe that it was indeed his own daughter, in flesh and blood. He thought that his wits must still be wandering.

“Where have I been? Where am I?” he murmured, looking round with dazed eyes, while the spectators watched with mute anxiety, to see what turn his malady would take. “I should die with pity to see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands; let’s see. I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured of my condition!”

“Oh, look upon me, sir!” entreated Cordelia, with her soft voice. “And hold your hands in benediction over me. No, sir, you must not kneel.”

“Pray do not mock me,” said Lear in trembling accents. “I am a very foolish, fond old man, fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man” – he looked round in piteous appeal – “yet I am doubtful, for I am ignorant what place this is… Pray do not mock me, for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.”

“And so I am, I am,” cried Cordelia, the tears raining from her tender eyes.

“Are your tears wet?” said Lear, touching her cheeks softly, like a child. “Yes, faith! I pray, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me, for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.”

“No cause, no cause,” said Cordelia.

“Am I in France?” asked Lear.

“In your own kingdom, sir,” said Kent respectfully.

“Do not abuse me,” pleaded the once haughty King.

The good doctor now interposed; he bade Cordelia be comforted: the madness was cured, but there was danger in letting the King brood over what had passed. He must not be troubled with further talking until his shaken senses were more securely settled.

“Will it please your highness walk?” asked Cordelia, with her sweet grace of manner.

“You must bear with me,” said the old man humbly. “Pray you, now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish.”

And so, subdued in mind and crushed in spirit, clinging to the child whom he had spurned, the once fiery and impetuous monarch was tenderly led away by his loving daughter.

It would be pleasant if the story could end here, and if we could leave the tempest-tossed old King in the cherished keeping of the gentle Cordelia. But a sadder fate for both was at hand. The King of France had been suddenly called back to his own land by business which imported so much fear and danger to the State that his personal return was absolutely necessary. In his absence the French forces were attacked by the British troops of Goneril and Regan, under the command of a treacherous son of the loyal Earl of Gloucester, called Edmund. Unfortunately, on this occasion the British won the battle, and Cordelia and King Lear were both captured.

Edmund ordered them away to prison, whither King Lear went joyously enough, for he was quite happy at being again with his daughter. As soon as they had gone, Edmund despatched an officer to the prison with secret instructions, which he ordered him to carry out at once.

Scarcely had this been done when a flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the Duke of Albany, Goneril, and Regan. The Duke of Albany, always of a milder and more merciful nature, had for some time been dissatisfied with the treatment to which the poor old King had been subjected. He was indignant at the Duke of Cornwall’s barbarity in putting out the eyes of Gloucester, and was glad to hear that he had met his just punishment at the hands of the servant whom he had killed for daring to remonstrate with him.

Albany now demanded that Lear should be handed over to his keeping – a request which Edmund refused to comply with, giving as pretext that the question of Cordelia and her father required a fitter place for discussion. The Duke of Albany ordered Edmund to obey, saying that he regarded him only as a subject in this war, and not as his brother, whereupon Regan interposed, and declared that she had invested Edmund with full authority, therefore he was quite the equal of Albany; moreover, she intended to marry him.

An angry discussion now arose between the two sisters. Goneril also had taken a fancy to this Edmund, and had not scrupled to lay a plot to get her husband killed, so that she might marry him. Knowing Regan’s designs, she had added to her crimes by secretly poisoning her sister, in order to get her out of the way, and even while they were disputing, the drug began to take effect, and in a few minutes Regan was dead.

Goneril’s husband, however, had discovered the plot against himself, and now he publicly denounced his wife. In ungovernable fury at the failure of her schemes, and refusing to give any answer to the Duke of Albany’s accusations, Goneril hurried away, and took her own life.

Thus miserably perished these two hard-hearted and wicked women.

Edmund in the meanwhile, wounded to death by his own brave half-brother Edgar, who had appeared as champion to punish Edmund for his many horrible acts of treachery and wickedness, now confessed that he and Goneril had given private instructions that Cordelia was to be hanged in prison, and had intended to lay the blame on her own despair, which had caused her to do this desperate deed.

Messengers were sent in haste to arrest this fatal order, but, alas! it was too late. As Edmund was borne away, King Lear entered, bearing the dead body of Cordelia in his arms. The old man’s reason was again tottering on the brink of madness, and the spectators could only listen in pitying sorrow to his frenzied grief over his murdered child. One moment he mourned her as dead; the next he tried to persuade himself she was still living. He called for a looking-glass, to see if her breath would mist or stain it, a proof that she lived; and held a feather to her lips, and thought it stirred. The Earl of Kent came and knelt before him, but the King turned from him impatiently, and bent again over Cordelia, where she lay on the ground.

“Cordelia, Cordelia! Stay a little!” he implored in piteous accents. “Ha! What is it thou sayest?” He leant his ear to listen, and with eager self-deception tried to explain his failure to hear a sound. “Her voice was ever soft, gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.” Then, with a sudden change, he drew himself up, and, looking round, cried exultingly: “I killed the slave that was a-hanging thee!”

“’Tis true, my lords, he did,” said an officer who was standing by.

“Did I not, fellow?” said the King proudly. “I have seen the time, with my good biting falchion, I would have made them skip. I am old now, and these same crosses spoil me. – Who are you? Mine eyes are not of the best; I’ll tell you in a minute. Are you not Kent?”

“The same – your servant Kent.”

But the King’s last gleam of reason was going, and Kent in vain tried to make him realise the fact of his own loyal fidelity, and that the cruel Goneril and Regan were dead. The King’s thoughts were again with his beloved child.

“And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life!” he wailed in heart-broken accents. “Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more – never, never, never, never, never! Pray, you, undo this button.” He made a choking movement at the cloak at his throat, and someone stepped forward and gently unclasped it for him. “Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her – look, her lips – look there, look there!” and with a strange cry of mingled joy and anguish King Lear fell dead on the body of his dear child Cordelia.

And so, with all his faults and follies, which had assuredly wrought out their own bitter retribution, the fiery-hearted King passed into the realm of eternal rest.

Othello

“Honest Iago”

Brave, generous, of a free and open nature, Othello the Moor had won high honour in the state of Venice, for, although dark in colouring and of an alien race, he was one of her most renowned generals, and time after time had carried her arms to victory. When, therefore, alarming news reached Venice that the Turkish hordes were again threatening to invade some of her most valued territories, it was to the Moorish warrior Othello that the Venetian senators turned at once to avert the threatened danger.

Othello’s frank, valiant nature had won him many friends, but close at hand, where he little suspected it, was one subtle and dangerous enemy. Iago, one of his under-officers, hated him with a deadly venom. Iago was a brave soldier, but a man of utterly unscrupulous character. He had been with Othello through several campaigns, and when a chance for promotion came had hoped, through high personal influence, to obtain the envied position of Othello’s lieutenant. In his own opinion, Iago thoroughly merited this post, but when suit was made to Othello he evaded the petitioners, and finally put an end to their hopes by saying that he had already chosen his officer.

“And what was he?” demanded Iago disdainfully. “Forsooth, a great arithmetician – one Michael Cassio, a Florentine that never set a squadron in the field, nor knows the division of a battle more than a spinster, unless by bookish theory; mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership. But he, in good time, must be his lieutenant, and I – God bless the mark! – his Moorship’s ancient.”

Burning for revenge, Iago, instead of declining the inferior position of “ancient,” or ensign-bearer, accepted it, but only to serve his own purpose. “In following Othello, I follow but myself,” he declared. “Heaven is my judge, not for love and duty, but seeming so, for my peculiar end.” For Iago prided himself on the skill with which he could conceal his real feelings, and under a mask of the bluntest honesty he began to work out a scheme of diabolical cunning.

