MASCULINE FEMALES IN MAGICAL GIRL WARRIOR SERIES

...friendships with females who have internalized masculine qualities.
 It seems that the authors singled out friendships with females who have internalized masculine qualities as well as romantic relationships with other females as a means of illustrating that it is possible to have many different types of relationships with females, and that you can have the same type of relationshipthat you would have with a male with a female as well.

2.2.2.1 Reliance upon Masculine Females
As previously stated, [···] instead turn to [···] female friends for help. Among these friends, there are often females who have internalized masculine qualities upon whom [···] can rely. These females with masculine qualities are just as reliable as females without masculine qualities. Based on the personality of Sailor Uranus, it seems that it is possible for females with masculine qualities to assess or react to a situation differently from those who do not have masculine qualities.
Each Sailor Senshi possesses various powers and personalities,but among them there is one person who possesses clearly masculine traits: Sailor Uranus. We do not meet Sailor Uranus until the third of five story arcs, and the Inner or Guardian Senshi do not immediately become allies with her, but they nonetheless fight the same enemy. Perhaps it is because Sailor Uranus does not display either belongingness or cooperation, social values that could be associated with femininity, that they do not become allies at first. Once they combine forces, Sailor Uranus dedicates herself to protecting.
Sailor Uranus protects in the same way that a male would protect a female. In the fifth story arc, when the Sailor Starlights, a group of comprised of three
Sailor Senshi from another planet, appear and want to talk to [···], Sailor Uranus immediately gets in their way, raises her sword, and tells them “Don’t come any closer to us. If you want to get closer, you’ll have to do it over my dead body!” She offers not only to protect but to fight for the cause as well. While another character might have done the same thing, Sailor Uranus has physical strength that therest do not possess. She is also not afraid to back up her words, even if it means causing others harm. For these reasons she is more imposing than the other girls.
Sailor Uranus is willing to take more drastic measures than the other girls, and as a result she might be perceived as more masculine. In the third story arc, she tells the others that if the tenth Sailor Senshi, Sailor Saturn, awakens, the world could be destroyed. Sailor Uranus believes that the only way to save the world is to kill her before she awakens. The Guardian Senshi believe that there has to be another way. While Sailor Neptune and Sailor Pluto both agree with Sailor Uranus, it is Sailor Uranus who does all the talking. She is the only one who uses the word “kill.” It is not that Sailor Uranus is heartless; rather, she seems to listen to her head and logic instead of her heart and emotions. Most of the others find themselves wrestling with emotions at various points in time, but Sailor Uranus is always able to think clearly and logically, even if everyone does not agree with what she says.


2.2.2.2 Relationships between Two Females 

In these works, female characters who have internalized greater numbers of masculine qualities display more tendencies to enter into homoerotic relationships than those who have not. These masculine females have a tendency to pair up with females who are especially feminine in nature.
Sailor Uranus, as Haruka Ten’ō, is a race car driver in her civilian life. Her sex seems to be completely ignored by fans as they have come tothink of her as a male.
Once the tween viewer realizes that Haruka, who she thought was male, is Sailor Uranus, she is confused. Sailor Neptune tells that “Sailor Uranus is both male and female,” so this seems to reinforce Haruka’s incongruent sex and gender. Since Sailor Uranus does not claim to be either masculine or feminine, we can assume that she has fused qualities from both genders. Takeuchi herself says that “Uranus has the heart of a man,” but she also says that “all the Sailor Scouts are girls,” so in the end, perhaps one should simply liken Sailor Uranus to an otoko-yaku (male role) in a Takarazuka play in terms of sex and gender (The Takarazuka is a stage troupe comprised solely of women. An otoko-yaku is a female who plays male roles in the troupe’s theatrical productions).
The partner of Sailor Uranus, Sailor Neptune (Michiru Kai’ō), is very feminine, prim, and proper, and as a result, she probably would not tolerate an unkempt, inconsiderate male as her romantic partner. By entering into a romantic relationship with someone like an otoko-yaku, such as Sailor Uranus, Sailor Neptune is not exposed to the less than desirable traits of a real male. This is because “an otoko-yaku is...a man [who is] superior to a real man. He is the ideal man from a woman’s perspective, whose style, behaviour, and gentleness far surpasses a real man (Nobuko Otoba, quoted in Haruyuki Nakano, Tezuka Osamu no Takarazuka, (Tokyo: Chikuma, 1994), 200).”
Perhaps it can be said that only another female would truly understand a female’s feelings, and only another female would truly know how to properly behave around a female. Sailor Uranus does not explicitly deny or reject her femininity, so perhaps she still utilizes her femininity when dealing with other females, such as Sailor Neptune. She has an advantage over a realmale due to the fact that, like an otoko-yaku, she is “an idealized, ‘beautiful’ man—a man without dirt, sweat, roughness, and a need to dominate (Lorie Brau, “The women’s theatre of Takarazuka,” The Drama Review 34, no. 4 (1990), 81).”  Physiologically, she is still a female, and Sailor Neptune knows this. Moreover, there is no sense that Sailor Uranus controls the relationship, and there is no indication that Sailor Neptune plays a submissive or subservient role. The two are treated as equals in the relationship because they are both female.

In certain instances, a person with masculine qualities may be useful, so in these cases, they rely on other females who have internalized masculine traits instead of real males. Some even choose to enter into romances with other females, such as Sailor Uranus and Sailor Neptune, thus totally eliminating the need for males.

(Excerpt from a thesis by JENNIFER L. BROWN)

NICOLAS LE PHILOSOPHE

Nicolas le philosophe

Après avoir servi son maître pendant sept ans, Nicolas lui dit :

– Maître, j'ai fait mon temps, je voudrais bien retourner près de ma mère ; donnez-moi mes gages.

– Tu m'as servi fidèlement comme intelligence et probité, répondit le maître de Nicolas ; la récompense sera en rapport avec le service.

Et il lui donna un lingot d'or, grand comme son avant-bras, qui pouvait bien peser cinq ou six livres. Nicolas tira son mouchoir de sa poche, y enveloppa le lingot, le chargea sur son épaule et se mit en route pour la maison paternelle.

En cheminant et en mettant toujours une jambe devant l'autre, il finit par croiser un cavalier qui venait à lui, joyeux et frais, et monté sur un beau cheval.

– Oh ! dit tout haut Nicolas, la belle chose que d'avoir un cheval ! On monte dessus, on est dans sa selle comme sur un fauteuil, on avance sans s'en apercevoir, et l'on n'use pas ses souliers.

Le cavalier, qui l'avait entendu, lui cria :

– Hé ! Nicolas, pourquoi vas-tu donc à pied ?

– Ah ! ne m'en parlez point, répondit Nicolas ; ça me fait d'autant plus de peine, que j'ai là, sur l'épaule, un lingot d'or qui me pèse tellement, que je ne sais à quoi tient que je ne le jette dans le fossé.

– Veux-tu faire un échange ? demanda le cavalier.

– Lequel ? fit Nicolas.

– Je te donne mon cheval, donne-moi ton lingot d'or.

– De tout mon cœur, dit Nicolas ; mais, je vous préviens, il est lourd en diable.

– Bon ! ce n'est point là ce qui empêchera le marché de se faire, dit le cavalier.

Et il descendit de son cheval, prit le lingot d'or, aida Nicolas à monter sur la bête et lui mit la bride en main.

– Quand tu voudras aller doucement, dit le cavalier, tu tireras la bride à toi en disant : « Oh ! » Quand tu voudras aller vite, tu lâcheras la bride en disant : « Hop ! »

Le cavalier, devenu piéton, s'en alla avec son lingot ; Nicolas, devenu cavalier, continua son chemin avec son cheval.

Nicolas ne se possédait pas de joie en se sentant si carrément assis sur sa selle ; il alla d'abord au pas, car il était assez médiocre cavalier, puis au trot, puis il s'enhardit et pensa qu'il n'y aurait pas de mal à faire un petit temps de galop.

Il lâcha donc la bride et fit clapper sa langue en criant :

– Hop ! hop !

Le cheval fit un bond, et Nicolas roula à dix pas de lui.

Puis, débarrassé de son cavalier, le cheval partit à fond de train, et Dieu sait où il se fût arrêté, si un paysan qui conduisait une vache ne lui eût barré le chemin.

