In proportion as this new character of Othello develops itself, we may see (so to speak)—through that transparent poetry of which Shakspeare alone possesses the secret—the mild countenance of Desdemona gradually lose its serenity. The first idea that presents itself to her mind is, that Othello's roughness—that roughness for which she had prepared herself long before—has somewhat too soon made its appearance. But her heart is immediately resigned—she has an excuse ready at hand:
"Nay, we must think men are not gods;
Nor of them look for such observances
As fit the bridal."
And when Othello strikes her in public, she is content only to weep and to say, "I have not deserved this."
But when Othello bursts out into rage against her, when he loads her with outrageous reproaches, when he reviles her as a shameless prostitute, her voice fails her, the blood which rushes to her face stifles all utterance; she sinks rather under the confusion of hearing such language than because it is Othello who addresses her: some feeble sighs, some useless protests, are her only defense; she has seen her fate written in the terrific looks of her husband. She lowers her head, and directs Emilia to spread upon her couch her wedding-dress, in which she desires to be enshrouded; she offers her breast to the knife as a "stainless sacrifice" (another of Schlegel's happy expressions), as a lamb which has been accustomed only to bound and frolic in its native meadows, and which walks to the altar without knowing why, and licks the hand which is conducting it thither.
This it is precisely which explains the inexpressible charm and painful interest of this scene, which we have already alluded to; a scene which, placed entirely apart from this, would transgress the proper limits of a work of art.
Othello, when he has taken leave of the messengers of the Senate, says, with a rugged, severe tone of voice, to Desdemona, "Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith; look it be done." Her reply is, "I will, my lord." This is the sentence of death, and she knows it; but not even a thought of disobedience enters her mind; she does not dream of securing the least assistance: Othello has spoken.
The scene in which she undresses herself, before retiring to her bed, is then most truly for her that respite of a quarter of an hour which is granted to criminals before they are conducted to punishment. In vain does she attempt to suggest a different mood to Emilia, or to practice deception upon herself by turning her thoughts to any trifling subjects that may arise: the inmost conviction of her soul rises in rebellion against every word. And, for the agitated spectator, this scene is of a similar character; he counts the minutes, he clings to the least thing, he asks impatiently why there is still no other knot to untie, no other clasp to unloose; his wishes would almost urge him to take hold on Desdemona's robe and save her from impending fate.
Tragic poets, behold your master! learn a lesson from him, if you can!
The scene in which the Moor kills Desdemona surprised the public; but their surprise was not of long duration, and was soon changed into fullest approval. Accustomed as they were to see this scene lengthened out in Rossini's opera—to watch the imposing attitudes of Madame Pasta, or the efforts of Madame Malibran, to save her life, the brevity of the English original at first astonished them. But, at the same time, the dialogue, so concise, so rapid, moving so directly to the mark—those ambiguous, and, at the same time, distracted words which Othello mutters in suppressed tones of voice; that inexorable determination which he has made, and which he executes with agitated haste, with bursting heart and teeth closely set, hardly daring to look upon his victim, but without even a momentary wavering—Desdemona's entreaties, short, tender, timid: so much so, that they only show her concern for life; her replies, in which all the bold confidence of innocence declares itself, when Othello alludes to her handkerchief, which had been found on Cassio: