Othello's Collapse II
Bill Long
An Avalance of Emotion (5.2.259-282)
Othello's emotional disintegration begins when he realizes that Iago has "hurt him,/ Iago set him on (cf. 5.2.328-329)," and he lunges at Iago to stab him (5.2.234-235). He is quickly disarmed, and he ends up speaking a soliloquy of sorts of four lines in the presence of the dying Emilia (5.2.243-246). Then, after Emilia's death he briefly addresses Gratiano before launching into his rambling, plangent, and funereal twenty-four line lament which culminates in the stark awareness of his guilt for killing his beloved Desdemona. By the end of his speech he is seemingly completely undone. This and the next mini-essay will cover that speech.
Overwhelmed by His Weakness
Those who disarmed Othello took away more than his sword: they unmanned him. They took the symbols of his trade and the indicia of his strength, but also his strength as a man. Othello knows this: "I am not valiant neither,/ But every puny whipster gets my sword (5.2.243-244)." His sharp and powerful sword, evidence of a throbbing manhood which he didn't even have to unsheathe when he told Brabantio and his thugs to "Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them (1.2.59)," is now taken from him.
Othello's first reaction is to wax philosophical. "But why should honor outlive honesty?/ Let it go all (5.2.245-246)." Or, in other words, 'why should my personal strength and courage outlast my reputation for them?' Since his reputation died when he realized his culpability not just for Desdemona's sacrifice but for her murder, why should his actual strength last any longer? Strength is gone. Sword has disappeared. Reputation is stained. Let it all go. Whereas Emilia has just died in music, Othello is ready to die in weakness.
The Other Weapon
Then he discovers another weapon in his chamber, a sword of Spain, of the "ice-brook's temper (5.2.253)," and his hope restores. Such a sword was plunged into bracing cold water when the blade was red hot, thus producing a weapon of unparalled durability. Now, he is ready to "re-man" himself by putting it on his thigh (5.2.261). A hard, unyielding, unbreakable weapon on the thigh can restore any man's confidence. Armed with this symbol of his virility, he calls out to Gratiano, "Uncle, I must come forth (5.2.253)." Gratiano's response is more to the point than he knows, "If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:/ Thou has no weapon, and perforce must suffer (5.2.255-256)." Even though Othello has the weapon of the ice-brook's temper, he is powerless.
Othello's confidence continues until he has uttered another one of his overstatements. In threatening Gratiano, he says, "I have seen the day/ That with this little arm, and this good sword,/ I have made my way through more impediments/ Than twenty times your stop (5.2.261-264)." Though not as outrageous as his claim that Cassio had "a thousand times committed" the act of shame with Desdemona (5.2.211-212), it temporarily lifts his spirits. Then, just as abruptly, they come crashing down.
The End for Othello
Thoughts race through his mind. Maybe he can break through the defenses with his well-tempered sword. But then, he realizes how vain it is to even think this way. He is not back in his earlier days, where he partook "Of moving accidents by flood and field,/ Of hair-breadth scapes i' th' imminent deadly breach (1.3.135-136)." Maybe he felt a small bit of the rush of those youthful times when he found the memorial sword of his earlier triumphs. But things are different now. Now he feels like a man controlled by fate, not by the "most disastrous chances" of uncertainty in battle, not by a freedom which characterized his "unhoused free condition" of yore. And fate is telling him that he has come to the end of his line.
Romance returns when fate is sealed. Othello was never more romantic or exotic in his language than when narrating the "story of his life" before the rapt Brabantio and Desdemona (1.3.128ff); now he will return to the language of romance at the end. The speech that nurtured him as a boy will be his food as a man. He says,
"Here is my journey's end, here is my butt/ And very sea mark of my utmost sail (5.2.267-268)."
He has reached his final shore; expended one last massive effort to attain a mark of accomplishment and distinction; stretched out the sail until it will stretch no more. Here it must end with the old general hanging up his sword, the sailor realizing he has passed his last lighthouse, the traveler knowing that he will not go out again. But this is different from Prospero's (and perhaps Shakespeare's own valedictory message to his hearers) last words once his charms have been broken:
"Now my charms are all o'erthrown/ And what strength I have's mine own, Which is most faint....Since I have my dukedom got,/ And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell/ In this bare island by your spell,/ But release me from my bands/ With the help of your good hands....And my ending is despair,/ Unless I be reliev'd by prayer,....As you form crimes would pardon'd be,/ Let your indulgence set me free (Tempest Epilogue 1-20)."
In The Tempest Prospero has come to the end of his magical course, but knows that a despairing ending will not occur if his hearers set him free and "relieve" him by their "prayer." It is a profoundly hopeful conclusion, a conclusion that realizes the connection between author/actor/hearer and knows that one has not life without the other.
But how different it is for Othello. He comes to his journey's end alone. He weakly brandishes a sword that even he knows can provide him no help. "Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear;/ Man but a rush against Othello's breast,/ And he retires (5.2.269-271)." Even though the puny whipsters don't have his sword, he can be knocked over by a palm frond. The flood of emotions cannot be far away.
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