Nicolas se releva, et, tout froissé, se mit à courir après le cheval, que le paysan tenait par la bride ; mais, tout triste de sa déconfiture, il dit au brave homme :

– Merci, mon ami !... C'est une sotte chose que d'aller à cheval, surtout quand on a une rosse comme celle-ci, qui rue, et, en ruant, vous démonte son homme de manière à lui casser le cou. Quant à moi, je sais bien une chose, c'est que jamais je ne remonterai dessus. Ah ! continua Nicolas avec un soupir, j'aimerais bien mieux une vache ; on la suit à son aise par derrière, et l'on a, en outre, son lait par-dessus le marché, sans compter le beurre et le fromage, et les yaourts... Foi de Nicolas ! je donnerais bien des choses pour avoir une vache comme la vôtre.

– Eh bien, dit le paysan, puisqu'elle vous plaît tant, prenez-la ; je consens à l'échanger contre votre cheval.

Nicolas fut transporté de joie : il prit la vache par son licol ; le paysan enfourcha le cheval et disparut.

Et Nicolas se remit en route, chassant la vache devant lui, et songeant à l'admirable marché qu'il venait de faire.

Il arriva à une auberge, et, dans sa joie, il mangea tout ce qu'il avait emporté de chez son maître, c'est-à-dire un excellent morceau de pain et de fromage ; puis, comme il avait deux liards dans sa poche, il se fit servir un demi-verre de bière et continua de conduire sa vache du côté de son village natal.

Vers midi, la chaleur devint étouffante, et, juste en ce moment, Nicolas se trouvait au milieu d'une lande qui avait bien encore deux lieues de longueur.

La chaleur était si insupportable, que le pauvre Nicolas en tirait la langue de trois pouces hors de la bouche.

– Il y a un remède à cela, se dit Nicolas : je vais traire ma vache et me régaler de lait.

Il attacha la vache à un arbre desséché, et, comme il n'avait pas de seau, il posa à terre son bonnet de cuir ; mais, quelque peine qu'il se donnât, il ne put faire sortir une goutte de lait de la mamelle de la bête.

Ce n'était pas que la vache n'eût point de lait, mais Nicolas s'y prenait mal, si mal, que la bête rua, comme on dit, en vache, et, d'un de ses pieds de derrière, lui donna un tel coup à la tête, qu'elle le renversa, et qu'il fut quelque temps à rouler à droite et à gauche, sans parvenir à se remettre sur ses pieds.

Par bonheur, un charcutier vint à passer avec sa charrette, où il y avait un porc.

– Eh ! eh ! demanda le charcutier, qu'y a-t-il donc, mon ami ? es-tu ivre ?

– Non pas, dit Nicolas, au contraire, je meurs de soif.

– Cela ne serait pas une raison : nul n'est plus altéré qu'un ivrogne ; au reste, et à tout hasard, mon pauvre garçon, bois un coup.

Il aida Nicolas à se remettre sur ses pieds et lui présenta sa gourde.

Nicolas l'approcha de sa bouche et y but une large gorgée.

Puis, ayant reprit ses sens :

– Voulez-vous me dire, demanda-t-il au charcutier, pourquoi ma vache ne donne pas de lait ?

Le charcutier se garda bien de lui dire que c'était parce qu'il ne savait point la traire.

– Ta vache est vieille, lui dit-il, et n'est plus bonne à rien.

– Pas même à tuer ? demanda Nicolas.

– Qui diable veux-tu qui mange de la vieille vache ? Autant manger de la vache enragée !

– Ah ! dit Nicolas, si j'avais un joli petit porc comme celui-ci, à la bonne heure ! cela est bon depuis les pieds jusqu'à la tête : avec la chair, on fait du salé ; avec les entrailles, on fait des andouillettes ; avec le sang, on fait du boudin.

– écoute, dit le charcutier, pour t'obliger... mais c'est purement et simplement pour t'obliger... je te donnerai mon porc, si tu veux me donner ta vache.

– Que Dieu te récompense, brave homme ! dit Nicolas.

Et, remettant sa vache au charcutier, il descendit le porc de la charrette et prit le bout de la corde pour le conduire.

Nicolas continua sa route en songeant combien tout allait selon ses désirs.

Il n'avait pas fait cinq cents pas, qu'un jeune garçon le rattrapa. Celui-ci portait sous son bras une oie grasse.

Pour passer le temps, Nicolas commença à parler de son bonheur et des échanges favorables qu'il avait faits.

De son côté, le jeune garçon lui raconta qu'il portait son oie pour un festin de baptême.

– Pèse-moi cela par le cou, dit-il à Nicolas. Hein ! est-ce lourd ! Il est vrai que voilà huit semaines qu'on l'engraisse avec des châtaignes. Celui qui mordra là-dedans devra s'essuyer la graisse des deux côtés du menton.

– Oui, dit Nicolas en la soupesant d'une main, elle a son poids ; mais mon cochon pèse bien vingt oies comme la tienne.

Le jeune garçon regarda de tous côtés d'un air pensif, et en secouant la tête :

– écoute, dit-il à Nicolas, je ne te connais que depuis dix minutes, mais tu m'as l'air d'un brave garçon ; il faut que tu saches une chose, c'est qu'il se pourrait qu'à l'endroit de ton cochon, tout ne fût pas bien en ordre : dans le village que je viens de traverser, on en a volé un au percepteur. Je crains fort que ce ne soit justement celui que tu mènes. Ils ont requis la maréchaussée et envoyé des gens pour poursuivre le voleur, et, tu comprends, ce serait une mauvaise affaire pour toi si l'on te trouvait conduisant ce cochon. Le moins qu'il pût t'arriver, ce serait d'être conduit en prison jusqu'au moment où l'affaire serait éclaircie.

à ces mots, la peur saisit Nicolas.

– Jésus Dieu ! dit-il, tire-moi de ce mauvais pas, mon garçon ; tu connais ce pays que j'ai quitté depuis quinze ans, de sorte que tu as plus de défense que moi. Donne-moi ton oie et prends mon cochon.

– Diable ! fit le jeune garçon, je joue gros jeu ; cependant, je ne puis laisser un camarade dans l'embarras.

Et, donnant son oie à Nicolas, il prit le cochon par la corde, et se jeta avec lui dans un chemin de traverse.

Nicolas continua sa route, débarrassé de ses craintes, et portant gaiement son oie sous son bras.

– En y réfléchissant bien, se disait-il, je viens, outre la crainte dont je suis débarrassé, de faire un marché excellent. D'abord, voilà une oie qui va me donner un rôti délicieux, et qui, tout en rôtissant, me donnera une masse de graisse avec laquelle je ferai des tartines pendant trois mois, sans compter les plumes blanches qui me confectionneront un bon oreiller, sur lequel, dès demain au soir, je vais dormir sans être bercé. Oh ! c'est ma mère qui sera contente, elle qui aime tant l'oie !

Il achevait à peine ces paroles, qu'il se trouva côte à côte avec un homme qui portait un objet enfermé dans sa cravate, qu'il tenait pendue à la main.

Cet objet gigottait de telle façon, et imprimait à la cravate de tels balancements, qu'il était évident que c'était un animal vivant, et que cet animal regrettait fort sa liberté.

– Qu'avez-vous donc là, compagnon ? demanda Nicolas.

– Où, là ? fit le voyageur.

– Dans votre cravate.

– Oh ! ce n'est rien, répondit le voyageur en riant.

Puis, regardant autour de lui pour voir si personne n'était à portée d'entendre ce qu'il allait dire :

– C'est une perdrix que je viens de prendre au collet, dit-il ; seulement, je suis arrivé à temps pour la prendre vivante. Et vous, que portez-vous là ?

– Vous le voyez bien, c'est une oie, et une belle, j'espère.

Et, tout fier de son oie, Nicolas la montra au braconnier.

Celui-ci regarda l'oie d'un air de dédain, la prit et la flaira.

– Hum ! dit-il, quand comptez-vous la manger ?

– Demain au soir, avec ma mère.

– Bien du plaisir ! dit en riant le braconnier.

– Je m'en promets, en effet, du plaisir ; mais pourquoi riez-vous ?

– Je ris, parce que votre oie est bonne à manger aujourd'hui, et encore, encore, en supposant que vous aimiez les oies faisandées.

– Diable ! vous croyez ? fit Nicolas.

– Mon cher ami, sachez cela pour votre gouverne : quand on achète une oie, on l'achète vivante ; de cette façon-là, on la tue quand on veut, et on la mange quand il convient : croyez-moi, si vous voulez tirer de votre oie un parti quelconque, faites-la rôtir à la première auberge que vous rencontrerez sur votre chemin, et mangez-la jusqu'au dernier morceau.

