Othello Act 2 Scene 1

What can you make out at sea from the headland?

Nothing at all. The sea is whipped right up.

Between the sky and the water I can't

spot a single sail.

The wind has been shouting on land, I think.

A stronger gust never shook our walls.

If it's been that violent out at sea,

what oak timbers, with mountains of water crashing down,

could hold their joints together? What news will we get of this?

A scattering of the Turkish fleet.

Just stand on the foaming shore:

the beaten waves seem to hurl themselves at the clouds,

the wind-driven swell, with its huge monstrous mane,

seems to throw water on the burning Great Bear

and put out the stars that guard the pole star.

I've never seen such violence

on an enraged sea.

If the Turkish fleet

hasn't found shelter in some bay, they've drowned.

It's impossible to ride that out. (The war ends in the first twenty lines. Everything after this happens because there is nothing left to do.)

News, lads! Our war is over.

The savage storm has battered the Turks so badly

that their campaign has stalled. A fine Venetian ship

witnessed terrible wreckage and damage

across most of their fleet.

What? Is this true?

The ship has docked here —

a Verona vessel. Michael Cassio,

lieutenant to the warlike Moor Othello,

has come ashore. The Moor is still at sea,

with full authority to govern Cyprus.

I'm glad of it. He's a worthy governor.

But this Cassio, though he brings good news

about the Turkish losses, looks grim

and prays the Moor is safe. They were separated

by the foul, violent storm.

Heaven grant he is.

I've served under him, and the man commands

like a complete soldier. — To the shore, everyone!

Both to see the ship that's docked

and to look out for brave Othello.

Yes, let's.

Every minute brings the expectation

of more arrivals.

Thank you, brave men of this warlike island,

for thinking so well of the Moor. May heaven

protect him from the elements —

I lost him on a dangerous sea.

Is his ship a good one?

His vessel is strongly built, and his navigator

is highly skilled and well regarded.

So my hopes, not yet worn out,

stand a good chance of being answered.

What's that noise?

The town's emptied out. On the clifftop

rows of people are standing, shouting 'A sail!'

My hopes make it out to be the Governor.

They're firing a courtesy salute.

Friends, at any rate.

Please, sir, go and see,

and tell us for certain who's arrived.

I will.

But, lieutenant — is your general married?

Most fortunately. He's won a woman

who outdoes description and extravagant rumour,

who surpasses the flourishes of praising poets,

and in the essential fabric of her being

exhausts the artist trying to capture her. (Cassio's language about Desdemona is extravagant, courtly and entirely innocent. Iago will use every word of it.)

Well? Who's docked?

It's one Iago, the General's ensign.

He's had a remarkably fast and fortunate crossing!

Storms themselves, high seas and howling winds,

the jagged rocks and massed sandbanks —

treacherous things submerged to snag an innocent hull —

as though they had a sense of beauty, set aside

their deadly natures and let pass safely

the divine Desdemona.

Who is she?

The woman I mentioned — our great captain's captain,

left in the care of the bold Iago,

whose arrival here beats our expectations

by a week. — Great Jupiter, guard Othello

and swell his sail with your own powerful breath,

so he can bless this bay with his tall ship,

gasp with love in Desdemona's arms,

give fresh fire to our dampened spirits

and bring all Cyprus comfort!

Look —

the treasure of the ship has come ashore!

Men of Cyprus, kneel to her.

Hail to you, lady — and may the grace of heaven,

before you, behind you and on every side,

circle you round.

Thank you, brave Cassio.

What news can you give me of my husband? (Her first words on land are about Othello. Her second, third and fourth thoughts are too.)

He hasn't arrived yet, and I know nothing

except that he's well and will be here soon.

But I'm afraid — how did you lose contact?

The great battle between sea and sky

separated our ships.

But listen — a sail!

They're saluting the fortress.

This one's a friend too.

Go and find out.

Welcome, ensign. — Welcome, madam.

Don't let it irritate you, good Iago,

that I take this liberty. It's my upbringing

that makes me so forward with courtesy. (He kisses another man's wife in greeting and explains that it's good manners. Iago is watching.)

Sir, if she gave you as much of her lips

as she gives me of her tongue,

you'd have had quite enough.

But she hardly says a word!

Honestly, far too much.

I discover that whenever I want to sleep.

In front of your Ladyship, I admit,

she keeps her tongue tucked away in her heart

and scolds by thinking.

You've little reason to say that.

