Othello Act 1 Scene 3

There's no consistency in these reports

that would make them believable.

They certainly don't match up.

My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

And mine say a hundred and forty.

And mine, two hundred!

But though they don't agree on an exact number —

as often happens when reports are guesswork,

there's usually variation — they all confirm

a Turkish fleet, heading for Cyprus.

Yes, that's entirely credible.

I don't take enough comfort in the discrepancies

to doubt the main point,

which I accept with real alarm.

Hello! Hello! Hello!

A messenger from the fleet.

Well — what's the news?

The Turkish force is heading for Rhodes.

That's what I was ordered to report to the government

by Signor Angelo.

What do you make of this change?

This can't be right —

it fails any test of reason. It's a display

meant to make us look the wrong way. When we consider

how important Cyprus is to the Turks,

and remind ourselves

that it matters more to them than Rhodes does

and can be taken with far less difficulty,

because it isn't in the same state of readiness

and entirely lacks the defences

that Rhodes has — if we think about that,

we can't believe the Turks are so inept

as to leave until last the thing they want most,

passing up an easy and profitable target

to stir up a pointless risk instead.

No — I'm confident he isn't going for Rhodes.

More news here.

The Turks, honoured and gracious lords,

steering a direct course for Rhodes,

joined up there with a second fleet.

Just as I thought. How many, at a guess?

About thirty ships. And now they've reversed

their course and are heading openly,

making no secret of it, for Cyprus. Signor Montano,

your loyal and valiant officer,

reports this to you with his full loyalty

and begs you to believe him.

It's Cyprus for certain, then.

Marcus Luccicos — isn't he in the city?

He's in Florence now.

Write to him from us — with all speed. Send it now!

Here comes Brabantio, and the valiant Moor.

Valiant Othello, we must send you at once

against our common enemy, the Turks.

(to Brabantio) I didn't see you. Welcome, noble signor.

We've missed your advice and your help tonight. (The Duke greets the general first and the senator second. Brabantio notices.)

And I've missed yours. Your Grace, forgive me:

it wasn't my office or any news of state business

that got me out of bed, and it isn't public concern

that grips me. My own private grief

is so overwhelming, like water through a broken floodgate,

that it swallows up every other sorrow

and remains undiminished.

Why — what's happened?

My daughter! Oh, my daughter!

Dead?

Yes — to me.

She's been deceived, stolen from me and corrupted

by spells and potions bought from quacks.

For human nature to go so absurdly wrong,

when it isn't defective or blind or dull-witted,

is impossible without witchcraft.

Whoever he is that by this foul business

has cheated your daughter out of herself

and you out of her — you shall read the bloody book of law

yourself, in its harshest letter,

interpreting it as you please. Yes — even if my own son

were the accused. (He promises absolute justice before he knows who the accused is.)

I humbly thank Your Grace.

Here is the man — this Moor — whom it seems

your own urgent summons on state business

has brought here.

We're very sorry to hear it. (The whole Senate deflates in four words.)

What have you to say for yourself about this?

Nothing, except that it's true.

Most powerful, grave and honoured signors,

my noble and well-proven good masters:

that I have taken this old man's daughter away

is perfectly true. True — I've married her.

The full extent and front of my offence

goes that far and no further. I'm rough in my speech

and not much blessed with the gentle language of peacetime.

Since these arms of mine had the strength of a seven-year-old,

until nine months ago, they've spent

their best efforts in army camps.

And I can speak of very little in this wide world

beyond what concerns fighting and battle,

so I'll do my case little credit

by speaking for myself. But with your gracious patience

I'll tell a plain, unvarnished story

of my whole courtship — what drugs, what spells,

what sorcery and what powerful magic

(since that's what I'm accused of)

I used to win his daughter. (He apologises for being no speaker, then delivers the finest speech in the play. That is not an accident.)

A girl who was never forward,

of a nature so still and quiet that her own feelings

made her blush. And she, against her own nature,

against her age, her country, her reputation, everything,

fell in love with something she was frightened to look at!