– Non, dit Nicolas ; mais faisons mieux : prenez mon oie, qui est morte, et donnez-moi votre perdrix, qui est vivante : je la tuerai demain au matin, et elle sera bonne à manger demain au soir.

– Un autre te demanderait du retour ; mais, moi, je suis bon compagnon ; quoique ma perdrix soit vivante et que ton oie soit morte, je te donne ma perdrix troc pour troc.

Nicolas prit la perdrix, la mit dans son mouchoir, qu'il noua par les quatre coins, et, pressé d'arriver le plus tôt possible, il laissa son compagnon entrer dans une auberge pour y manger son oie, et continua sa route à travers le village.

Au bout du village, il trouva un rémouleur.

Le rémouleur chantait, tout en repassant des couteaux et des ciseaux, le premier couplet d'une chanson que connaissait Nicolas.

Nicolas s'arrêta et se mit à chanter le second couplet.

Le rémouleur chanta le troisième.

– Bon ! lui dit Nicolas, du moment que vous êtes gai, c'est que vous êtes content.

– Ma foi, oui ! répondit le rémouleur ; le métier va bien, et, chaque fois que je mets la main à la pierre, il en tombe une pièce d'argent. Mais que portez-vous donc là qui frétille ainsi dans votre cravate ?

– C'est une perdrix vivante.

– Ah !... Où l'avez-vous prise ?

– Je ne l'ai pas prise, je l'ai eue en échange d'une oie.

– Et l'oie ?

– Je l'avais eue en échange d'un cochon.

– Et le cochon ?

– Je l'avais eu en échange d'une vache.

– Et la vache ?

– Je l'avais eue en échange d'un cheval.

– Et le cheval ?

– Je l'avais eu en échange d'un lingot d'or.

– Et ce lingot d'or ?

– C'était le prix de mes sept années de service.

– Peste ! vous avez toujours su vous tirer d'affaire !

– Oui, jusqu'aujourd'hui, cela a assez bien marché ; seulement, une fois rentré chez ma mère, il me faudrait un état dans le genre du vôtre.

– Ah ! en effet, c'est un crâne état.

– Est-il bien difficile ?

– Vous voyez : il n'y a qu'à faire tourner la meule et en approcher les couteaux ou les ciseaux qu'on veut affûter.

– Oui ; mais il faut une pierre.

– Tenez, dit le rémouleur en poussant une vieille meule du pied, en voilà une qui a rapporté plus d'argent qu'elle ne pèse, et cependant elle pèse lourd !

– Et ça coûte cher, n'est-ce pas, une pierre comme celle-là ?

– Dame ! assez cher, fit le rémouleur ; mais, moi, je suis bon garçon : donnez-moi votre perdrix, je vous donnerai ma meule. ça vous va-t-il ?

– Parbleu ! est-ce que cela se demande ? dit Nicolas ; puisque j'aurai de l'argent chaque fois que je mettrai la main à la pierre, de quoi m'inquiéterais-je maintenant ?

Et il donna sa perdrix au rémouleur, et prit la vieille meule que l'autre avait mise au rebut.

Puis, la pierre sous le bras, il partit, le cœur plein de joie et les yeux brillants de satisfaction.

– Il faut que je sois né coiffé ! se dit Nicolas ; je n'ai qu'à souhaiter pour que mon souhait soit exaucé !

Cependant, après avoir fait une lieue ou deux, comme il était en marche depuis le point du jour, il commença, alourdi par le poids de la meule, à se sentir très fatigué ; la faim aussi le tourmentait, ayant mangé le matin ses provisions de toute la journée, tant sa joie était grande, on se le rappelle, d'avoir troqué sa vache pour un cheval ! à la fin, la fatigue prit tellement le dessus, que, de dix pas en dix pas, il était forcé de s'arrêter ; la meule aussi lui pesait de plus en plus, car elle semblait s'alourdir au fur et à mesure que ses forces diminuaient.

Il arriva, en marchant comme une tortue, au bord d'une fontaine où bouillonnait une eau aussi limpide que le ciel qu'elle reflétait ; c'était une source dont on ne voyait pas le fond.

– Allons, s'écria Nicolas, il est dit que j'aurai de la chance jusqu'au bout ; au moment où j'allais mourir de soif, voilà une fontaine !

Et, posant sa meule au bord de la source, Nicolas se mit à plat ventre, et but à sa soif pendant cinq minutes.

Mais, en se relevant, le genou lui glissa ; il voulut se retenir la meule, et, en se retenant, il poussa la pierre, qui tomba à l'eau et disparut dans les profondeurs de la source.

– En vérité ! dit Nicolas demeurant un instant à genoux pour prononcer son action de grâce, le bon Dieu est réellement bien bon de m'avoir débarrassé de cette lourde et maussade pierre, sans que j'aie le plus petit reproche à me faire.

Et, allégé de tout fardeau, les mains et les poches vides, mais le cœur joyeux, il reprit, tout courant, le chemin de la maison de sa mère. 

(Tradition orale; Alexandre Dumas d'après Andersen et les Grimm)

The Carnation, freely adapted

The Carnation, freely adapted after "The Pink Carnation" by the Brothers Grimm

Quecksilver_Eyes

Summary:

 

My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Put the knife away.
Your hands are cold, see, and white knuckled around the handle of it, your hair a flood of spun sunlight, like a halo all around you. Your eyes are tired, see, and bloodshot. Don’t you want to take a break? Come on, my flower, put the knife away. Your skin is blood dotted, see, your legs are so heavy. The fabric of your dress is soaked full of water and hangs lazy and like lead from you. The foam of the bath bomb is caught in it, like cirrus in the sky of your dress, in the light of your hair. And I am lying here under you, nothing but the hot water all around me, the knife in your hands pointed at my mouth and I daren’t breathe.

 

Once upon a time -

My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Put the knife away.
Your hands are cold, see, and white knuckled around the handle of it, your hair a flood of spun sunlight, like a halo all around you. Your eyes are tired, see, and bloodshot. Don’t you want to take a break? Come on, my flower, put the knife away. Your skin is blood dotted, see, your legs are so heavy. The fabric of your dress is soaked full of water and hangs lazy and like lead from you. The foam of the bath bomb is caught in it, like cirrus in the sky of your dress, in the light of your hair. And I am lying here under you, nothing but the hot water all around me, the knife in your hands pointed at my mouth and I daren’t breathe.
Come on, my darling. Put the knife away. Let me wipe the salt and the water off your cheeks. We just have to hide it, see – perhaps we will bury it in a jar full of plotting soil and drive to Italy in some old car that costs way too much to rent, maybe we will throw the jar into the sea and watch it drown. Perhaps I’ll melt it down and pour something new out of it – a necklace, too fragile to strangle me with, or knitting needles, too dull to stab me with.
Let me help, my carnation. Put the knife away and get out of the bathtub or you will drown in here with me or choke on all the soap. Look at the water, my darling, look at how clear and foamed white it is – wouldn’t it be a shame to sully it? How long would it take to turn the water as red as the roses I bought for you in the supermarket at the corner? They’re still blooming, see. Let me see them wilt, my carnation.
Give me the knife.



My mother wanted a child.
And, god, did my mother want a child that grows in here, a child that makes her stomach swell, a child to love, a child to feed, a child to put in her husband’s lap. And as she was lying down, her legs spread, the leather of the chair sticking to her bare skin and steel cold between her legs, trying to see shapes in the plaster of the ceiling, the gynaecologist cleared his throat. She lifted her head.
“I am very sorry, Frau König“, he said and smiled. She closed her legs. “You’re not pregnant.”
He took off the latex gloves and threw them into the paper bin that stood next to the chair. “This is the tenth attempt. We can try again, but you will have to decide for yourself if that still makes sense for you.”
And, god, did my mother want a child.
So she reached for her bag and her underwear, got dressed and left the doctor’s office, her knuckles white, her cheeks blotched red. She pressed herself into the last row of seats on the bus that took her from the surgery to the street she lived in, and her bag to her stomach.
I wish.


Here is how to make a wish, truly:
Sit in the grass, still damp from the dew and close your eyes, wait until your feet and your hands grow numb, until the dew has crept in your clothes and under your skin. Look up into the sky and watch the moon sink lazily towards the Horizon, pale and so, so heavy, watch as the sun slowly drags itself across the sky, and still dishevelled with sleep. The world is still and breathless around you, not even the busses are on the streets yet, put your head back and watch as the sun wakes, as the moon goes to sleep.
And when your eyes grow tired, when you can see the echoes of sunlight flicker behind your eyelids, when tears burn on your cheeks and you cannot feel your hands anymore – close your eyes, reach for the world and make a wish.
And, gosh, did my mother want a child.


