Othello Act 2 Scene 3

Good Michael, take charge of the watch tonight.

Let's hold ourselves to that honourable limit —

not letting the celebrating outrun good sense.

Iago has his orders,

but even so, I'll keep an eye on it

myself.

Iago is entirely trustworthy.

Michael, goodnight. First thing tomorrow

come and talk to me. (to Desdemona) Come,

my love —

the purchase is made, and the profits are still to come in.

That's the account still open between you and me. (They have been married for days and have not had a wedding night yet. A war, a storm and a sea crossing keep getting in the way.)

Goodnight.

Ah, Iago. We're due on watch.

Not for an hour yet, lieutenant. It isn't ten

o'clock. Our general let us go this early out of love for

his Desdemona — and let's not blame him for it.

He hasn't had his night with her yet, and

she's entertainment fit for Jupiter.

She's an exquisite lady.

And up for it, I'll bet.

Truly, she's a fresh and delicate

creature.

What an eye she has! I'd say it's sounding an invitation

to negotiate.

An inviting eye — and yet, I'd say, a thoroughly

modest one.

And when she speaks, isn't it a call to arms for love?

She is perfection itself. (Five exchanges in a row: Iago says something sexual about her, Cassio politely says something courtly back. Iago is finding out how Cassio talks about Desdemona, and how easy he is to lead.)

Well — joy to their sheets! Come on, lieutenant,

I've a jug of wine, and outside there's a

pair of Cyprus gentlemen who'd dearly like to drink a

round to the health of black Othello. (He cannot propose a toast to his own commanding officer without putting the colour in first.)

Not tonight, Iago. I've a very poor,

unhappy head for drink. I do wish

good manners would invent some other way of

being sociable. (He names his one weakness, unprompted, to the last man on the island who should hear about it.)

Oh, come — they're friends! Just one cup. I'll do the

drinking for you.

I've had only one cup tonight, and that was

carefully watered down, and look what a change it's already

made in me. I'm unlucky in this weakness, and I

daren't push it any further.

Come on, man! It's a night of celebration. The gentlemen

want it.

Where are they?

Right outside the door. Go on — call them in.

I'll do it. Though I don't like it.

If I can fix just one more cup on him

on top of what he's already drunk tonight,

he'll be as full of quarrel and offence

as my lady's lapdog. Now, my lovesick fool

Roderigo,

whom love has turned nearly inside out,

has been drinking Desdemona's health tonight in

tankards drained to the bottom — and he's on watch.

Three other Cypriots too, proud men with swelling tempers

who keep their honour at a nervous arm's length,

the very stuff this soldiering island is made of —

I've got them flushed and unsteady tonight with cup after cup.

And they're on watch as well. Now, among this flock of

drunks,

I'm to manoeuvre our Cassio into doing something

that offends the island. But here they come.

If what follows only bears out my scheme,

my boat runs with the wind and the current together.

By God, they've already made me down a full

measure.

Honestly, a small one — not more than a pint, on my

honour as a soldier.

Wine, over here!

And let me hear the tankard clink, clink,

and let me hear the tankard clink.

A soldier's a man,

oh, a man's life is short,

so why not let a soldier drink.

More wine, boys!

By God, that's an excellent song.

I learned it in England, where they really are

world champions at drinking. Your Dane, your German,

your pot-bellied Dutchman — drink up! — they're

nothing beside your Englishman. (A joke fired straight at the London audience sitting in front of the stage.)

Is your Englishman such a master of his

drinking?

Why, he'll drink your Dane under the table

without effort. He doesn't break a sweat flooring your German.

He'll have your Dutchman throwing up before the next

tankard can be refilled.

To the health of our general!

I'm in, lieutenant, and I'll match you

cup for cup.

Oh, sweet England!

King Stephen was a worthy lord,

his trousers cost him just a crown.

He thought that sixpence too much,

and called the tailor a lout for it.

He was a man of high renown

and you're a nobody,

so — it's pride that pulls a country down;

wrap your old cloak round you and make do.

More wine!

By God, that's a finer song than

the last one!

Want to hear it again?

No — because I hold a man unfit for his post

if he carries on like that. Well. God's above all, and

there are souls that must be saved, and there are souls

that must not be saved.

