THE JEWEL-ENCRUSTED GLOBE (OTHELLO RETELLING)

 THE JEWEL-ENCRUSTED GLOBE (Othello with a happy ending, Victorian setting)

Summary:

“Good sir, I am in love!”

“In love!” His instinct he rejected
as too good to be true.
“With whom?” Her voice with tears affected
was as she said, “With you!”

Notes:

Shortly after having read Othello for the first time, I had a vivid dream reimagining the play in a new setting, with a revised ending. I then wrote this poem on the Notes app on my phone, in every spare moment, during a four-day frenzy. The poem is written in imperfect ballad meter, with an ABAB rhyme scheme; I occasionally alter character names, in true Shakespearean fashion, in order to fit the meter. Characters’ name and personality changes and other odd particulars of the piece come mostly from the details of the dream.
I am white and have never experienced racism, so I apologize and accept criticism if the racist views of the antagonistic characters are portrayed in an offensive way.

Work Text:

That day in ‘s office, her shy look
deflected his eyes’ probe.
They traded gifts: from her, a book;
from him, a jeweled globe.

When she’d been first told he would come,
her youthful ignorance
created her first instincts, some
she swore she’d cast off since.

On Costa Rica’s richest coast,
he first had met her dad.
His skills the latter longed to boast;
his service must be had.

The young man yearned (who can know why?)
to move to England, where
one couldn’t separate — when sky
was smoggy — ground from air.

In Ethiopia the proud
and free man had been born,
but soon as he had been allowed,
absconded — not from scorn;

he loved the soil and the tongue
in which he had been raised;
but still he longed to walk among
diversity; amazed

by Persian silks and spices, or
Italian winery;
he dreamed of many things, but more
than most, of finery.

But how this rich Amharic lord
completely changed his mind,
when in a foreign market, stored
away, he chanced to find

a jewel-encrusted model of
The Earth he longed to plunder.
If one with objects fall in love,
so feel internal thunder,

can possibly, he did; forgot
his sense of place. The village
dissolved around him as he thought,
“So what I’d longed to pillage

is this! A trinket, made by chance
or unknown artist’s work,
enraptures me at random glance!”
The man who used to smirk;

to scoff at smeared, imperfect pearls;
to think the sunset common
and therefore cheap; to bow at girls
with noble names; this lawman

who thought, or knew, that he controlled
the Earth of looms and mines,
now held it in his hands. He rolled
it on its palms; its lines

he traced; and suddenly he knew.
Good Reader, let’s not ask
how from this jewel he outgrew
his greed; that’s not our task.

It could have been that in his youth
he needed only Time
to find what he could call his truth —
a young man in his prime,

as we could call with flattery
a teenaged boy, can change
on sensing that his battery
is empty, that the range

of new experience prevents
his continuation of
a youthful vileness. Events
that universal love

create could therefore come whenever
subconsciously one feels
that such a change is needed. Never
assume that since one kneels

in newly-found humility,
that this specific clime
inspired affability;
it could have just been time

to change. It could have been the place;
a new environment
could have de-centered him, and grace
did possibly imprint

on him by accident. Perhaps
he semi-consciously
was looking for internal maps,
and when he chanced to see

a map, the perfect symbol found.
Howe’er we speculate,
we know he from this object round
himself did recreate.

He vowed that after buying it
from riches he would fast;
this relatively little bit
of luxury was the last

indeed that he in avarice bought;
instinctive self-promotion
quite disappeared, and as he’d thought,
his passion and devotion

were redirected. So his course
to learning then did steer;
unprecedented mental force
he gathered. In a year,

he’d learned quite well the Persian tongue,
geography, its arts,
its history; so he among
its charms exchangèd hearts.

To Costa Rica he set sail;
why? Well, it made a change.
Since he was still a stubborn male,
he chose a place quite strange

but still uniquely pleasing. When
he left, he brought a friend,
and closer grew these two young men.
Until the journey’s end,

they talked incessantly. As churned
the waves, as paths unknown
they charted, from his friend he learned
the language Francophone.