It's a crippled, badly damaged judgment

that would grant such a perfect creature could go so wrong

against every law of nature. One is forced

to look for the schemes of cunning hell

to explain it. So I state again

that with some mixture powerful over the blood,

or some potion enchanted for this purpose,

he worked on her.

Asserting it isn't proving it,

without broader and more open evidence

than these flimsy appearances and weak probabilities

of ordinary supposition that you bring against him.

But speak, Othello:

did you by underhand and forcible means

overcome and poison this young woman's affections?

Or did it come about by asking, and honest conversation

of the kind one soul offers another?

I beg you,

send to the Sagittary for the lady

and let her speak about me in front of her father.

If you find me guilty by her account,

then not only take away the trust and office you've given me —

let your sentence

fall on my life itself.

Bring Desdemona here.

Ensign, take them there — you know the place best. (He sends Iago to fetch his wife. He will keep doing this.)

And until she comes — as truthfully as I'd confess

my sins to heaven —

I'll give your grave ears an exact account

of how I succeeded in this lady's love,

and she in mine.

Tell it, Othello.

Her father was fond of me and often invited me over.

He kept asking me the story of my life,

year by year — the battles, the sieges, the twists of luck

I'd lived through.

I ran through it all, from my boyhood

to the very moment he asked me to tell it,

speaking of the most catastrophic accidents,

of terrifying events at sea and on land,

of hair's-breadth escapes in the deadly breach of a wall,

of being captured by an arrogant enemy

and sold into slavery, of my ransom from it,

and how I conducted myself in my travels. (He was enslaved. He says it in half a line, in front of the men now employing him.)

In it I had occasion to speak of vast caves and empty deserts,

rugged rock-faces, cliffs and hills whose tops touch the sky —

that was the sort of thing the story required.

And of the cannibals who eat each other,

the man-eaters, and men whose heads

grow beneath their shoulders. Desdemona

would lean in earnestly to hear all this.

But housework kept pulling her away,

and as soon as she could hurry through it

she'd come back and, with a hungry ear,

devour what I was saying. Noticing that,

I picked a favourable moment and found a way

to draw from her a heartfelt request

that I'd tell my whole life's journey in full —

of which she'd heard pieces here and there

but never all at once. I agreed,

and often drew tears from her

when I described some painful blow

my youth had suffered. When my story was over

she gave me a world of sighs for my trouble.

She swore that truly it was strange — surpassingly strange —

that it was pitiful, wonderfully pitiful.

She wished she hadn't heard it; and yet she wished

that heaven had made her such a man. She thanked me,

and told me that if I had a friend who loved her

I need only teach him how to tell my story

and that would win her. On that hint, I spoke.

She loved me for the dangers I had been through,

and I loved her because she pitied them.

That is the only witchcraft I have used.

Here comes the lady — let her be my witness.

I think that story would have won my daughter too.

Good Brabantio,

make the best of this mangled business.

Men would rather use their broken weapons

than their bare hands.

Please — hear her speak.

If she admits she did half the wooing,

let destruction fall on my head if I lay

any blame on the man. — Come here, gentle lady.

Do you see, in all this noble company,

where you owe most obedience?

My noble father,

I see a divided duty here.

I owe you my life and my upbringing.

Both my life and my upbringing teach me

how to respect you. You are the master of my duty —

up to now I've been your daughter. But here is my husband.

And the same duty my mother showed

to you, when she chose you over her own father,

I claim the right to declare

is owed to the Moor, my lord. (She wins the argument by pointing out that her mother did the same thing — to him.)

God be with you. I've finished.

If Your Grace pleases — on to the business of state.

I'd rather adopt a child than father one.

Come here, Moor.

I give you here, with all my heart,

what — if you didn't already have it — I would with all my heart

keep from you. — On your account, my jewel,

I'm glad in my soul I have no other child.

Your running away would teach me to be a tyrant

and put them in chains. I've finished, my lord.

Let me speak as you would, and offer a maxim

which, like a step, may help these lovers

up into your good graces.

When there's no more hope of a cure, grief ends

by facing the worst — grief that until then hung on hope.

Mourning a misfortune that's over and done

is the surest way to bring on a new one.

When Fortune takes what can't be kept,

patience makes a mockery of her blow.