Very true, good lieutenant.

Speaking for myself — no offence to the General,

or any gentleman — I hope to be saved.

So do I, lieutenant.

Yes — but, with respect, not before me. The

lieutenant gets saved before the ensign. Let's

drop it. Let's get to work. God

forgive us our sins! Gentlemen, let's see to our

duties. Don't imagine, gentlemen, that I'm drunk. This

is my ensign, this is my right hand, and this is my

left. I am not drunk. I can stand perfectly well,

and I can speak perfectly well.

Extremely well.

Well, then. So you mustn't think

I'm drunk.

To the gun platform, gentlemen. Come on, let's post the watch.

(to Montano) You see that man who's just gone out?

He's a soldier fit to stand beside Caesar

and give the orders — and then look at his weakness.

It's an exact counterweight to his virtue,

the one running as long as the other. It's a shame about him. (An equinox is the day when light and dark are exactly equal. Iago weighs the man's good against his bad and reports them level — which sounds like fairness and works like poison.)

I'm afraid the trust Othello places in him,

on some unlucky night when the weakness takes him,

will shake this island.

But is he often like this?

It's the regular prologue to his going to bed.

He'll sit awake right round the clock twice over

if drink doesn't rock him to sleep first.

It would be as well

if someone reminded the General of this.

Perhaps he doesn't see it, or his good nature

prizes the virtue that shows in Cassio

and looks past his faults. Isn't that so?

(aside to Roderigo) Well now, Roderigo?

Go on — after the lieutenant.

And it's a great pity the noble Moor

should risk a post as important as his own second

on a man with a weakness rooted that deep.

It would be an honest thing to say so

to the Moor.

Not me — not for this whole fair island.

I'm fond of Cassio, and I'd do a great deal

to cure him of this fault —

But listen — what's that noise? (He has just refused, on principle, to report the exact thing he has spent the whole evening arranging for Othello to discover.)

God's wounds, you rogue, you rascal!

What's the matter, lieutenant?

A villain, teaching me my duty? I'll beat him

into a wickerwork bottle. (Bottles were cased in woven wicker; he means he'll leave a criss-cross of welts all over him.)

Beat me?

Still talking, are you?

No — good lieutenant. Please, sir, hold

your hand.

Let go of me, sir, or I'll crack you over the

skull.

Come on, come on — you're drunk.

Drunk?

(aside to Roderigo) Away with you! Get out there and shout mutiny.

No — good lieutenant! — God's will, gentlemen! —

Help, here! Lieutenant — sir — Montano — sir —

Help, gentlemen! — Here's a fine watch we're keeping!

Who's that ringing the bell? The devil! —

the whole town will be up. God's will, lieutenant — stop!

You'll be disgraced for ever.

What is going on here?

God's wounds, I'm still

bleeding.

I'm wounded to death. He dies for it!

Stop — on your lives!

Stop! Lieutenant — sir — Montano —

gentlemen —

have you forgotten all sense of rank and duty?

Stop! The General is speaking to you. Stop, for shame!

What is this? Where has it come from?

Have we turned Turk, doing to each other

what heaven stopped the Ottomans doing to us? (Othello uses 'Turk' as his word for savagery — which is the same move Venice makes about him. He is policing a line he stands on the wrong side of.)

For Christian shame, drop this savage brawling!

The next man who moves to carve himself a piece of his own anger

thinks nothing of his soul: he dies the moment he moves.

Silence that dreadful bell — it's frightening the island

out of its right mind. What is the matter, gentlemen?

Honest Iago — you look sick with grief —

speak. Who began it? By your loyalty to me, I order you.

I don't know. All friends a moment ago — just now —

in their quarters and on terms like a bride and groom

undressing for bed. And then, this instant,

as if some planet had emptied men of their wits,

swords out, lunging at one another's chests,

locked in a bloody fight. I can't give

any beginning to this stupid quarrel,

and I wish I'd lost, in some glorious battle,

the legs that carried me into any part of it.

How does it happen, Michael, that you've forgotten yourself like this?

Forgive me, please — I can't speak.

Worthy Montano, you were always a civil man.