In that same market they had met;
their similarities
in parallel directions set
them. Joyfully, with ease,

they voyaged. He, from “Indo-Chine”
(he did not like the name)
to markets, then to jungles green,
with not-quite-realized aim

arrived. His name was Casimir,
and his companion’s age,
like his, was twenty-two. Of fear,
disgust, disturbance, rage,

he little knew. Once they did land,
these two young scholars grew
in learning, culture, wisdom, and
esteem. ‘Fore long, all knew

these brave expatriates. Our chap,
though gentle, calm, and mellow,
for his great skill with book and map
was monikered Othello.

His well-sketched plan did follow well
his pattern: to learn Spanish,
learn all he could, then not to dwell
but suddenly to vanish

and sail to England. To his aid,
came his prospective boss,
a lord who quite discreetly played
diplomacy across

the months, successfully convinced
our man to come with him,
in his employment, and evinced
that such a country grim

was truly full of great delights.
Of these, three were his daughters,
a triangle of radiant lights.
So as they crossed the waters,

Othello and Lord Meadowglen,
the former learned to speak
exactly like the Englishmen
of lineage antique.

Lord Meadowglen’s dear family met
the man in his employ;
descriptions of whom you now get —
three daughters and a boy.

The eldest, Emily, he met first;
her age was twenty-one;
demeanor: vain, but not the worst;
reserved, no sense of fun.

The middle child, born abroad,
in quaint Tuscan villetta,
was therefore named (this may seem odd)
quite Ita-ly, Chiaretta.

Chiaretta’s loveliness was great,
her liveliness still greater.
For more description you must wait;
we’ll focus on her later.

Last, Margaret, the youngest child,
a charming girl of nine;
her juvenile demeanor wild
nobody could refine.

An orphan, Uncle Henry’s son,
by name Justinian,
a somber ward of twenty-one
did live most welcome in

the family and their estate.
Most welcome, too, Othello
received a library grand and great
with gilding gleaming yellow.

A year passed by. The time arrived
for Emily’s betrothal,
so from her cousin she received
a formal, planned proposal.

I promise that this fact anon
quite relevant will be,
but let us turn our focus on
Chiaretta. Why? You’ll see.

Natasha Rostov never was
more lively in her passion,
than dear Chiaretta, who because
of age and sex, loved fashion,

loved blooming gardens, ribbons, bows —
but deeper still loved books
in which she buried oft her nose.
One’d often find, in nooks

our nineteen-year-old heroine.
Her favorite place, however:
his library — she’d sit within
all afternoon and never

grow bored or want to leave. Of course,
she didn’t only read;
she’d talk until her voice grew hoarse
whene’er she felt the need.

Because of these two predilections,
she fast became the friend
of young Othello. Her misdirections
charmed him to no end —

her unperfected manners, yes,
but most of all, her mind.
She’d question him, then try to guess
the answer, then would find

that whether she’d been wrong or right,
her friend would always smile.
She puzzled at his visage bright,
but after a short while,

grew used to it and with her dear
friend did associate it.
Whenever life to her was drear,
whenever she did hate it,

to him she always did retreat.
He’d patiently pause work
to speak with her, and solace sweet
they both found. Our young clerk

did teach her everything he’d learned
from tutors and from travels;
she read him passages she yearned
to share. So, as unravels

a skein but given entropy,
all walls between them fell.
They felt themselves to equals be,
and dearest friends as well.

One day she knocked upon his door
more bashfully than ever;
she longed to sink into the floor
and hide now from her clever

companion, but she had to speak.
The urgent reason of
her visit, said she in voice weak:
“Good sir, I am in love!”

“In love!” His instinct he rejected
as too good to be true.
“With whom?” Her voice with tears affected
was as she said, “With you!”

Upon his desk she hit her head;
in shame she hid her face.
At her display he laughed and said,
“my dear, ‘tis no disgrace.

I’m flattered, and you know I care
for you — but think this through!
Although there’s much affection there,
I’m not the match for you.”