My father wanted a boy, strong and smeared with dirt and laughing, who pulls little girls’ pigtails and watches as they skin their arms in the bark mulch under the swing set. My father wanted a boy in dungarees and with a voice that would break with a hitch, a body that would stumble towards adulthood shivering.
My mother wanted a little cherub, with curls and red cheeks, who she could hold in her arms and spoil. My mother wanted a boy to gift toy cars and the world to.
Instead, there was I.
Little blood soiled bundle of a voice loud enough to all but make the world shake, little girl with little hands and big dark eyes, my fingers curled around the midwife’s, kicking my legs. My father took me, a smile on his lips, the light of the setting sun in his eyes, and pressed me to his chest, to his heartbeat. My mother reached for me, with trembling hands and her throat raw, but my father didn’t let go of me.
“In a moment, dear”, he said and didn’t take his eyes nor his hands off me. My mother tried to pull herself up.


I wish.
It comes true

A handy guide to a kidnapping:

You need:
a chicken
a meat cleaver
a narcotic
the greed of the world on your hands and under your fingernails
patience

The man who saw my first steps and my whole life wasn’t my father.
He baked the most beautiful cakes, the most wondrous bread, cooked meat so tender that a spoon could sink through it, and for all these years, he looked at me with eyes so bright and clear, as freshly frozen ice, so blue that they looked white. He smelled of mint and iron and when I was a small girl, I curled into him and his food stained apron, and with each year, my hair grew darker. He held me close, with strong hands and laughter full of heart, full get-up-early-and-feed-the-chickens-pet-the-rabbits.
         “Wish us a home in which we needn’t hunger. Wish us animals that never fall sick, a roof that never leaks, a world that never crumbles.”
On my fifth birthday, after he’d braided my hair and tied my shoelaces, I twirled around in the dress he gave me, blue and smooth and swinging wide and I laughed with my child’s mouth full of teeth. He laughed with me, picked me up and carried me to the rabbit pen.

(My carnation, I’d never cried like that.
Do you know it? You cry until your cheeks are sore, until your eyes are swollen and your lips are chapped, until your lungs cry for air and your throat cries for water. And then you keep on crying, until your cheeks are stained red and your hands are knuckled white.

Like I do?

Yes. Like that.)

There was this rabbit. Black fluffed and big eyed, dark, with floppy ears, and each morning, it sat on my lap and looked at me as if I was the moon that hangs cool and heavy in the night sky.
We had fifteen rabbits, white and black and red and brown spotted, with fluffy scuts and twitching ears and pink noses and when I was five years old, I held them all to a block of wood as the meat cleaver hung heavy in his hands. When I was five years old, the black rabbit looked at me as if I was the mood, cool and crisp and so far away, and I cried until my clavicles were wet and salt stained.
We ate rabbit that night and he gifted me the black rabbit’s pelt on my sixth birthday.


Make a wish.


Elke König convicted of infanticide
Elke König (30) was convicted to serve life this morning at 9:35 by the Viennese regional court. On the 6^th of August, her husband Jochen König (32) found her in their shared flat, covered in blood and sleeping by the empty crib of their three month old child. She was taken into custody and has now, after a lengthy process and despite her lawyer’s strict insistence on his client’s innocence, been convicted.
Her lawyer called the lack of a corpse in this lawsuit “grossly negligent”. In front of the press, he expressed his intention to advocate for a softening of his client’s sentence. “There is no corpse”, he said this noon on a press conference, “and whatever evidence the prosecution has to indicate my mandator’s guilt, they are insufficient.”
Jochen König, who inherited a million-schilling textile empire and has now been managing it for ten years, abstained from commenting on the issue, but during the public hearing he has been quoted as threatening divorce and calling his wife a “filthy child murderer”.
More about König und Co GmbH’s expansive influence on page 7.
 
 
Elke König on hunger strike!
Elke König (30), who was transferred to the regional prison of Vienna, has reportedly refused to eat for three days. “I’m innocent”, she says, and that she wouldn’t eat until her case would be picked up for retrial.
“Of course we make sure that our prisoners eat properly”, says Achim L., the spokesperson for the judicial authority. “Frau König can make threats all she likes, but she has to eat at least once a day.”
 
 
Cook (m/f) wanted
Family König wants competent and experienced cook. 39,5 hrs/week, 2 000€ brutto per month, overpay for over qualification possible. Terminable after a year.
get in touch:
+43 183 0481916 or via email to koenig.gmbh@chello.at
(ad placed on 11/03/1998)


When I was thirteen, I was tall and thin and long legged, with a mouth full of too-big teeth, and black curls that fell almost to my chin, with holes in my trousers and grass spots on my sleeves, my eyes big enough to swallow the sky and all the world with it. My chest ached, with all the earnestness of growing and changing, and my back did as well, striped red and groaning as my bones reached for the moon.
In the mornings, I sat bent over the heavy oak table in the lobby, my hand cramped around a pencil, brows furrowed, as a woman who didn’t know and couldn’t touch me explained algebra to me through a screen. “Public schools are nonsense”, said the man who raised me. “I need you here. How am I supposed to tend to the farm alone?” I dug my teeth into my lower lip and said nothing.
I thought of a black fluffed rabbit and its moon-addicted eyes and the blood that clung to my child hands, and I jabbed the pin of my dividers so hard into my notebook that it got stuck in the wood of the table.
He interrupted the skype call. I threw the ruler on the table and the door into its hinges.


On the hill behind the farm that was my child world grew pink carnations and roses from the same soil. And I, gangly thing, no longer child and not yet woman, sat amidst it all and held my freckles into the sun, with my skin all in cuts and all the world’s wishes on my lips. Roses like bloody things, as red as their petals, so they grew big and vibrant around me and in between them, the world and the carnations stood still.
This was your home, my carnation. In between thorned roses and bloody soil, in the hands of a girl whose world ended at an old wooden fence. Your petals were as pink as your skin is today, with the white nightgown that the water makes cling to you, as red as your cheeks, wet with tears. The yellow of your hair is new. I think it’s my favourite of all your colours.


I wish.

I wish and the world turns for me. I wish that a flower makes a girl, with hair like the light of the sun at noon, and you take your first breath with lungs. I wish that you may stay with me for a life and that he may never point the cleaver at you. Do as he says, my carnation, so that you may live. I wish that your eyes never long for the moon.

österreischicher schilling

You come into my world on a hot summer day in August, when the sky was without clouds and the world was dipped in hot light. You looked at me, then, squinting, a hand held to your forehead, the green dress almost slipped from your shoulders and I could scarcely see where your hair ended and the world began, with the light of the sun behind you. And then you smiled, with pale lips and dimples in your cheeks, amidst the rose bushes and the blooming carnations.
“Hey”, you called, laughing. “Do you think you have a bed for me?”
I took you home with me, in between wood and stone and cattle and you dragged me through the stables and the pens, your hands in every fur, on every feather, laughing and dancing and I couldn’t take my eyes off you as you gave them all a name.
“Can she stay?”
The man who raised me, who killed my rabbit and stained me with blood, pulled a face. “If she doesn’t make a fuss”, he said and looked at you, new as you were, flower that you still were, and he pointed at you with a butter knife. “As long as you do your work and listen to me, you can have the empty room on the first floor. Have you ever worked on a farm before?”

(I’m sorry.

Me too.)

We carried the mattress into my room, our laughter almost a shriek, your legs in a pair of old trousers, the shirt barely buttoned, and put it next to my bed.
It would stay there for years to come.
In this first night, you got to know your legs, in the clumsy waltz that I tried to teach you, your hair in my hands, your head in my lap as we looked at each other and couldn’t keep our laughter locked behind our teeth, as big as it was, and as loud.
I braided your hair to a crown around your head and you put dandelions and daisies into mine and your skin still felt like the petals of a carnation, soft and fragile and pastel pink, so bright against my sun burnt skin.


When I turned seventeen, I kissed you for the first time. You tasted of the fresh cow milk that we stole from the milking machine, and of the raspberries that grew beyond the wooden fence. My hands were scratched raw and still bled and you had put your lips on each of my wounds, ever so softly, and smiled at me. This time it was I who tilted my head back to see the moon, to touch it even once.
Your hands were smooth and soft. You had clipped the thorns off every rose you’d plucked and twined into a wreath that lay heavy and fragrant in my curls until it withered and wilted.
In this moment, with your lips on my skin and your roses in my hair, I put a hand on your cheek, my tanned skin dark against your pallor, the red of my blood like the tips of your petals, and kissed you.