There was a certain senator of Venice at that time called Brabantio, who had an only daughter, named Desdemona. Brabantio was very fond of Othello, and often invited him to his house, and questioned him concerning the story of his life – the battles, sieges, fortunes, through which he had passed. Othello recounted all his adventures from year to year, from his boyish days to the moment when he was speaking; he told of disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood and field; of hair-breadth escapes; of being taken by the foe and sold into slavery; of his redemption from captivity; and then of his travels in all sorts of wild and extraordinary places. He described the vast caves and barren deserts that he had seen; rough quarries, rocks, and hills, whose heads touched heaven; cannibals that eat each other, and queer tribes of savages whose heads grow beneath their shoulders.

Desdemona, the gentle daughter of Brabantio, dearly loved to hear these thrilling stories, and was quite fascinated by the valorous soldier who had passed through such strange experiences. Hastily despatching her household affairs, she would come again and again to listen greedily to Othello, often weeping for pity when she heard of some distressful stroke he had suffered in his youth. His story being done, she would sigh, and swear, “in faith, ’twas strange – ’twas passing strange; ’twas pitiful – ’twas wondrous pitiful!” She wished she had not heard it, and yet she wished that heaven had made her such a man; and she bade Othello, if he had a friend who loved her, that he would but teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, Othello spoke. Desdemona loved him for the dangers he had passed, and Othello loved Desdemona because she pitied him.

This was the simple explanation of what her father, furious with rage, put down to witchcraft, for he could not believe that his timid daughter could really have fallen in love with such an alarming person as the swarthy Moor. But, as Desdemona said, she saw Othello’s visage in his mind, and the valour and nobility of his nature made her forget the darkness of his complexion. Knowing her father’s violent, unreasonable disposition, and fearing that he would never give his consent, Desdemona quietly left her home one night without consulting him, and was married to Othello.

Now was Iago’s opportunity. Finding out by some means what was taking place, he informed a rejected suitor of Desdemona’s called Roderigo, a brainless Venetian youth, and together they went to Brabantio’s house, and in high glee roused him, and told the news that Othello had stolen away his daughter. Having raised the alarm, and set them on the trail where they would be likely to find Othello, Iago thought it discreet to retire, for he did not wish it to appear as if he had anything to do with the matter. To Othello, he afterwards laid all the blame on Roderigo, declaring that several times he was so enraged with him that he could almost have killed him for the abusive way in which he had spoken of Othello.

Brabantio immediately called up his servants, and set out to look for the culprits; but before he found them the mischief was done – Othello and Desdemona were securely married.

In the Council Chamber at Venice, though it was night time, the Duke and senators were holding an important meeting. News had come that a fleet of Turkish galleys was bearing down on Cyprus; and though the rumours were conflicting as to the number of the fleet and its present position, there was no doubt that the danger was imminent, and that preparations for defence must at once be set on foot. Messengers were sent to summon both Othello and Brabantio. As it happened, the latter was already on his way to appeal to the Duke to punish Othello, and happening to fall in with Othello, the two arrived at the same moment.

“Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you against the public enemy,” said the Duke. Then, turning to Brabantio, he added courteously: ”I did not see you; welcome, gentle signor; we lacked your counsel and your help to-night.”

“So did I yours,” replied Brabantio; and he proceeded to pour forth his complaint, saying that it was not anything he had heard of business which had called him from his bed, nor did the public anxiety make any impression on him, for his own private grief was of so overbearing a nature that it swallowed up all other concerns.

The Duke, much concerned, asked what was the matter, whereupon Brabantio in the bitterest terms accused Othello of having bewitched his daughter, for, he said, it was quite against nature that she could have fallen in love with him if she had been in her proper senses. The Duke asked Othello what he could say in answer to the charge. Then Othello, in a manly but modest fashion, gave a straightforward account of what had really happened, and so convincing were his words that the Duke was quite won over to his side, and at the end exclaimed heartily, “I think this tale would win my daughter too!” He tried to persuade Brabantio to make the best of the matter, but the old senator was relentless. All that he would do was to transfer the blame to his daughter, when Desdemona, on being sent for, confirmed everything Othello had said. Her father bade her say to whom in all the assembled company she owed most obedience. Desdemona, with modesty but decision, replied that she saw a divided duty – that she was indebted to her father for life and education, and that she loved and respected him as a daughter; but even as her own mother had left her father, preferring Brabantio, so Desdemona claimed that she had as much right to leave her father and follow her husband Othello.