Oh come on! You women are paintings out of doors,

alarm bells in your sitting rooms, wildcats in your kitchens,

saints when you injure someone, devils when you're offended, idlers

at housekeeping, and hussies in bed.

Shame on you, you slanderer.

It's true, or I'm a Turk.

You get up to play and go to bed to work.

You won't be writing my praises.

No — don't let me.

What would you write about me, if you had to praise me?

Gentle lady, don't put me to it —

I'm nothing if not critical.

Go on, try. — Has someone gone to the harbour?

Yes, madam.

(aside) I'm not in a cheerful mood — I'm distracting myself

from what I am by pretending otherwise. —

Come on: how would you praise me? (She is sick with worry and performing lightness in public. Nobody notices that either.)

I'm working on it — but my inventiveness comes

out of my head like glue off rough cloth: it

pulls out brains and everything with it. But my muse is in labour,

and here's what she's delivered:

If she's beautiful and clever, then beauty and brains —

one's there to be used, and the other uses it.

Well praised! And if she's dark and clever?

If she's dark and has brains as well,

she'll find a fair man to match her darkness. (A crude joke on 'white' as both a colour and a target's bullseye. Desdemona keeps him talking anyway.)

Worse and worse.

And if she's beautiful and stupid?

No beautiful woman was ever stupid,

since even her foolishness got her a child.

These are stale old paradoxes for making

fools laugh in the pub. What miserable praise

have you got for the woman who's ugly and stupid?

There's no woman so ugly and stupid with it

that she doesn't get up to the same filthy tricks as the beautiful, clever ones.

What crass ignorance! You praise the

worst best. But what praise could you give

a genuinely deserving woman — one whose obvious merit

could fairly claim approval even from

malice itself?

A woman always beautiful and never vain,

who could talk freely and yet was never loud,

never short of money and yet never showy,

who denied herself even when she could have indulged,

who, when angered and with revenge in reach,

held on to the injury and let go of the anger,

who was never so weak in judgment

as to swap something good for something worthless,

who could think and never reveal her thoughts,

who could have admirers following and never look back —

she was a creature, if such a creature ever existed—

To do what?

To breastfeed babies and keep track of the household accounts. (Twelve lines building the perfect woman, and the punchline is that she's fit for nothing.)

What a feeble, useless conclusion!

Don't learn from him, Emilia, even if he is your

husband. — What do you say, Cassio? Isn't he a

thoroughly foul-mouthed and coarse adviser?

He speaks bluntly, madam. You'll enjoy him

more as a soldier than as a scholar.

(aside) He's taking her hand. Yes, that's it —

whisper. With a web this small I'll trap a fly as

big as Cassio. Yes, smile at her, go on. I'll

shackle you with your own good manners. — Quite right, that's

exactly so. — If tricks like these strip you of

your lieutenancy, you'd have done better not to have

kissed your fingers so often — which you're doing again

now, playing the gentleman. Very good. Well

kissed! An excellent bow! — Yes, quite so. — There go

your fingers to your lips again. I wish they were

enema tubes, for your sake. (He is building a case out of ordinary politeness, in real time, in front of us.)

The Moor. I know his trumpet call.

So it is.

Let's go and meet him.

Look — here he comes!

My fair warrior!

My dear Othello!

It astonishes me as much as it delights me

to find you here ahead of me. Oh, joy of my soul!

If calm like this follows every storm,

then let the winds blow until they wake the dead,

and let the struggling ship climb hills of water

as high as Olympus and plunge as low

as hell is from heaven. If I had to die now,

this would be the happiest moment for it — because I'm afraid

my soul is so completely content

that no other happiness like this one

is waiting anywhere in my future. (He says he would like to die now. Two acts later he will get his wish, and not like this.)

Heaven forbid

that our love and happiness shouldn't grow

exactly as our years do.

Amen to that, sweet powers above!

I can't find words enough for this happiness.

It chokes me here. It's too much joy.

And may this, and this, be the worst discord

our hearts ever make.

(aside) You're beautifully in tune now —

but I'll loosen the pegs that make this music,

as honest a man as I am. (Everyone in this play calls him honest. He has now started doing it himself.)

Come — let's go up to the castle. —

News, friends! Our war is over. The Turks are drowned.

How are my old friends on this island? —

Sweetheart, you'll be very welcome in Cyprus.

I've found great affection among them. — My sweet,

I'm babbling out of turn, doting

on my own happiness. — Please, good Iago,

go down to the harbour and unload my chests.

