“And what was he?” demanded Iago disdainfully. “Forsooth, a great arithmetician—one Michael Cassio, a Florentine that never set a squadron in the field, nor knows the division of a battle more than a spinster, unless by bookish theory; mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership. But he, in good time, must be his lieutenant, and I—God bless the mark!—his Moorship’s ancient.”
Burning for revenge, Iago, instead of declining the inferior position of “ancient,” or ensign-bearer, accepted it, but only to serve his own purpose. “In following Othello, I follow but myself,” he declared. “Heaven is my judge, not for love and duty, but seeming so, for my peculiar end.” For Iago prided himself on the skill with which he could conceal his real feelings, and under a mask of the bluntest honesty he began to work out a scheme of diabolical cunning.
There was a certain senator of Venice at that time called Brabantio, who had an only daughter, named Desdemona. Brabantio was very fond of Othello, and often invited him to his house, and questioned him concerning the story of his life—the battles, sieges, fortunes, through which he had passed. Othello recounted all his adventures from year to year, from his boyish days to the moment when he was speaking; he told of disastrous chances, of moving accidents by flood and field; of hair-breadth escapes; of being taken by the foe and sold into slavery; of his redemption from captivity; and then of his travels in all sorts of wild and extraordinary places. He described the vast caves and barren deserts that he had seen; rough quarries, rocks, and hills, whose heads touched heaven; cannibals that eat each other, and queer tribes of savages whose heads grow beneath their shoulders.
Desdemona, the gentle daughter of Brabantio, dearly loved to hear these thrilling stories, and was quite fascinated by the valorous soldier who had passed through such strange experiences. Hastily despatching her household affairs, she would come again and again to listen greedily to Othello, often weeping for pity when she heard of some distressful stroke he had suffered in his youth. His story being done, she would sigh, and swear, “in faith, ’twas strange—’twas passing strange; ’twas pitiful—’twas wondrous pitiful!” She wished she had not heard it, and yet she wished that heaven had made her such a man; and she bade Othello, if he had a friend who loved her, that he would but teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, Othello spoke. Desdemona loved him for the dangers he had passed, and Othello loved Desdemona because she pitied him.
This was the simple explanation of what her father, furious with rage, put down to witchcraft, for he could not believe that his timid daughter could really have fallen in love with such an alarming person as the swarthy Moor. But, as Desdemona said, she saw Othello’s visage in his mind, and the valour and nobility of his nature made her forget the darkness of his complexion. Knowing her father’s violent, unreasonable disposition, and fearing that he would never give his consent, Desdemona quietly left her home one night without consulting him, and was married to Othello.
Now was Iago’s opportunity. Finding out by some means what was taking place, he informed a rejected suitor of Desdemona’s called Roderigo, a brainless Venetian youth, and together they went to Brabantio’s house, and in high glee roused him, and told the news that Othello had stolen away his daughter. Having raised the alarm, and set them on the trail where they would be likely to find Othello, Iago thought it discreet to retire, for he did not wish it to appear as if he had anything to do with the matter. To Othello, he afterwards laid all the blame on Roderigo, declaring that several times he was so enraged with him that he could almost have killed him for the abusive way in which he had spoken of Othello.
Brabantio immediately called up his servants, and set out to look for the culprits; but before he found them the mischief was done—Othello and Desdemona were securely married.
In the Council Chamber at Venice, though it was night time, the Duke and senators were holding an important meeting. News had come that a fleet of Turkish galleys was bearing down on Cyprus; and though the rumours were conflicting as to the number of the fleet and its present position, there was no doubt that the danger was imminent, and that preparations for defence must at once be set on foot. Messengers were sent to summon both Othello and Brabantio. As it happened, the latter was already on his way to appeal to the Duke to punish Othello, and happening to fall in with Othello, the two arrived at the same moment.
“Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you against the public enemy,” said the Duke. Then, turning to Brabantio, he added courteously: ”I did not see you; welcome, gentle signor; we lacked your counsel and your help to-night.”