Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare - William Shakespeare (best romantic books to read TXT) 📗

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 round-about 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 to-night?” 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 that Cassio could not say anything that would damage her. Othello said his mouth was stopped.

Then Desdemona wept, but with violent words, in spite of all her pleading, Othello pressed upon her throat and mortally hurt her.

Then with boding heart came Emilia, and besought entrance at the door, and Othello unlocked it, and a voice came from the bed saying, “A guiltless death I die.”

“Who did it?” cried Emilia; and the voice said, “Nobody—I myself. Farewell!”

“‘Twas I that killed her,” said Othello.

He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the people who came running in, Iago among them; but when he spoke of the handkerchief, Emilia told the truth.

And Othello knew. “Are there no stones in heaven but thunderbolts?” he exclaimed, and ran at Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow and fled.

But they brought him back, and the death that came to him later on was a relief from torture.

They would have taken Othello back to Venice to try him there, but he escaped them on his sword. “A word or two before you go,” he said to the Venetians in the chamber. “Speak of me as I was—no better, no worse. Say I cast away the pearl of pearls, and wept with these hard eyes; and say that, when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a Venetian, I took him by the throat and smote him thus.”

With his own hand he stabbed himself to the heart; and ere he died his lips touched the face of Desdemona with despairing love.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

There lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fair daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered, and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while her sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that more than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said the elder daughter must marry first.

So Bianca’s suitors decided among themselves to try and get some one to marry Katharine—and then the father could at least be got to listen to their suit for Bianca.

A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thought of, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, the disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was just the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, he himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered.

Petruchio began by asking Baptista’s permission to pay court to his gentle daughter Katharine—and Baptista was obliged to own that she was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in, complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head, because he told her she was not playing correctly.

“Never mind,” said Petruchio, “I love her better than ever, and long to have some chat with her.”

When Katharine came, he said, “Good-morrow, Kate—for that, I hear, is your name.”

“You’ve only heard half,” said Katharine, rudely.

“Oh, no,” said Petruchio, “they call you plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the shrew, and so, hearing your mildness praised in every town, and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife.”

“Your wife!” cried Kate. “Never!” She said some extremely disagreeable things to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears.

“If you do that again, I’ll cuff you,” he said quietly; and still protested, with many compliments, that he would marry none but her.

When Baptista came back, he asked at once—

“How speed you with my daughter?”

“How should I speed but well,” replied Petruchio—“how, but well?”

“How now, daughter Katharine?” the father went on.

“I don’t think,” said Katharine, angrily, “you are acting a father’s part in wishing me to marry this mad-cap ruffian.”

“Ah!” said Petruchio, “you and all the world would talk amiss of her. You should see how kind she is to me when we are alone. In short, I will go off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding—for—kiss me, Kate! we will be married on Sunday.”

With that, Katharine flounced out of the room by one door in a violent temper, and he, laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell in love with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who was not afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that, in spite of her rough words and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife—she did indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should.

To vex and humble Katharine’s naughty, proud spirit, he was late at the wedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes that she was ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in the same shabby way, and the horses they rode were the sport of everyone they passed.

And, after the marriage, when should have been the wedding breakfast, Petruchio carried his wife away, not allowing her to eat or drink—saying that she was his now, and he could do as he liked with her.

And his manner was so violent, and he behaved all through his wedding in so mad and dreadful a manner, that Katharine trembled and went with him. He mounted her on a stumbling, lean, old horse, and they journeyed by rough muddy ways to Petruchio’s house, he scolding and snarling all the way.

She was terribly tired when she reached her new home, but Petruchio was determined that she should neither eat nor sleep that night, for he had made up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a lesson she would never forget.

So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was served he found fault with everything—the meat was burnt, he said, and ill-served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything but the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supperless to bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and how anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces, throwing the pillows and bedclothes on the floor, so that she could not go to bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servants so that Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was.

The next day, too, Katharine’s food was all found fault with, and caught away before she could touch a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy for want of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants—

“I pray thee go and get me some repast. I care not what.”

“What say you to a neat’s foot?” said the servant.

Katharine said “Yes,” eagerly; but the servant, who was in his master’s secret, said he feared it was not good for hasty-tempered people. Would she like tripe?

“Bring it me,” said Katharine.

“I don’t think that is good for hasty-tempered people,” said the servant. “What do you say to a dish of beef and mustard?”

“I love it,” said Kate.

“But mustard is too hot.”

“Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go,” cried Katharine, who was getting hungrier and hungrier.

“No,” said the servant, “you must have the mustard, or you get no beef from me.”

“Then,” cried Katharine, losing patience, “let it be both, or one, or anything thou wilt.”

“Why, then,” said the servant, “the mustard without the beef!”

Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, and boxed his ears.

Just then Petruchio brought her some food—but she had scarcely begun to satisfy her hunger, before he called for the tailor to bring her new clothes, and the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry. Katharine was pleased with the pretty new dress and cap that the tailor had made for her, but Petruchio found fault with everything, flung the cap and gown on the floor vowing his dear wife should not wear any such foolish things.

“I will have them,” cried Katharine. “All gentlewomen wear such caps as these—”

“When you are gentle you shall have one too,” he answered, “and not till then.” When he had driven away the tailor with angry words—but privately asking his friend to see him