Brabantio was quite unmoved by this argument.

“God be with you! I have done,” he said roughly, and in a few heartless words he handed over his daughter to Othello. “Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; she has deceived her father, and may thee,” was his final cruel taunt.

“My life upon her faith!” cried Othello indignantly, as he clasped his weeping young wife in his arms.

The next question to decide was where Desdemona should stay during her husband’s absence. She begged so earnestly to be allowed to accompany him to the war that Othello joined his voice to hers, and the Duke gave them leave to settle the matter as they chose. Othello was obliged to start that very night, and Desdemona was to follow later under the escort of his officer, “honest Iago,” to whose care Othello especially committed her, and whose wife Emilia he begged might attend on her.

If Othello had but known it, “honest Iago” at that very moment was already weaving his plans of villainy, and was sneering inwardly at his General’s open and trustful nature, which made him so easy to be deceived. The sweetest revenge which occurred to Iago was to bring discord between Othello and the beautiful young wife whom he loved so devotedly. Iago therefore determined to set cunningly to work to implant a feeling of jealousy in Othello’s mind. Like many warm-hearted and affectionate people, Othello was extremely passionate and impulsive. Once his feelings were aroused, he rushed forward blindly in the direction in which a clever villain might lure him, and being so absolutely truthful and candid himself, he was utterly unsuspicious of falsehood in others.

Iago’s weapon was not far to seek, and he had, moreover, the satisfaction of feeling that he would enjoy a double revenge, for it was Michael Cassio, Othello’s new lieutenant, on whom he fixed as a fitting tool. Cassio was young, handsome, attractive, a general favourite, especially with women, where his graceful manners always won him favour. He was already greatly liked by Desdemona, for when Othello came to woo her, Cassio was his frequent companion, and often carried messages between them. What, then, more natural than that a young girl like Desdemona should presently grow tired of her elderly and war-beaten husband, and turn for amusement to this charming young gallant? Such, at least, was Iago’s reasoning, and such was the poison which he intended to pour into the ear of the guileless Othello.

Well met at Cyprus

On the way to Cyprus a terrible tempest sprang up, which scattered Othello’s convoy, and drove his own ship out of its course, so that, after all, Desdemona got to the island before her husband. Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, had already arrived, and had been sounding the praises of his General’s wife to the islanders, and when news came that Desdemona’s ship had also safely reached port, he was ready with a rapturous greeting for the young bride.

“O, behold, the riches of the ship is come on shore!” he cried, as Desdemona approached, with Emilia, Iago, Roderigo, and their attendants. “Hail to thee, lady! The grace of heaven, before, behind thee, and on every hand, enwheel thee round!”

“I thank thee, valiant Cassio,” replied Desdemona. “What tidings can you tell me of my lord?”

Cassio answered that Othello was not yet arrived, and for anything he knew he was well, and would be there shortly; and even as he spoke, the guns on the citadel thundered a greeting to a friendly sail.

Like a spider who has woven its web, Iago watched his victims; he gloated over the idle chatter between Cassio and Desdemona, and marked, as they laughed and talked together, how the young man smiled and bowed, and often kissed his fingers with an air of gallantry.

“Ay, smile upon her, do,” he sneered to himself; “if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft… Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed!”

“An excellent song!” pronounced Cassio, whereupon Iago sang another, which he found even “more exquisite” than the first. So merrily went the minutes that it was not until much later that the new lieutenant remembered his neglected duties, by which time his senses were quite confused by what he had drunk.

When he left, Iago took occasion to spread a bad impression of him by saying what a pity it was that such a good soldier should be spoilt by the persistent habit of drink – in fact, that he never went sober to bed. This, of course, was an absolute falsehood, but the gentlemen of Cyprus believed what Iago said. Montano remarked it was a pity Othello were not told of it; perhaps he did not know, or perhaps his good nature prized the virtue in Cassio, and overlooked the evil. It was a great pity that the noble Moor should hazard such an important place as second in command to one with such an incurable fault. It would be right to say so to Othello.

“Not I, for this fair island,” said the hypocritical Iago. “I love Cassio well, and would do much to cure him of this, evil. – But hark! What noise?” for there was a cry without: “Help! help!”

The next instant Cassio entered violently, driving Roderigo in front of him and beating him. Montano interfered to protect Roderigo, whereupon Cassio turned on him, and both drawing their weapons, Montano was presently wounded. Iago, meanwhile, had sent Roderigo to run and cry a mutiny, and make as much disturbance as possible, while Iago himself had the alarum-bell set pealing, and shouted noisily in all directions, contriving largely to increase the confusion, under pretence of restoring order.

Othello was speedily on the scene, and with prompt decision at once silenced the uproar. Then he asked for an explanation, which no one seemed willing to give.

“Honest Iago, that lookest dead with grieving, speak: who began this? On thy love, I charge thee.”

Iago mumbled some confused excuses, which were certainly not intended to deceive the General. Cassio, on being appealed to, now completely sobered by the shock, answered simply, “I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak.” Montano declared that he was too much injured to say anything; Othello’s officer, Iago, could tell him everything; he was not conscious of having done or said anything amiss.

Othello now began to lose patience, and knowing the serious danger of such a disturbance in the present unsettled condition of the island, he curtly commanded Iago to let him know how the brawl began, and who set it on.

With feigned reluctance, but with much secret satisfaction, Iago gave an account of what had happened, taking care to heighten his own ignorance of the affair, and ostentatiously pretending to try to shield Cassio from blame.

Othello’s sentence was short and sharp.

“I know, Iago, thy honesty and love do mince this matter, making it light to Cassio. – Cassio, I love thee, but never more be officer of mine.”

When Othello and the others had retired, Iago, seeing Cassio standing as if dazed, went up and asked him if he were hurt.

“Ay, past all surgery,” was the mournful response.

“Marry, Heaven forbid!” said Iago, startled.

“Reputation, reputation, reputation!” groaned Cassio. “O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!”

“As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound,” scoffed Iago. “There is more sense in that than in ‘reputation.’” And he tried to cheer up Cassio by telling him there were ways in which he could recover the General’s favour, – only sue to him, and he would soon be won round.

“I would rather sue to be despised than deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, so indiscreet an officer,” returned the contrite Cassio.

“You or any man may be drunk once in his life, man,” urged Iago. “I’ll tell you what you shall do.” And he went on to say that the General’s wife was now the General, meaning by this that Othello would do anything that Desdemona wanted. Iago advised Cassio to appeal to Desdemona. She was so good and kind that she always did more than she was asked. If Desdemona pleaded with Othello on his behalf, Iago was ready to wager anything that Cassio would soon be in higher favour than ever.

Cassio was grateful to Iago for his counsel, which the latter protested he only offered in love and honest kindness, and Cassio resolved early the next morning to beseech Desdemona to undertake his cause.

Iago was delighted to find his plot working so smoothly. He knew that the more earnestly Desdemona appealed on behalf of Cassio, the more fuel there would be to feed Othello’s jealousy.

Thus, out of the gentle lady’s own sweetness and goodness Iago made the net that was to enmesh them all.

The Handkerchief

In accordance with his resolve, Cassio appealed the next morning to Desdemona, who with all the warmth of her affectionate nature undertook his defence, and merrily promised to give her husband no peace until he had pardoned the offender. Othello approaching at that moment, Desdemona begged Cassio to remain and hear her speak, but the young lieutenant was too much ashamed to face his General, and left in some haste. Iago seized this chance to implant the first seeds of suspicion in Othello, by exclaiming, as if without thinking, “Ha! I like not that.”