A robbed man who smiles steals something back from the thief;

a man who wastes time on useless grief robs himself.

Then let the Turk cheat us out of Cyprus —

we haven't lost it, so long as we can smile. (He throws the Duke's rhyming platitude straight back at him, in rhyme.)

A man carries a maxim easily when he carries

nothing but the free comfort he hears in it.

But he carries both the maxim and the sorrow

who has to borrow from thin patience to pay his grief.

These maxims — sweet or bitter,

strong either way — cut both ways.

But words are only words. I've never yet heard

of a bruised heart being healed through the ear.

I humbly beg you — proceed to the business of state.

The Turk is heading for Cyprus with an enormous

force. Othello, you know that place's defences best.

And although we have a deputy there

of acknowledged competence, public opinion —

which decides what gets done — votes for you

as the safer choice. So you'll have to accept

tarnishing the shine on your new happiness with this

difficult and violent expedition.

Tyrannical habit, most grave senators,

has made the flinty steel bed of war

into a triple-sifted feather mattress for me. I acknowledge

a natural, immediate eagerness

that I find in hardship, and I accept

this war against the Turks.

So, bowing humbly to your authority,

I ask for suitable arrangements for my wife —

a proper residence and allowance,

with the sort of provision and companions

that match her upbringing.

If you like,

let it be at her father's.

I won't have that.

Nor I.

Nor I. I wouldn't want to live there

and put my father in an angry frame of mind

by being in his sight. — Most gracious Duke,

give my explanation a favourable hearing,

and let me find permission in your voice

to help my plain speaking.

What is it you want, Desdemona?

That I loved the Moor in order to live with him,

let my sheer defiance and the storm I've made of my prospects

announce to the world. My heart has been won over

entirely to my husband's very nature.

I saw Othello's face in his mind,

and to his honour and his brave qualities

I dedicated my soul and my fortunes. (She says plainly that she looked past his appearance. In this play that is a political statement, made in a war council.)

So, dear lords, if I'm left behind —

an idle parasite in peacetime — while he goes to war,

the very things I love him for are taken from me,

and I'll have to endure a heavy stretch of time

in his costly absence. Let me go with him.

Give her your consent.

Heaven bear witness, I don't ask this

to satisfy my appetite,

or to indulge lust — the passions of youth

being dead in me — or my own gratification,

but to be generous to what she wants.

And heaven forbid you should think

I'd neglect your serious and important business

because she's with me. No — if the light-winged games

of feathered Cupid ever blind, with sensual sluggishness,

the faculties I need for duty,

so that my pleasures corrupt my work,

then let housewives make a frying pan of my helmet

and let every shameful, low misfortune

rise up against my reputation.

Settle it privately between you,

whether she stays or goes. The matter demands speed,

and speed it must have.

You must leave tonight.

Tonight, my lord?

Tonight.

Gladly.

We'll meet here again at nine in the morning.

Othello, leave an officer behind

and he'll bring your commission on to you,

along with anything else concerning your rank

that concerns you.

If Your Grace pleases — my ensign.

He's a man of honesty and trustworthiness.

I put my wife in his charge,

along with whatever else Your Grace thinks necessary

to send after me. (He has now handed Iago his wife, in writing, in front of the government.)

So be it.

Good night to everyone.

And, noble signor,

if virtue counts as a kind of beauty,

your son-in-law is far more fair than black. (Meant kindly, and it still treats 'black' as the opposite of 'fair.' Nobody in the room hears anything wrong with it.)

Goodbye, brave Moor. Treat Desdemona well.

Watch her, Moor, if you have eyes to see with.

She deceived her father, and she may deceive you. (Eight words. Iago will build the entire tragedy on them.)

I'd stake my life on her faithfulness. — Honest Iago,

I must leave my Desdemona with you.

Please have your wife attend on her,

and bring them on when it's most convenient.

Come, Desdemona. I have only an hour

for love, for practical matters and arrangements,

to spend with you. We must obey the clock.

Iago—

What is it, noble heart?

What do you think I'm going to do?

Go to bed and sleep.

I'll drown myself immediately.

If you do, I'll never care for you again. Why,

you foolish man?