New evidence in König case
According to an anonymous source which leaked a surveillance video to die Presse, on which the Königs’ flat is clearly visible, doubts about the death of the Königs’ child have arisen. On the video, a masked person is seen exiting the flat through the main entrance. They were carrying an infant.
Elke König (50), who has been convicted of murdering her daughter twenty years ago, abstained from commenting on this. Her lawyer however, who had back then advocated strongly for his client’s innocence, denies allegations that Frau König may have been involved in her daughter’s kidnapping. “My mandate has been tricked and framed for a crime she did not commit”, he said in an interview. “I strongly advise the persecution to reopen the case due to the new evidence presented.”
Jochen König (52) reluctant in the face of the press as ever, refused to talk to our reporters.


When I turned twenty, you kneeled above me, a knife in your hands and tears on your cheeks. Your knuckles were white, your lips swollen red and your nightgown like spun fog in the half dark of my room. I looked at you and had to think of a five year old girl who pressed her favourite rabbit against a wooden block and cried for the entire world, her new dress salt crusted from it all.
Your clavicles shone wet in the moonlight and your chest moved in desperate gasps. You looked at me, the knife pointed to my mouth, and I could hear the man who raised me walk up and down the hallway just outside my door, his boots heavy on the wooden floor.
“What does he want?”, I asked and the blade fogged up with my breath.
“Your heart”, you said, your voice wet with tears. “Your tongue.”


The worst thing about slaughtering a pig to have its heart and tongue pose for one’s own and to smear its blood on one’s blanket, is to stand in the stables at five in the morning, tear blurred, and to watch the woman one loves, the woman whose lips one has kissed red and swollen just a half-hour ago, grab her own hands each time they try to reach for the knife.
The worst thing is lying under the heavy duvet as the man who braided one’s hair and tied one’s shoelaces, who baked twenty birthday cakes and created one’s entire world, walks through the room with heavy steps and cradles a pig’s heart in one hand, a pig’s tongue in the other.
The worst thing is knowing that they should be one’s own.
The worst thing are the tears of the woman one loves.


I wish.


I left my world that same evening for the first time and it was like walking through a mirror. Like reaching into an oil painting that should have never been touched, like walking into the world with big dark eyes, your hand in mine, the knife in my pocket.
(“Leave me here”, you’d said, your voice still wavering, and I tucked a strand of your light-hair behind your ear. “Please, leave me here. I will get my hands on that knife one day.”
“I love you”, I’d said and kissed your rough lips. „You are everything I know.“
“I will kill you.” The sun set behind you, as it did when I first saw you, your hair like light, your skin freckle-dotted and so pale, flower that you are, fairy tale creature that you are. “When you can’t stay alert anymore, I will kill you.”
“I know.”)
The world spun around us and with us and I didn’t let go of your hand as we walked up the stairs to the door over which big letters spelled the word police. I was stolen twenty years ago. Please, who am I?
 
 
Elke König proven innocent!
In a twist that could be from a movie script, the missing and for a long time presumed dead daughter of Elke (50) and Jochen König (52) appeared in a small police station in Mannersdorf (NÖ). The young woman (20) was immediately questioned and has confirmed under oath that her mother had nothing to do with her disappearance.
Elke König had been convicted to serve a life sentence in August of 1998. At the time of Fräulein König’s appearance, the case had already been reopened, but Frau König has only today been released from arrest. In the face of the press, she was very shy. “I want to see my child”, she said to our reporters, but refused to answer further questions.
A video of Jochen König appeared on the internet two days ago. In it, he apologizes to his daughter and his wife while crying and asked his daughter to come home. The video already has over four million clicks and has been shared across many platforms. In an interview, Herr König told us that the return of his wife and daughter has the highest priority in his life right now. He interrupted a business trip to Paris just for them, he says.
The Königs’ daughter hasn’t been seen in public yet, but she has left a comment on her father’s video from an apparently only recently created account, asking him for more time to get used to this strange new world.
 
Königs’ child home at last!
The long lost daughter (20) of Jochen and Elke König (52 and 50, see picture) appeared abruptly in front of her father’s firm on Wednesday. She was accompanied by a young woman whose hand she refused to let go of, and she spoke to her father in front of all present employees without waiting to be shown to his office.
Parts of the conversation were recorded and put online, including Fräulein König’s statement that she’d read of her kidnapping in the press archives and couldn’t understand why Herr König had immediately dropped his wife. If she will keep in contact with her father is doubtful.
 
 
Elke König found dead in shared flat!
Elke König (50) was found dead in the flat she shares with her husband (52) only a few days after her release. Apparently, she had been eating only what she was forced to during her stay in prison and had, upon her arrival at home, refused to eat or drink entirely, as a distraught Jochen König tells the Heute.
“She wouldn’t eat or drink no matter what I tried to do to force her. I am deeply ashamed of the way I’ve treated my wife these past twenty years and I wish I could make it undone somehow.”
Elke König has died of thirst on the 25^th of August, according to the police.



My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Now I am twenty-one and you kneel wet above me, the foam of the bath bomb in your dress and in your hair, the knife pointed at me, tears heavy on your cheeks. Give me the knife, my carnation.
Don’t you want to take a break? You’ve scratched your nails bloody, see, on the plaster behind which we’ve hidden the knife. Come on, give me the knife. Your wedding band is all but ground to dust, see.
Give yourself a moment’s rest.
My parents are as dead as the pig we slaughtered together, do you remember how much blood there was? Come on. We don’t have to sully the bathtub. I’ve brought you roses from the supermarket, let me see them wilt.

I love you. Give me the knife.


You don’t give me the knife. After a year, you don’t have the strength for it.
(I can understand that, my darling. Come on, put my tongue and my heart into the jar above the stove. Put it next to the roses and wilt with them.
I love you. Scatter my ashes in the field of flowers you came from.
Promise me.

I promise.)

- and if they still live, only heaven can know.

 

OTHELLO: MARY MACLEOD -ILLUSTRATED-

“Honest Iago”

rave, generous, of a free and open nature, Othello the Moor had won high honour in the state of Venice, for, although dark in colouring and of an alien race, he was one of her most renowned generals, and time after time had carried her arms to victory. When, therefore, alarming news reached Venice that the Turkish hordes were again threatening to invade some of her most valued territories, it was to the Moorish warrior Othello that the Venetian senators turned at once to avert the threatened danger.

Othello’s frank, valiant nature had won him many friends, but close at hand, where he little suspected it, was one subtle and dangerous [Pg 361]enemy. Iago, one of his under-officers, hated him with a deadly venom. Iago was a brave soldier, but a man of utterly unscrupulous character. He had been with Othello through several campaigns, and when a chance for promotion came had hoped, through high personal influence, to obtain the envied position of Othello’s lieutenant. In his own opinion, Iago thoroughly merited this post, but when suit was made to Othello he evaded the petitioners, and finally put an end to their hopes by saying that he had already chosen his officer.

“And what was he?” demanded Iago disdainfully. “Forsooth, a great arithmetician—one 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.

Desdemona, the gentle daughter of a statesman, 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.

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 lord father's 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 aristocratic youth, who quickly became his henchman...

The next question to decide was where Desdemona should stay during her husband’s absence. She begged so earnestly to be allowed to accompany him to the war that Othello joined his voice to hers, and the Duke gave them leave to settle the matter as they chose. Othello was obliged to start that very night, and Desdemona was to follow later under the escort of his officer, “honest Iago,” to whose care Othello especially committed her, and whose wife Emilia he begged might attend on her.

If Othello had but known it, “honest Iago” at that very moment [Pg 366]was already weaving his plans of villainy, and was sneering inwardly at his General’s open and trustful nature, which made him so easy to be deceived. The sweetest revenge which occurred to Iago was to bring discord between Othello and the beautiful young wife whom he loved so devotedly. Iago therefore determined to set cunningly to work to implant a feeling of jealousy in Othello’s mind. Like many warm-hearted and affectionate people, Othello was extremely passionate and impulsive. Once his feelings were aroused, he rushed forward blindly in the direction in which a clever villain might lure him, and being so absolutely truthful and candid himself, he was utterly unsuspicious of falsehood in others.