To her he’d pushed back all attraction
until her firm consent
to even thought as well as action
of his, expressly went.

But now as soon as she’d expressed
her own secret affections,
they no more in him were repressed —
but still he held objections.

“But I’m too old for you”, he said.
“You’re only twenty-three.”
“And you’re too young.” “When Mother wed,
she’d aged no more than me.”

“Were we to ask him, or elope,
what would your father say?”
“Why wouldn’t he approve?” “I hope
he would, but still, the way

of all the world is stubborn still.
His Lordship might believe
I’d taken you against your will.”
“He wouldn’t!” “You’re naive.”

“And what if he disowned you? Gone
your wealth — what of your life?”
“Through anything I’d suffer on
if but to be your wife.”

She probably could not have done
without some wealth, in truth.
Her thought, though, was a noble one,
despite her stubborn youth.

“Your father thinks me little but
exotic specimen,
thinks noble savagery of what
I deem my soul within.

“I’m useful and intelligent,
but only an exception,
a curiosity — no hint
of wisdom or perception.

“He’s never seen my native land,
and there, he does not know,
is culture rich, abundant and
as fruitful ‘s trees that grow

in orchards on his own estate.
He thinks it strange I can
decipher, write orations great,
and read. The only man

of learning with my shade of skin,
I must be in his view.
I must know if these thoughts within
him have occurred to you.

I beg you, love not as one does
to shock or to excite.
You cannot marry me because,
nor marry me despite,

my origins. It’s not a game.
I’m always thus perceived,
subject to ire, stares, sneers, shame;
conspicuous, preconceived.

These stares to you will soon extend
if you should take my hand,
I beg you, dearest soul, amend
your choice; do not withstand

such suffering for my humble sake.”
“Are your objections done?
My lord, my dearest, only take
my hand. I want but one

existence — that with you. My heart,
my body, mind, my soul,
belong to you. A life apart
from you could not be whole.

I know my temperament and age;
I know that you are wise.
So guided by you, dearest sage,
who patiently advise,

I know I could become the wife
that you deserve — I hope.
I beg you, take me all your life!”
“I want to, but —” “The scope

of your objection’s grave and grand,
but stubborn I refuse
because of’t not to give my hand
to you. If you should use

or hurt me, or should be the man
the world believes you are,
I’d leave this moment. But I can
see past the way they mar

your image. If at first I’d seen,
in ignorance and folly,
an unfair blot, it’s now wiped clean.
So look not melancholy.

I should not be the one to say,
but if you will accept,
I’m yours.” And in the gentlest way,
he sighed, and softly swept

her hand up to his lips. She blushed,
exuberant, excited,
yet unprepared. Her whole face flushed,
and, visibly delighted,

she asked, “Does that mean yes?” “It does.
You’ve done it; I’m convinced.
My love I need not state, because
it’s easily evinced,

but nonetheless you do deserve
to hear explicitly
my plans to love, to cherish, serve,
respect in chivalry.

The future—” “Oh, who needs to hear
of that right now? Please, first,
I’m dying for a kiss — right here!”
Her lips, as parched from thirst,

as in their way they really were,
she pointed to. He stopped
his sentence, smiled down at her,
and cautiously he dropped

his head to hers, and on her lips
he sealed the marriage pact.
Their mutual feelings did eclipse
all else; if not for tact

and honor, they would then have gladly
prolonged the kiss, and more,
but quite reluctantly and sadly,
he moved away now, for

his breath was short, and it was time
to turn to conversation.
Chiaretta thought this paradigm
of blissfullest sensation

their kiss, the first of millions,
she hoped. Naïve no longer,
but one of those civilians,
she’d be, she thought, and stronger

than ever, with him at her side.
But now the supper-bell
her reverie interrupted; cried
incessantly its knell.

He watched her in excitement bounce
her heels and take his hands.
“Tonight at supper let’s announce —
why not? — our marriage plans.

Must this be secret? I may burst!”
He sighed and said, “All right,
although I’m worried. Wait — but first,
a gift for you tonight.