It's foolish to live when living is torture — and

we've a doctor's order to die when death is

our physician.

What rubbish! I've been watching the world for

twenty-eight years, and since I could tell

a benefit from an injury I've never found a man

who knew how to look after himself. Before I'd say I'd

drown myself for love of a woman, I'd

swap my humanity with a baboon.

What should I do? I admit it's shameful to be so

besotted, but I haven't the strength to change it.

Strength? Rubbish! It's up to us whether we're one thing

or another. Our bodies are gardens, and our

wills are the gardeners. So whether we plant nettles

or sow lettuce, grow herbs and pull out weeds, stock it

with one kind of plant or a confusion of many,

leave it barren through laziness or fertilise it with

hard work — the power and controlling authority for that

lies in our own wills. If the balance of our lives didn't have

one scale of reason to counterweight the other of sensuality,

the base passions of our natures would lead us

to absurd conclusions. But we have

reason to cool our raging urges, our physical

cravings, our unbridled lusts — of which this thing

you call love is, in my view, just a cutting or offshoot. (A completely coherent argument for self-control, made by a man using it to talk someone into ruin.)

It can't be!

It's nothing but a lust of the blood and a permission

of the will. Come on, be a man. Drown yourself? Drown

cats and blind puppies! I've declared myself your

friend, and I admit I'm bound to your interests with

cables of everlasting strength. I could never

be of more use to you than now. Put money in your

purse. Go to the wars. Disguise your face with

a false beard. I say, put money in your purse. It

can't be that Desdemona will keep loving

the Moor for long — put money in your purse — nor he

her. It began violently, and you'll

see it end just as abruptly. Only put

money in your purse. These Moors are changeable

in their appetites. Fill your purse with money. The food

that's as sweet as honey to him now will soon be

as bitter as gall. She'll have to

trade him for someone younger. Once she's had enough of his body

she'll see her mistake. She'll want a change —

she'll have to have one. So put money in your

purse. If you're determined to damn yourself, do it in a

more elegant way than drowning. Get together all the money

you can. If a holy ceremony and a flimsy vow between

a wandering barbarian and an over-refined Venetian aren't

too much for my brains and all the tribes of hell,

you'll have her. So raise money. To hell with

drowning yourself — it's completely beside the point.

Better to be hanged getting what you want

than drowned and go without her. ('Put money in thy purse' — eight times. He is robbing this man while consoling him.)

Will you stand by my hopes if I stake everything

on the outcome?

You can count on me. Go and raise money. I've told

you often, and I'll tell you again and again: I

hate the Moor. My grievance is rooted in my heart, and yours

is no less justified. Let's join forces in revenge

against him. If you can seduce his wife, you'll do

yourself a pleasure and me a favour. There are many

events in the womb of time waiting to be born.

Forward march! Go and get your money. We'll talk more

about this tomorrow. Goodbye.

Where shall we meet in the morning?

At my lodgings.

I'll be with you early.

Off you go. Goodbye. — Do you hear, Roderigo?

What is it?

No more talk of drowning, do you hear?

I've changed my mind.

Off you go. Goodbye. Put plenty of money in your

purse.

I'll sell all my land.

This is how I always turn my fool into my wallet.

I'd be insulting my own hard-won experience

if I spent time with such an idiot

except for my amusement and profit. — I hate the Moor.

And there's a rumour going round that in my bed

he's done my job for me. I don't know whether it's true,

but on suspicion alone, in a matter like that,

I'll act as though it were proven fact. (A second motive, produced sixty lines after the first, and immediately admitted to be baseless.)

He thinks well of me — all the better for my plan.

Cassio's a good-looking man. Now let me think:

to take his position and gratify my own will

with a double piece of villainy. How? How? Let's see.

After a while, to poison Othello's ear

that Cassio is too intimate with his wife.

He has the looks and the smooth manner

to be suspected — built to make women unfaithful.

The Moor is of a frank and open nature,

who thinks men honest if they only seem so,

and will be led by the nose as easily

as donkeys are.

I have it. It's conceived. Hell and night

must bring this monstrous birth into the light of day. (He improvises the entire tragedy in twenty lines, on stage, in front of us.)