Iago’s weapon was not far to seek, and he had, moreover, the satisfaction of feeling that he would enjoy a double revenge, for it was Cassio, Othello’s new lieutenant, on whom he fixed as a fitting tool. Cassio was young, handsome, attractive, a general favourite, especially with women, where his graceful manners always won him favour. He was already greatly liked by Desdemona, for when Othello came to woo her, Cassio was his frequent companion, and often carried messages between them. What, then, more natural than that a young girl like Desdemona should presently grow tired of her elderly and war-beaten husband, and turn for amusement to this charming young gallant? Such, at least, was Iago’s reasoning, and such was the poison which he intended to pour into the ear of the guileless Othello.[Pg 367]

Well met at Cyprus

On the way to Cyprus a terrible tempest sprang up, which scattered Othello’s convoy, and drove his own ship out of its course, so that, after all, Desdemona got to the island before her husband. Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, had already arrived, and had been sounding the praises of his General’s wife to the islanders, and when news came that Desdemona’s ship had also safely reached port, he was ready with a rapturous greeting for the young bride.

“O, behold, the riches of the ship is come on shore!” he cried, as Desdemona approached, with Emilia, Iago, Roderigo, and their attendants. “Hail to thee, lady! The grace of heaven, before, behind thee, and on every hand, enwheel thee round!”

“I thank thee, valiant Cassio,” replied Desdemona. “What tidings can you tell me of my lord?”

Cassio answered that Othello was not yet arrived, and for anything he knew he was well, and would be there shortly; and even as he spoke, the guns on the citadel thundered a greeting to a friendly sail.

Like a spider who has woven its web, Iago watched his victims; he gloated over the idle chatter between Cassio and Desdemona, and marked, as they laughed and talked together, how the young man smiled and bowed, and often kissed his fingers with an air of gallantry.

“Ay, smile upon her, do,” he sneered to himself; “if such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenancy, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft.... Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy! ’tis so, indeed!”[Pg 368]

“Ay, smile upon her!”

So he went on, taking malicious pleasure in the young man’s little affected airs, which would the more readily lend colour to any suggestions Iago chose to bring against him.

Othello, meanwhile, had landed. His joy at again meeting his wife was so intense that he could scarcely express it.

“If it were possible now to die, ’twere now to be most happy,” he exclaimed, for he feared that unknown fate would never again hold in store for him another moment of such absolute content. “Come, let us to the castle. News, friends!” he went on, turning to the others. “Our wars are done, the Turks are drowned. How does my old acquaintance of this isle?... Come, Desdemona, once more, well met at Cyprus!”

In honour of the good tidings of the destruction of the Turkish fleet, and of the marriage of their new Governor, Othello, a public rejoicing was proclaimed in Cyprus, and during the space of six hours the whole island was to be given up to feasting and revelry.

Cassio was appointed to watch that evening as Captain of the Guard, and Iago saw here an excellent opportunity to take the first step in his scheme of revenge, by bringing some disgrace on the young lieutenant. He knew that a very little wine, such as would have no effect on another man, made Cassio excited and quarrelsome. He [Pg 369]determined to lure him on to drink more than was good for him, after which Roderigo was to find some occasion to irritate Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or sneering at his discipline, or by any other means he pleased. Cassio, being rash, and very sudden in anger, would probably strike Roderigo, which, if possible, he was to be provoked into doing, for out of this Iago would incite the islanders to mutiny, and get Cassio dismissed from his post.

When, therefore, Cassio entered the hall of the castle to take up his duties for the night, Iago met him with a great appearance of friendliness, and cordially pressed him to join in the entertainment he had provided for some guests,—Montano, the former Governor of Cyprus, and some other gentlemen, who would fain drink a measure to the health of Othello. Knowing his own weakness, Cassio at first refused.

“Not tonight, good Iago,” he said. “I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking; I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.”

“O, they are our friends! But one cup!” pleaded Iago. “I will drink it for you.”

Cassio answered that he had drunk only one cup that night, and even of that the wine was diluted, and yet he already felt the effects. He was unfortunate in this peculiarity, and dared not task his weakness with any more.

“What, man! ’Tis a night of revels; the gallants desire it,” urged the tempter.

“Where are they?” asked Cassio, his resolution beginning to falter.[Pg 370]

“Here, at the door; I pray you, call them in.”

“I’ll do it, but it mislikes me,” said Cassio, and he reluctantly went in search of Iago’s guests. When he presently returned with three or four noisy gallants who had themselves been feasting too lavishly, they had already persuaded him to drink another cup with them.

Iago now did his best to lure them on by calling for more wine, and trolling out a jovial song:

“And let me the canakin clink, clink;And let me the canakin clink;A soldier’s a man;A life’s but a span;Why then let a soldier drink-drink!”

“An excellent song!”

“An excellent song!” pronounced Cassio, whereupon Iago sang another, which he found even “more exquisite” than the first. So merrily went the minutes that it was not until much later that the new lieutenant remembered his neglected duties, by which time his senses were quite confused by what he had drunk.[Pg 371]

When he left, Iago took occasion to spread a bad impression of him by saying what a pity it was that such a good soldier should be spoilt by the persistent habit of drink—in fact, that he never went sober to bed. This, of course, was an absolute falsehood, but the gentlemen of Cyprus believed what Iago said. Montano remarked it was a pity Othello were not told of it; perhaps he did not know, or perhaps his good nature prized the virtue in Cassio, and overlooked the evil. It was a great pity that the noble Moor should hazard such an important place as second in command to one with such an incurable fault. It would be right to say so to Othello.

“Not I, for this fair island,” said the hypocritical Iago. “I love Cassio well, and would do much to cure him of this, evil.—But hark! What noise?” for there was a cry without: “Help! help!”

The next instant Cassio entered violently, driving Roderigo in front of him and beating him. Montano interfered to protect Roderigo, whereupon Cassio turned on him, and both drawing their weapons, Montano was presently wounded. Iago, meanwhile, had sent Roderigo to run and cry a mutiny, and make as much disturbance as possible, while Iago himself had the alarum-bell set pealing, and shouted noisily in all directions, contriving largely to increase the confusion, under pretence of restoring order.

Othello was speedily on the scene, and with prompt decision at once silenced the uproar. Then he asked for an explanation, which no one seemed willing to give.

“Honest Iago, that lookest dead with grieving, speak: who began this? On thy love, I charge thee.”[Pg 372]

Iago mumbled some confused excuses, which were certainly not intended to deceive the General. Cassio, on being appealed to, now completely sobered by the shock, answered simply, “I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak.” Montano declared that he was too much injured to say anything; Othello’s officer, Iago, could tell him everything; he was not conscious of having done or said anything amiss.

Othello now began to lose patience, and knowing the serious danger of such a disturbance in the present unsettled condition of the island, he curtly commanded Iago to let him know how the brawl began, and who set it on.

With feigned reluctance, but with much secret satisfaction, Iago gave an account of what had happened, taking care to heighten his own ignorance of the affair, and ostentatiously pretending to try to shield Cassio from blame.

Othello’s sentence was short and sharp.

“I know, Iago, thy honesty and love do mince this matter, making it light to Cassio.—Cassio, I love thee, but never more be officer of mine.”

When Othello and the others had retired, Iago, seeing Cassio standing as if dazed, went up and asked him if he were hurt.

“Ay, past all surgery,” was the mournful response.

“Marry, Heaven forbid!” said Iago, startled.

“Reputation, reputation, reputation!” groaned Cassio. “O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!”[Pg 373]

“As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound,” scoffed Iago. “There is more sense in that than in ‘reputation.’” And he tried to cheer up Cassio by telling him there were ways in which he could recover the General’s favour,—only sue to him, and he would soon be won round.

“I would rather sue to be despised than deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, so indiscreet an officer,” returned the contrite Cassio.

“You or any man may be drunk once in his life, man,” urged Iago. “I’ll tell you what you shall do.” And he went on to say that the General’s wife was now the General, meaning by this that Othello would do anything that Desdemona wanted. Iago advised Cassio to appeal to Desdemona. She was so good and kind that she always did more than she was asked. If Desdemona pleaded with Othello on his behalf, Iago was ready to wager anything that Cassio would soon be in higher favour than ever.

Cassio was grateful to Iago for his counsel, which the latter protested he only offered in love and honest kindness, and Cassio resolved early the next morning to beseech Desdemona to undertake his cause.

Iago was delighted to find his plot working so smoothly. He knew that the more earnestly Desdemona appealed on behalf of Cassio, the more fuel there would be to feed Othello’s jealousy.