“This globe was once the symbol of
my turn from fool to wise,
but now our bond of precious love
it comes to symbolize.”

It didn’t stand out physically —
she’d seen such jewels before —
but looking at it whimsically,
believing it meant more,

she thought it much more fitting than
the richest diamond ring.
It’d lend him needed courage when
she’d say the shocking thing

tonight. They ended their embrace —
for both, regretfully —
and turned with newfound strength to face
Chiaretta’s family.

The pudding cleared, Chiaretta glanced
around, then softly tapped
her wine-glass with her fork. Entranced,
the family turned, enrapt

as always by Chiaretta’s charm.
What jolliness, they thought,
can she now bring? But to alarm
they instantly were brought

when her engagement she revealed.
The dining-room all stunned;
but Margaret, who ne’er concealed
her thoughts, would not be shunned,

but cried, “that’s wonderful!”, and ran
her sister to embrace.
The silence ended, now began
at a chaotic pace,

objections, screams, sobs, scowls, fainting,
and all kinds of commotion.
One guest, who had been reacquainting
with Meadowglen, in motion

as swift as graceful, quit th’ estate.
Though slowly settled down
reactions, Emily, with great
repose and subtle frown,

commenced, “Oh sweet Chiaretta, dear,
our father’s more insightful
than we rash little girls. Let’s hear
his thoughts.” “Why it’s delightful!”

her father said, to Emily’s scorn
and everyone’s surprise.
“A better match could scarce be born.
How practical, how wise!”

“Othello is the richest king
in all the ‘Afric’ land.”
This wasn’t quite a truthful thing,
but he’d not understand

the country whence arrived our lord,
nor that he wasn’t royal;
at this he’d grow confused and bored.
Still, Meadowglen was loyal,

and said, “With lineage as old
and as refined as ours,
he’ll make the perfect match. I’m sold!”
He hummed and thought of flowers,

of gowns and suits and wedding-cake.
Said Emily, “Are you blind?
I mean” (more softly) “Prithee, take
considerations — find

that all may not be well, perhaps,
as each wise man predicts.
Our lineage should soon collapse
if she and he should mix.”

“My equal,” (squeezed her cousin’s wrist),
“I’ll wed, so we inherit.
Should not Chiaretta end her tryst
and find someone with merit?”

Chiaretta had been silent through
these thinly-veiled remarks,
but at this latter phrase, she flew,
in passion, into sparks.

“With merit! Were Othello king
of all the earth, I would
esteem think him no more sweet a thing
to give my maidenhood.

“At first I liked most, I admit,
his handsome, charming looks;
his welcome, too. He’d let me sit
within his office nooks,

and talk, distract, perhaps annoy
him as he worked. He’d spoil
me like a child, but I’m no toy
to him. My passions boil,

while his are cool; a balance shared
between us; we are equals.
Though you don’t like it, we’re prepared
to face injustice’s evils

together. We’d like your assent,
but without your blessing sweet,
we’ll live still. My intelligent,
my gentle and discreet,

reserved, but passionate and bold
fiancé, I shall wed.
If you should make objections cold,
we’ll just elope instead.”

Chiaretta to her chamber flew,
Othello close behind,
while Emily sighed and soft withdrew,
reservèd and resigned.

She thought, “I can’t say I approve
of her engagement’s fashion,
but still I wish she did not move
me with her fiery passion.

“Why is it she’s allowed to wed
a bold, exotic lord,
while I am here, stuck with instead
a cold, neurotic ward!

“Her beau, she claims, is kind and smart,
distinguished and intrepid,
while mine is of the kind of heart
extinguished, meek, and tepid.

“Perfection, graceful manners, poise,
I’ve practiced every day,
while graceless she, spontaneous joys
encounters anyway.

“I’ve realized I must fill a role
if I should live among
my family. Be still, my soul;
it’s time to hold my tongue.”

To Chiaretta she apologized,
and begged to be reprieved,
but soon a carefully disguised
and dreadful plan conceived.

