In the garden he was joined by Othello, who seemed hungry for the worst lies he could offer. He therefore told Othello that he had seen Cassio wipe his mouth with a handkerchief, which, because it was spotted with strawberries, he guessed to be one that Othello had given his wife.
The unhappy Moor went mad with fury, and Iago bade the heavens witness that he devoted his hand and heart and brain to Othello’s service. “I accept your love,” said Othello. “Within three days let me hear that Cassio is dead.”
Iago’s next step was to leave Desdemona’s handkerchief in Cassio’s room. Cassio saw it, and knew it was not his, but he liked the strawberry pattern on it, and he gave it to his sweetheart Bianca and asked her to copy it for him.
Iago’s next move was to induce Othello, who had been bullying Desdemona about the handkerchief, to play the eavesdropper to a conversation between Cassio and himself. His intention was to talk about Cassio’s sweetheart, and allow Othello to suppose that the lady spoken of was Desdemona.
“How are you, lieutenant?” asked Iago when Cassio appeared.
“The worse for being called what I am not,” replied Cassio, gloomily.
“Keep on reminding Desdemona, and you’ll soon be restored,” said Iago, adding, in a tone too low for Othello to hear, “If Bianca could set the matter right, how quickly it would mend!”
“Alas! poor rogue,” said Cassio, “I really think she loves me,” and like the talkative coxcomb he was, Cassio was led on to boast of Bianca’s fondness for him, while Othello imagined, with choked rage, that he prattled of Desdemona, and thought, “I see your nose, Cassio, but not the dog I shall throw it to.”
Othello was still spying when Bianca entered, boiling over with the idea that Cassio, whom she considered her property, had asked her to copy the embroidery on the handkerchief of a new sweetheart. She tossed him the handkerchief with scornful words, and Cassio departed with her.
Othello had seen Bianca, who was in station lower, in beauty and speech inferior far, to Desdemona, and he began in spite of himself to praise his wife to the villain before him. He praised her skill with the needle, her voice that could “sing the savageness out of a bear,” her wit, her sweetness, the fairness of her skin. Every time he praised her Iago said something that made him remember his anger and utter it foully, and yet he must needs praise her, and say, “The pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!”
There was never in all Iago’s villainy one moment of wavering. If there had been he might have wavered then.
“Strangle her,” he said; and “Good, good!” said his miserable dupe.
The pair were still talking murder when Desdemona appeared with a relative of Desdemona’s father, called Lodovico, who bore a letter for Othello from the Duke of Venice. The letter recalled Othello from Cyprus, and gave the governorship to Cassio.
Luckless Desdemona seized this unhappy moment to urge once more the suit of Cassio.
“Fire and brimstone!” shouted Othello.
“It may be the letter agitates him,” explained Lodovico to Desdemona, and he told her what it contained.
“I am glad,” said Desdemona. It was the first bitter speech that Othello’s unkindness had wrung out of her.
“I am glad to see you lose your temper,” said Othello.
“Why, sweet Othello?” she asked, sarcastically; and Othello slapped her face.
Now was the time for Desdemona to have saved her life by separation, but she knew not her peril—only that her love was wounded to the core. “I have not deserved this,” she said, and the tears rolled slowly down her face.
Lodovico was shocked and disgusted. “My lord,” he said, “this would not be believed in Venice. Make her amends;” but, like a madman talking in his nightmare, Othello poured out his foul thought in ugly speech, and roared, “Out of my sight!”
“I will not stay to offend you,” said his wife, but she lingered even in going, and only when he shouted “Avaunt!” did she leave her husband and his guests.
Othello then invited Lodovico to supper, adding, “You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys!” Without waiting for a reply he left the company.
Distinguished visitors detest being obliged to look on at family quarrels, and dislike being called either goats or monkeys, and Lodovico asked Iago for an explanation.
True to himself, Iago, in a roundabout way, said that Othello was worse than he seemed, and advised them to study his behavior and save him from the discomfort of answering any more questions.
He proceeded to tell Roderigo to murder Cassio. Roderigo was out of tune with his friend. He had given Iago quantities of jewels for Desdemona without effect; Desdemona had seen none of them, for Iago was a thief.
Iago smoothed him with a lie, and when Cassio was leaving Bianca’s house, Roderigo wounded him, and was wounded in return. Cassio shouted, and Lodovico and a friend came running up. Cassio pointed out Roderigo as his assailant, and Iago, hoping to rid himself of an inconvenient friend, called him “Villain!” and stabbed him, but not to death.
At the Castle, Desdemona was in a sad mood. She told Emilia that she must leave her; her husband wished it. “Dismiss me!” exclaimed Emilia. “It was his bidding,” said Desdemona; “we must not displease him now.”
She sang a song which a girl had sung whose lover had been base to her—a song of a maiden crying by that tree whose boughs droop as though it weeps, and she went to bed and slept.
She woke with her husband’s wild eyes upon her. “Have you prayed tonight?” he asked; and he told this blameless and sweet woman to ask God’s pardon for any sin she might have on her conscience. “I would not kill thy soul,” he said.
He told her that Cassio had confessed, but she knew Cassio had nought to confess that concerned her. She said