Thus, out of the gentle lady’s own sweetness and goodness Iago made the net that was to enmesh them all.[Pg 374]

The Handkerchief

In accordance with his resolve, Cassio appealed the next morning to Desdemona, who with all the warmth of her affectionate nature undertook his defence, and merrily promised to give her husband no peace until he had pardoned the offender. Othello approaching at that moment, Desdemona begged Cassio to remain and hear her speak, but the young lieutenant was too much ashamed to face his General, and left in some haste. Iago seized this chance to implant the first seeds of suspicion in Othello, by exclaiming, as if without thinking, “Ha! I like not that.”

“What dost thou say?” asked Othello.

“Nothing, my lord; or if—I know not what,” said Iago, craftily pretending as if he wished to withdraw his words.

“Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?”

“Cassio, my lord!” with an air of great surprise. “No, sure, I cannot think it, that he would steal away so guilty-like, seeing you coming.”

“I do believe it was he,” persisted Othello.

“How now, my lord; I have been talking with a suitor here, a man that languishes in your displeasure,” said Desdemona, coming to meet her husband.

“Who is it you mean?”

“Why, your lieutenant, Cassio,” answered Desdemona; and then, with simple eloquence, she began to plead for the culprit. But Iago’s remark had ruffled Othello’s temper.

“Went he hence now?” he asked abruptly.[Pg 375]

“Ay, truly; so humbled that he hath left part of his grief with me, to suffer with him. Good love, call him back.”

“Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.”

“But shall it be shortly?”

“The sooner, sweet, because of you,” said Othello, softening a little.

“Shall it be tonight at supper?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Tomorrow dinner, then?”

“I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel.”

“Why, then, tomorrow night; or Tuesday morning; or Tuesday noon, or night; or Wednesday morning. I prithee, name the time, but let it not exceed three days,” coaxed Desdemona with playful persistency. And she went on pleading for Cassio with such winning sweetness that Othello could resist no longer.

“Prithee, no more; let him come when he will. I can deny thee nothing,” he exclaimed; and when Desdemona withdrew, happy at the promise she had extorted, he cried, with a sudden return to all his trust and affection, “Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! And when I love thee not, chaos is come again.”

All might now have been well if Iago had not been at hand to pour his poison into Othello’s ear. With diabolical cunning—a hint suggested here, a half-retracted phrase there, an affectation of honesty that seemed always checking itself for fear of speaking too openly—Iago contrived to fix the basest suspicions on Cassio. With subtle craft he made it appear as though everything he said were [Pg 376]reluctantly dragged from him, and, as on the night before, while making a great parade of trying to shield Cassio, he succeeded in blackening him with unfounded calumny.

Not content with this, he next, in a serpent-like manner, began to insinuate suspicions against Desdemona, declaring that he would not on any account let Othello know what was in his thought, and beseeching him in the most meaning tone to beware of jealousy. Those who were jealous, he said, lived a life of torture—doating, yet doubting; mistrusting, yet loving.

“Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend me from jealousy!” he ended fervently.

“Why—why is this?” demanded Othello, firing up, just as Iago had hoped he would do. “Do you think I would lead a life of jealousy, to follow still the changes of the moon with fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt is once to be resolved.... No, Iago; I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; and on the proof there is no more but this—away at once with love, and—jealousy.”

Iago remarked he was glad of that, for now he could show the love and duty he bore Othello more frankly. Then he advised Othello to watch his wife closely, and note her behaviour with Cassio, afterwards pretending to draw back, and urging Othello to go no further into the matter, but to leave it to time. So, having succeeded in making Othello thoroughly unhappy, Iago took his leave.

“This fellow’s of exceeding honesty, and knows all qualities of human dealings most skilfully,” thought the poor deceived Othello; and then, as Desdemona herself came in sight, innocence and candour [Pg 377]enthroned on her brow, for a moment all mistrust melted. “If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I’ll not believe it.”

Desdemona had come to remind her husband that dinner was served, and that the islanders invited as guests were waiting. Othello, who had been greatly upset by his conversation with Iago, replied in such a faint voice that Desdemona asked if he were ill.

“I have a pain upon my forehead here,” answered Othello.

“That’s with watching. Let me but bind it hard; within this hour it will be well,” said Desdemona, holding out a handkerchief beautifully embroidered with strawberries.

“Your napkin is too little,” said Othello, putting the handkerchief from him, where it dropped, unheeded, to the ground. “Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.”

“I am very sorry that you are not well,” said Desdemona with the simple wistfulness of a child.

When they had gone, the handkerchief was picked up by Emilia, wife of Iago, who was very glad to find it, for her husband had often begged her to steal it for him. But Desdemona so loved the token—for it was the first remembrance Othello had given her, and he had begged her never to part with it—that she always kept it carefully about her, to kiss and talk to.

“I’ll have the work taken out, and give it to Iago,” said Emilia to herself. “What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I only do it to please his whim.”

But Emilia was already half repenting of what she had done, before she gave the handkerchief to Iago, and she might possibly have refused [Pg 378]to part with it at all if Iago had not put an end to the matter by cunningly snatching it from her with one hand, while he pretended to caress her with the other. Directly it was safely in his possession he dropped the amiable tone he had assumed, and harshly ordered away his wife.

Iago was delighted to have got this handkerchief, for he meant to make a wicked use of it. He was going to lose it in Cassio’s lodgings, and let the young lieutenant find it, when he would take care that Othello should think it was a present from Desdemona. Iago knew that “Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ,” and seeing Othello approach, he marked with fiendish satisfaction the cloud of gloom and trouble that rested on his brow.

“Not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou owned yesterday,” he said to himself maliciously.

Othello’s peace of mind was, indeed, gone for ever, and all joy and interest in life were over.

“Oh, now, for ever, farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars that make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone.”

“Is it possible, my lord?” murmured Iago, with feigned sympathy.

Othello turned on him with sudden fury, and gripped him by the throat.[Pg 379]

“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue! Be sure of it!” he cried, shaking him violently.

“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue!”

Iago pretended to be deeply aggrieved by Othello’s distrust, and said if necessary he could bring proofs of what he said.

“Tell me but this,” he went on: “have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief, spotted with strawberries, in your wife’s hand?”

“I gave her such a one; it was my first gift.”[Pg 380]

Iago said he did not know about that, but such a handkerchief he had seen in Cassio’s possession that very day.

Naturally, after that, Othello could not fail to believe that Desdemona had given away his cherished gift to Cassio. He took the first opportunity to ask her for it, when, of course, she was unable to produce it. She had already been greatly distressed at the loss of her treasure, and now was so alarmed by the violent way in which Othello kept demanding it, that she dared not own it was lost, and only said she had it not about her at that moment.

“That is a fault,” said Othello, frowning darkly. “That handkerchief was given to my mother by an Egyptian. She was a charmer, and could almost read the thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, it would make her amiable, and her husband would love her; but if she lost it, or made a gift of it, her husband would get to loathe her. She, dying, gave it me, and bade me, when my fate would have me marry, to give it to my wife. I did so; and take heed of it! Hold it most precious; to lose it or give it away were such calamity as nothing else could match.”

“Is it possible?” faltered Desdemona.

“’Tis true; there’s magic in the web of it: a sibyl, who numbered in the world two hundred years, sewed the work; the worms were hallowed that spun the silk, and it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful conserved of maidens’ hearts.”

“Indeed! Is it true?” said Desdemona, getting more and more alarmed.[Pg 381]

“Most true. Therefore look to it well,” said Othello in a threatening manner.

Desdemona still persisted that the handkerchief was not lost, and remembering her promise to Cassio, she most unwisely chose this ill-starred moment again to urge her suit. Her innocent good-nature was the final stroke to Othello’s jealous wrath, and harshly repeating, “The handkerchief! the handkerchief!” he strode away in ungovernable fury.

Worked up to madness by the diabolical arts of Iago, he saw in his young wife’s apparent simplicity and candour nothing but the most clever deceit, and he determined to punish her supposed insincerity in the most terrible manner.

No Way but This

Though Othello had come to the terrible conclusion that Desdemona must die, he could not prevent his thoughts dwelling again and again on all the charm and loveliness of his dear young wife. This did not suit Iago’s purpose, for he was afraid lest Othello should relent before his revenge was accomplished. So he did his utmost in every way to incite Othello still more against Desdemona. He cunningly reminded him of Brabantio’s parting words, and said if Desdemona had deceived her father in concealing her affection for Othello, why should she not equally deceive her husband in concealing her affection for someone else?