Bring the ship's captain up to the fortress.

He's a good man, and his quality

deserves real respect. — Come, Desdemona.

Once more — well met in Cyprus.

(to a departing attendant) Meet me at the harbour shortly.

(to Roderigo) Come here. If

you're brave — as they say low-born men in

love acquire a nobility beyond their nature —

listen to me. The lieutenant is on

guard duty tonight. First, I have to tell you

this: Desdemona is straightforwardly in love with him.

With him? That's not possible.

Put your finger to your lips and let me educate you.

Notice how violently she first fell for the

Moor — purely for boasting and telling her fantastical

lies. Will she keep loving him for chattering? Don't let

your sensible heart believe it. Her eye needs feeding. And

what pleasure is there in looking at the devil?

When passion is dulled by sex,

there needs to be something to inflame it again and give

satisfaction a fresh appetite: good looks, closeness

in age, manners and beauty — all of which the Moor

lacks. Now, for want of these necessary

comforts, her delicate feelings will find themselves

cheated. She'll start to feel sick, lose her taste for

the Moor and loathe him. Nature itself will teach her that

and force her to a second choice. Now, sir,

granting that — and it's an obvious, natural

conclusion — who stands better placed

for it than Cassio? A very smooth-talking rogue, no

more conscientious than it takes to put on the outward

appearance of civility and decency, the better to

satisfy his lecherous and well-hidden loose

desires. Nobody, nobody at all! A slippery, cunning

rogue, an opportunist, with an

eye that can forge and counterfeit an opening

when no real one exists. A devilish rogue!

Besides, the man is handsome, young, and has everything

that foolishness and inexperienced minds

look for. A thoroughly poisonous rogue — and the

woman has spotted him already. (Every word of this describes Iago, not Cassio. He is giving his own portrait and attaching another man's name.)

I can't believe that of her. She's full of

the most blessed qualities.

Blessed nonsense! The wine she drinks is made of

grapes like anyone else's. If she'd been blessed she'd never

have loved the Moor. Blessed rubbish! Didn't you

see her stroking the palm of his hand? Didn't

you notice?

Yes, I did. But that was only politeness.

Lechery, I swear it! An opening chapter and a dark

prologue to a whole history of lust and filthy thinking.

Their lips came so close that their breath

mingled. Wicked thoughts, Roderigo!

When intimacies like that lead the way, the main

event follows close behind — the physical

conclusion. Bah! — But, sir, be guided

by me. I brought you from Venice. Stand watch

tonight — I'll get you assigned to it.

Cassio doesn't know you. I'll be close by. Find

some excuse to anger Cassio — by

talking too loudly, or criticising his command, or by

any other means you like, whichever the moment

most conveniently offers.

All right.

Sir, he's hot-headed and quick to anger, and he

may well hit you. Provoke him into it —

because from that I'll get the people of Cyprus

to riot, and they won't be calmed

again except by Cassio's removal. That way

you'll get what you want sooner, through the influence

I'll then have to advance your case, and the

obstacle usefully removed — without which

there'd be no hope of success for us.

I'll do it, if you can arrange an opportunity.

I guarantee it. Meet me shortly at the fortress. I

have to bring his belongings ashore. Goodbye.

Goodbye.

That Cassio loves her — I well believe it.

That she loves him is likely enough and very credible.

The Moor — much as I can't stand him —

has a steady, loving, noble nature,

and I dare say he'll prove

a most devoted husband to Desdemona. — Now, I love her too,

not purely out of lust — though possibly

I've as great a sin to answer for —

but partly to feed my revenge,

because I suspect the lustful Moor

has jumped into my place. The thought of it

gnaws at my insides like a corrosive poison,

and nothing can or will satisfy my soul

until I'm even with him — wife for wife.

Or failing that, until I've put the Moor

into a jealousy so powerful

that reason can't cure it. To do it,

if this Venetian rubbish, whom I'm keeping on a leash

for his eagerness, holds up under pressure,

I'll have Michael Cassio at my mercy,

slander him to the Moor in the foulest terms

(because I suspect Cassio with my wife as well),

and make the Moor thank me, love me and reward me

for making a monstrous fool of him

and working on his peace of mind

until it turns to madness. It's here in my head, but still tangled.

Villainy's true face is never seen until it's used. (A third motive now, and a suspicion about Cassio too. He tries on grievances until one fits.)