She brought into her confidence
Justinian, with care;
with sly persuasion did convince
him. “Think of it, she’ll share

the family’s wealth, which we’ve preserved
so carefully, with him!
Our sacrifices to him served
because Chiaretta’s whim

deems proper that the dreadful Moor
should take what we’re denied!
Your childhood here — what was it for?
You’ve always just complied

with orders. You’ve been second-best
to her — and now to him!
To him, who’s wrapped her round his chest!
Imagine every hymn

of praise she’ll sing, for she does worship
him as her god and idol.
Upon his savage, brutal warship
he’ll make the threshold bridal.

I know that she seems blithe and free,
but he has all the power —
o’er her, still more o’er us. So we
must strive to salvage our

estate and family. Your turn
will come as lord and master,
if our salvation we can earn.
We must be stronger, faster,

still slyer than he, still more clever.
If you be only bold,
the golden fruits of our endeavor
I promise shall unfold.”

Justinian was filled now less
with courage than with hate;
on him her words did quick impress
manipulation great.

It wasn’t usual, nor ‘twas nice,
for younger girls to wed
the first, but in self-sacrifice
Emily proposed instead

to let her have first (as she’d asked)
her day of matrimony,
while Lady Emily softly masked
her simmering acrimony.

Justinian and she attended
the wedding, which was swift
and simple, and before it ended,
they brought a costly gift.

But what of Casimir? Have you
forgotten his existence?
I have neglected him, it’s true,
and left him at a distance,

but now he finds himself in France
(the south of France, near Spain),
where he will meet, by fate or chance,
our heroes soon again.

For there, one quiet day in June,
in Casimir’s very town,
for an extended honeymoon
our heroes settled down.

With his old friend to reconnect
Othello was excited,
and on his wife this friend’s effect
made her just as delighted.

So Casimir, and Blanche, his wife,
a sweet mademoiselle,
grew, as they swore, dear friends for life
with our Chiarette as well.

She spoke with them unpolished French,
(she’d learned it from her tutor);
linguistic thirst she couldn’t quench,
though seldom did it suit her.

When she’d been wed more than a year,
Chiaretta got a letter:
“My family is coming here!
Could life be any better?”

Her sister’s wedding, with regret,
Chiaretta had to miss,
but now she felt she’d finally get
a chance t’ atone for this.

So she prepared quite readily
and busily to host
Justinian and Emily
and (whom she’d missed the most)

young Margaret, who swiftly leaped
into Chiarette’s embrace
at their reunion. All except
their Lord, who couldn’t face

the voyage, due to failing health,
together came by boat.
And Emily, in perfect stealth,
pretended to devote

herself, as if a maid, to “dear
Chiaretta”, who, when given
her sister’s manner, lost all fear
and sensed all was forgiven.

Justinian, though far less sly
and subtle than his wife,
with sycophantic charms did pry
into Othello’s life.

Othello and good Casimir
one evening had some wine,
and one did scoff, the other jeer
and somehow cross a line

and though forgetting now the cause,
they got into a fight.
Though ire was seldom one ‘f their flaws,
it, deep-hid, did alight —

though further damage was prevented
by Justin’s intervention.
He led away his host, who vented
his rambling wrath, attention

and manner clearly indicating
unwont intoxication.
Justinian only listened, stating
naught, no conversation

disrupting thus Othello’s speech,
until he fell asleep.
Justinian, who could almost reach
a plan, did softly creep

to Emily, to whom he spoke
most of the night and more.
Late morning, when Othello woke,
he knocked upon his door.

“Justinian,” he, half-awake,
with burning headache, asked,
“Last night — my friend — did something break?”
Justinian, heart masked,

responded, “What do you recall?”
“I only know we were
in conflict — don’t know why at all.”
“I know why — over her.”

“My wife?” “Your little angel, yes.”
“But why?” “You want to know?”
“Did she—” “Please, sir, don’t try to guess.
I’d fain not say, although—”

“Just tell me, please!” A pause so long,
he thought would never end —
“You haven’t noticed something wrong
between her and your friend?”