The seriousness and calm of you, young as you are,

have been widely noticed, and your name stands high

with the best judges. What is it

that makes you unpick your reputation like this

and spend your good standing to be called

a night-brawler? Answer me.

Worthy Othello, I'm dangerously hurt.

Your officer Iago can tell you,

while I save my breath — which is painful to me

just now —

everything I know. And I know of nothing

said or done wrongly by me tonight,

unless looking after yourself is sometimes a vice,

and defending yourself a sin,

when violence comes at you.

Now, by heaven,

my temper is starting to overrule my safer judgement,

and passion, having blackened my reason like soot,

is trying to take the lead. God's wounds — if I move,

if I so much as lift this arm, the best of you

will go down under my anger. Tell me

how this filthy riot started, who set it going —

and whoever is proved guilty of it,

even if he were my twin, born the same hour as me,

loses me. What — in a garrison town

still unsettled, everyone's heart brimful of fear,

to carry on a private, domestic quarrel

at night, at the very guardpost that keeps them safe?

It's monstrous. Iago — who started it?

If, out of partiality or fellow-officer loyalty,

you give more or less than the truth,

you're no soldier.

Don't press me so close.

I'd rather have this tongue cut out of my mouth

than have it do Michael Cassio any harm.

Yet I tell myself that speaking the truth

won't wrong him at all. This is how it was, general.

Montano and I were talking.

A man comes running, shouting for help,

with Cassio after him, sword drawn and set

on running him through. Sir, this gentleman

steps in and begs Cassio to hold off.

I went after the shouting man myself,

in case his noise — as in fact it did —

should panic the town. He was quick on his feet,

outran me, and I came back all the sooner

because I heard the clash and fall of swords

and Cassio swearing at the top of his voice — which until tonight

I'd never have been able to say of him. When I got back —

and all this was very quick — I found them at close quarters,

striking and lunging, exactly as they were again

when you separated them yourself.

I can't report any more of the matter than that.

But men are men. The best of them forget themselves sometimes.

And though Cassio did him some small wrong —

as angry men do hit the people who wish them best —

still, I'm sure Cassio must have taken

some extraordinary insult from the man who ran,

one that no patience could let pass. (Every fact in this account is true. He reports the night accurately, defends Cassio warmly, mentions the drawn sword and the swearing almost in passing, and destroys him.)

I know, Iago,

your honesty and affection are cutting this up small,

making it lighter for Cassio. — Cassio, I care for you,

but you will never be an officer of mine again.

Look — my gentle love has been got out of bed!

I'll make an example of you.

What's the matter, my love?

All's well now,

sweetheart.

Come back to bed. (to Montano) Sir, as for your wounds,

I'll be your surgeon myself. — Take him away.

Iago, go carefully round the town

and quieten the people this vile brawl has

alarmed. —

Come, Desdemona. It's a soldier's life,

having your sweet sleep broken by fighting. (He puts the man who built the brawl in charge of restoring order, and goes back to bed.)

What — are you hurt, lieutenant?

Yes. Beyond any surgeon's help.

Good God, I hope not!

Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I've

lost my reputation! I've lost the immortal part of

myself, and what's left is animal. My reputation,

Iago — my reputation!

As I'm an honest man, I thought you'd

taken an actual wound. There's more substance

in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle,

utterly false thing laid on you — often got without deserving it, and lost

without deserving that either. You've lost no reputation at

all, unless you decide that you have. Come on,

man — there are ways to win the General round again!

You've only been dismissed in a temper — a punishment

for show rather than out of spite, the way you'd

beat a harmless dog to frighten an overbearing

lion. Petition him again and he's yours. (One act from now Iago will tell Othello that a good name is the immediate jewel of the soul. He argues whichever side of reputation will do more damage.)

I'd sooner beg to be despised than fool

so good a commander into keeping so worthless, so drunken,

so reckless an officer. Drunk? And babbling

like a parrot? And squabbling? Swaggering? Swearing? Spouting

gibberish at my own shadow? Oh, you

invisible spirit of wine — if you've no name people know you by,

let's call you devil.

Who was the man you chased with your sword?

What had he done to you?

I don't know.

Is that possible?

I remember a mass of things, but nothing

clearly — a quarrel, but nothing about why. Oh

God, that men should put an enemy in their

mouths to steal away their brains! That we should,

with joy and pleasure and revelling and applause, turn

ourselves into animals!

