This is set after the end of Othello. He has smothered Desdemona and
killed himself. Cassio has become Governor of Cyprus, and Iago, having
murdered his wife, has been exiled to the deepest dungeon in the garrison.
He waits, bound by a vow of silence he made in the last moments of the
play, but his thoughts and brilliant mind remain.
* * *
'Tis a mad world, my master,
Where friend is foe and love is war,
Where faith puts not its trust in men
And beauty is reviled.
Did you believe her, master,
Or did you trust my knowledge more,
Think faithfulness beyond her ken,
That spotless, helpless child?
You. Strange, I suppose. I never thought of myself as servile. There are two kinds of men in this life, I have found. There are thinkers and doers, ancients and generals, and rarely does one find something admirable in the other. The light has been put out. All of it. The only light I see now, mute and starved, is the parade of candles brought by the men who tarry their tools on my flesh. They take pleasure in burning me, branding the villain, the diablo, the Spartan dog as that ever-so-eloquent Signore Ludovico called me. Once, these men were yours. Just days ago you were their master. Then, four nights since, your sooty hand grasped out the brightest light you would ever know. And I made you do it.
What did you think of me? Why did you believe me above her, your wife, your love, your fair warrior whose pure heart never once cuckolded you? Foolish to the end. And the end is past. Master. Who remains? Cassio. Your precious Cassio with all his blind courtesies. And I, I remain, the villain, the snake in the darkness, now a prisoner but not reduced to anything approaching humility. In my heart I am glad of it. I would go it again. Everything.
I would twist your mind and heart again, I would drive you half mad and risk my own life in the doing of it, I would kill the woman I was supposed to love – my wife – and why? Because, in those last moments, when your pain cleared enough to see the truth, you could not kill me. But you tried. You could have taken me with you. I would have been with you among the fires. Would I torment you even then? Perhaps. But you could not. And that proves, my lord, that I was not mistaken. Your marriage to the fair Desdemona was infatuation. Your passion, induced by me, my words alone, killed her without a thought. But regret, realisation, anger, the fiercest passions of all, could not kill me. Because love, my lord, is stronger than all these. And I think, my lord, you loved me.
* * *
'Tis a mad world, my master,
Where friend is foe and love is war,
Where faith puts not its trust in men
And beauty is reviled.
Did you believe her, master,
Or did you trust my knowledge more,
Think faithfulness beyond her ken,
That spotless, helpless child?
You. Strange, I suppose. I never thought of myself as servile. There are two kinds of men in this life, I have found. There are thinkers and doers, ancients and generals, and rarely does one find something admirable in the other. The light has been put out. All of it. The only light I see now, mute and starved, is the parade of candles brought by the men who tarry their tools on my flesh. They take pleasure in burning me, branding the villain, the diablo, the Spartan dog as that ever-so-eloquent Signore Ludovico called me. Once, these men were yours. Just days ago you were their master. Then, four nights since, your sooty hand grasped out the brightest light you would ever know. And I made you do it.
What did you think of me? Why did you believe me above her, your wife, your love, your fair warrior whose pure heart never once cuckolded you? Foolish to the end. And the end is past. Master. Who remains? Cassio. Your precious Cassio with all his blind courtesies. And I, I remain, the villain, the snake in the darkness, now a prisoner but not reduced to anything approaching humility. In my heart I am glad of it. I would go it again. Everything.
I would twist your mind and heart again, I would drive you half mad and risk my own life in the doing of it, I would kill the woman I was supposed to love – my wife – and why? Because, in those last moments, when your pain cleared enough to see the truth, you could not kill me. But you tried. You could have taken me with you. I would have been with you among the fires. Would I torment you even then? Perhaps. But you could not. And that proves, my lord, that I was not mistaken. Your marriage to the fair Desdemona was infatuation. Your passion, induced by me, my words alone, killed her without a thought. But regret, realisation, anger, the fiercest passions of all, could not kill me. Because love, my lord, is stronger than all these. And I think, my lord, you loved me.