“She shall not live—no, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, [Pg 382]and it hurts my hand,” said Othello. Then, “O, the world hath not a sweeter creature!”

“Nay, that’s not your way,” said Iago, ill-pleased.

“I do but say what she is,” returned Othello. “So delicate with her needle; an admirable musician—O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear; of so high and plenteous wit and invention——”

“She’s the worse for all this,” said Iago.

“O, a thousand, thousand times,” agreed Othello; then he added wistfully: “And, then, of so gentle a condition!”

“Ay, too gentle,” sneered Iago.

“Nay, that’s certain;—but, yet, the pity of it, Iago! O, Iago, the pity of it, Iago!”

But one might better have appealed for compassion to a tiger in sight of his prey. Iago knew nothing of pity. He had only one aim in view—to gratify his revenge. If Othello would kill Desdemona, he said, he would undertake Cassio.

Emilia, Iago’s wife, was a sharp-tongued, outspoken woman, devoted to her young mistress, and when she saw how jealous and violent Othello was becoming, she did not scruple to tell him plainly that he was utterly wrong in his distrust. But Othello, urged on by Iago’s cunning, was now past all reason. By this time he was firmly convinced that Desdemona’s simple sweetness of manner was nothing but the most skilful hypocrisy, and that it was his duty to put her out of the world, so that she should betray no more people.

When he spoke to his wife that day after his interview with Iago, his words were so strange and menacing that Desdemona was quite frightened.[Pg 383]

“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?”

[Pg 384]
[Pg 385]

“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?” she cried piteously. “I understand a fury in your words, but not the words.”

Othello answered with a torrent of angry accusations, which utterly bewildered Desdemona, and then he abruptly left her, while Emilia vainly tried to soothe and comfort her. This good woman was not slow to express her indignation at Othello’s shameful behaviour, and loudly announced her opinion that he was being deceived by “some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow!”

“Oh, heaven, that thou would’st make such people known, and put in every honest hand a whip to lash the rascals naked through the world, even from the east to the west!” she cried, with flashing eyes.

This was not very pleasant hearing for Iago, who was standing by, and he harshly told Emilia she was a fool, and bade her be silent. Then, when Desdemona appealed to him, asking what she should do to win her lord again, Iago pretended to think it was only a little ill-temper on Othello’s part, that business of the State had offended him, and consequently he was out of humour with Desdemona.

There was some colour for this suggestion, for a special commission had just arrived from Venice, commanding Othello to return home, and deputing Cassio as Governor of Cyprus in his place.

Iago saw that, if he wanted to dispose of Cassio, there was no time to be lost, for Iago himself would be obliged to leave the island in Othello’s suite. He therefore contrived to incite his feeble-minded tool Roderigo to set upon Cassio in the dark that very night and murder him. The attempt, however, was not successful. Roderigo only [Pg 386]managed to wound Cassio, and was himself badly injured in return. Some passers-by—the messengers from Venice—hearing groans in the street, stopped to give help, but it was too dark to distinguish the sufferers. The next person to arrive on the scene was Iago himself, with a light, and coming across the wounded Roderigo, and fearing he would betray his share in the plot, he treacherously stabbed him to death. Cassio was then carefully conveyed away for his wounds to be dressed.

---

That night, when Desdemona was preparing for bed, a strange melancholy seemed to take possession of her. Emilia, who was in attendance, tried to divert her mind by getting her to join in a little idle talk, but Desdemona’s thoughts were running on sad themes.

“My mother had a maid called Barbara,” she said musingly. “She was in love, and he she loved proved mad, and did forsake her. She had a song of ‘willow’: an old thing it was, but it expressed her fortune, and she died singing it; that song tonight will not go from my mind.”

And presently, as Emilia helped her to disrobe, Desdemona began singing in a sweet, plaintive key:

“The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow!Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,Sing willow, willow, willow;The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans,Sing willow, willow, willow;Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;—Sing willow, willow, willow.

“Sing all a green willow must be my garland;Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve.

“Nay, that’s not next. Hark! Who is it that knocks?”[Pg 387]

“It’s the wind,” said Emilia.

Desdemona listened for a moment, then went on with her song.

“I called my love false love; but what said he then?Sing willow, willow, willow;”

Desdemona’s voice faltered and stopped. Emilia’s duties were done, and, bidding her good-night, Desdemona let her depart, and presently closed her sorrowful eyes in sleep.

Now had come the moment that Othello had chosen for his dark deed. As he drew near and saw his beautiful young wife lying in all the calm repose of innocent slumber, for an instant his soul melted with pity and love, and, bending over her, he kissed her tenderly. But once more he hardened his heart by thinking of the cause that had led him to decide on such an act, and a fresh wave of jealous fury suddenly taking possession of him, he seized the pillows, and held them over Desdemona until life seemed extinct.

There came a furious knocking at the door. Emilia’s voice was heard outside, demanding admittance. Othello paused to consider.

“What’s best to do? If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife. My wife! my wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O, heavy hour!”

And Othello with a heavy groan hid his face in his hands.

Again came the knocking.

“I do beseech you that I may speak with you, O good my lord.”[Pg 388]

Othello drew the curtains of the bed, and unlocked the door. Emilia, in great excitement, had come to bring the news of Roderigo’s death. As she was speaking, a strange sort of moan caught her attention. She knew her lady’s voice, and, rushing to the bed, tore aside the curtains.

“Help! help, ho! Help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!”

“A guiltless death I die,” murmured Desdemona.

“O, who hath done this deed?”

“Nobody; I myself. Farewell! Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!” And with a little sigh the gentle spirit passed away.

“I told him what

I thought.”

Othello immediately declared that Desdemona had spoken falsely; it was he who had killed her. Emilia turned on him with bitterest rage and contempt, whereupon he began to explain his reasons for what he had done, saying that it was Iago who had revealed everything to him. Emilia could scarcely believe such a thing. She shouted lustily to rouse the alarm, and when, among others, Iago himself hurried in, she taxed him with what Othello had said.

“I told him what I thought, and told no more than what he found himself was apt and true,” said Iago, brazenly.

“You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; upon my soul a lie, a wicked lie,” [Pg 389]cried the distracted Emilia, and it was vain for Iago to try to silence his wife; before everyone she proclaimed him for the villain he was.

Alas, poor Othello, he began to see he had been tricked. But one point he still clung to—the handkerchief. Desdemona had certainly given away his cherished gift to Cassio.

“O, thou dull Moor!” cried Emilia. “The handkerchief thou speakest of, I found by chance and gave my husband, for often with solemn earnestness he begged of me to steal it.... She give it Cassio? No, alas! I found it, and I gave it to my husband.”

“Thou liest!” said Iago.

“By heaven, I do not—I do not, gentlemen!”

Furious against his wife, Iago had already tried once to stab her, but she had evaded him, and the other men in the room had protected her. He now made another attempt, which was more successful, and Emilia fell to the ground.

“O, lay me by my mistress’s side!” she begged.

And there, a few minutes later, she died, with Desdemona’s song of “Willow, willow, willow” on her lips, and protesting with her dying breath the innocence of her dear lady.

Now, indeed, the end had come for Othello, and all the anguish of unavailing remorse racked his soul.

“O, Desdemona, Desdemona! Dead!” his heart-broken wail rang through the room.

But it was all in vain now—vain his agony of love and sorrow; vain his pleading; vain his scalding tears; vain the bitter scorn with which he lashed his guilty spirit.[Pg 390]

Cold, cold, pale and still, lay his beautiful young wife, her ears deaf to all voices of earth, and frozen on her silent lips the smile with which she had died.

Othello’s power and command were taken away, and Cassio ruled in Cyprus. But little cared Othello for this; all worldly ambition was over. As the gentlemen and officers were about to leave the chamber of death, taking Iago with them as their prisoner, Othello, with a dignified gesture, stayed them.

“Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the State some service, and they know it. No more of that. I pray you in your letters, when you shall relate these unlucky deeds, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then you must speak of one that loved not wisely but too well; of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, like the base Judean, threw a pearl away richer than all his tribe.... Set you down this; and say besides, that in Aleppo once, where a malignant and a turbaned Turk beat a Venetian and traduced the State, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, and smote him—thus.” And at the last word Othello plunged a dagger into his heart.

With failing strength he dragged his steps to the bed, and fell on the dead body of Desdemona.

“I kissed thee ere I killed thee,” came his dying whisper. “No way but this: killing myself, to die upon a kiss.”

Retelling by Mary Macleod

Illustrations by Gordon Browne

https://albalearning.com/audiolibros/shakespeare/