But you're well enough now. How did you

sober up so fast?

The devil drunkenness has been kind enough to give

way to the devil anger. One flaw shows

me the next, so I can despise myself thoroughly.

Come on, you're too hard a moralist. Given the time,

the place and the state this country's in,

I heartily wish this hadn't happened. But

since it has, put it right, for your own good.

If I ask him for my post back, he'll tell

me I'm a drunk. If I had as many mouths as

the Hydra, that answer would shut every one of them. To be

a sensible man one minute, a fool the next, and an animal

straight after! It's grotesque. Every cup too many is cursed,

and what's in it is a devil.

Come now — good wine is a friendly household spirit,

if it's used properly. Stop railing at it.

And, good lieutenant — I think you know I'm fond of you.

I've had good proof of it, sir. — Me, drunk!

You, or any man living, may be drunk on occasion,

man. I'll tell you what to do. Our general's

wife is the general now — I can say that in this

sense, that he has devoted and given himself up

to the contemplating, marking and noting

of her qualities and graces. Confess

openly to her. Press her to help get you back in your

post. She has such a generous, kind, willing,

blessed nature that she counts it a fault in her own

goodness not to do more than she's asked. Beg her to

splint this broken joint between you and her

husband — and I'll stake everything I own against any bet

worth making that this crack in your friendship ends up

stronger than it was before. (Every word of this is genuinely good advice. That is precisely what makes it work.)

That's good advice.

I swear it comes from sincere affection and honest

goodwill.

I believe that freely. And early in the morning I'll

beg the virtuous Desdemona to take

up my case. I've no hope left for myself if I'm blocked

here.

You're quite right. Good night, lieutenant. I

have to get to the watch.

Good night, honest Iago.

And who is it, then, that says I'm playing the villain,

when the advice I'm giving is generous and honest,

reasonable to any thinking man, and in fact the way

to win the Moor back? Because it's the easiest thing

in the world to bring the willing Desdemona round

to any decent request. She's made as generous

as the open elements. And then, for her

to win over the Moor — even if it meant renouncing his baptism

and every seal and symbol of his salvation —

his soul is so chained to loving her

that she can make him, unmake him, do whatever she likes,

with her own wants playing god

over his weakened will. So how am I a villain,

for pointing Cassio down this straight road

that runs right to his own good? Theology of hell! (He is doing theology, and doing it accurately: a devil's method is to make the worst thing available look like the best thing available.)

When devils want the blackest sins committed,

they always propose them first in heavenly-looking form —

exactly as I'm doing now. Because while this honest fool

works on Desdemona to repair his fortunes,

and she pleads hard for him with the Moor,

I'll pour this plague into Othello's ear:

that she's calling Cassio back because she wants him.

And the harder she tries to do Cassio good,

the more she'll ruin her own credit with the Moor.

So I'll turn her goodness into black tar,

and out of her own kindness make the net

that catches the lot of them. (Pitch is black tar. Iago's imagination runs on exactly the black-and-white grammar he keeps handing to Othello.)

Well now, Roderigo?

I'm in on this hunt, but not like a

hound that hunts — like one that just makes up the noise. My

money's nearly gone, I've been very thoroughly

beaten tonight, and I think the outcome will be that I

get nothing but experience for my trouble, and so,

with no money at all and slightly more sense, go back

to Venice.

What a poor thing it is to have no patience!

What wound ever healed except by degrees?

You know we work by brains, not by witchcraft,

and brains depend on time taking its time.

Isn't it going well? Cassio has beaten you,

and you, for that small injury, have got Cassio sacked.

Other things ripen in the sun as well,

but the fruit that blossoms first is ripe first.

Be content for a while. By the Mass, it's morning!

Pleasure and activity make the hours seem short.

Off with you — go to your lodgings.

Go on, I say. You'll hear more later.

No — off you go.

Two things to be done.

My wife has to lobby her mistress on Cassio's behalf.

I'll set her on to it.

And meanwhile I'll draw the Moor aside

and bring him back at the exact moment he'll find Cassio

petitioning his wife. Yes — that's the way.

Don't blunt the plan by going cold and slow.