“With Casimir — you couldn’t mean —
you don’t insinuate—”
“I’m only saying what I’ve seen.
If I’m inaccurate,

I do apologize.” He bowed,
then silently withdrew;
alone, Othello spoke aloud,
“My love! It can’t be true!”

That night, Chiaretta softly stole
into her friends’ abode,
with making peace her only goal.
Determinedly she strode,

and thought “I must now have a word
with him, lest things should first
still worsen.” But Othello heard
her step, and feared the worst.

Chiaretta’s candle-light grew dim
as icy road she crossed.
The candelabra frail and slim,
it vanished when, wind-tossed,

she tripped upon a snowy bank
a mile from her friend.
Without good Casimir to thank,
she would have met her end,

but he, surveying his estate,
did hear her moan and shiver.
Discovering her worsening state,
at once he did deliver

Chiaretta to his home, in which
she had to stay a week.
From falling in the frigid ditch,
she indisposed and weak

became, so Casimir and Blanche,
untiring and courageous
did tend to her. These nurses’ staunch
concern she was contagious

inspired them to write a note
in Casimir’s swift hand.
“Your wife’s here. You can’t come,” he wrote;
Othello’d understand.

Justinian received the letter;
he showed it Emily,
who cried, “Things just keep getting better!
Now, listen carefully…”

Othello through Justinian sent
Chiaretta kindly mail,
with no response. Each letter went,
more desperate — no avail.

Chiaretta, fever still uncooled,
sent all those miles’ length
a note to Emily. The jeweled
old globe, to bring her strength

she timidly of her requested.
Good Emily was eager
t’ oblige. To her goal so invested
was she, that they seemed meager

the miles between. So she instructed
Justinian with care;
he from Othello’s room abducted
the jeweled globe sitting there.

For every night Justinian crept
into Othello’s room,
the minutes ‘fore the good man slept.
First, rather than assume

an indecorous explanation,
he trusted she was ill.
But subtlest kind of conversation
disintegrates all will,

a lonely man’s especially.
Justinian thus sowed
the seeds of doubt o’ fidelity.
The rough and snowy road

felt longer, and the distance sparked
an aching for Chiaretta.
And every night, Justinian remarked,
“Should not she now feel better?”

And every night, Justinian stepped,
in his words, slightly bolder.
Eventually, ‘s Othello slept,
he dreamed he got to hold her

as usual, but his face transformed
to Casimir’s. His fear
exacerbated as she warmed
to him — “Sweet Casimir!

How much more handsome you are now!”
With kisses she anointed
his face. When he transformed somehow
again, she ‘s disappointed.

The dream dissolved; another sound
disturbed Othello’s rest,
for something loud had hit the ground.
So, fearful and distressed,

he rose. His fiery candle-light
directed to the door;
and there — Chiaretta froze in fright;
the jeweled globe on the floor.

“What’s this? Our globe — a stolen gift!
You’d brought it to your lover?”
“My what?” “Good wife, don’t try to shift
the blame, or hide, recover

your innocence, or yet rehearse
excuses. What d’ you say?”
She only said with laugh perverse,
“Why, it’s just like the play!”

“You don’t recall your namesake?” “Yes —”
“We read it once together.”
“That’s not my real name.” “Nevertheless,
I’d thought that we could weather

our grievances with strength and trust.
And now, what’s this? You doubt
my faithfulness?” “It’s only just —”
“Oh yes, let’s hear about

your reasons.” “But you tried to hide
your sneaking out, and more,
what we did guard you’ve cast aside:
the globe upon the floor.”

“Who put these thoughts into your head?
My sister? Or my cousin?
Excuses!” “But Justinian said —”
“Excuses by the dozen!”

“I went to Casimir that night
to ask him why you’d fought;
he didn’t know.” The candle-light
revealed her face as wrought

in melancholy, pained, frustrated.
“I went in secret since
you’d argued; I anticipated
you’d disapprove. Convince

me all you can you’re in the right;
I shall not take your side.
I’ve never seen before tonight
your anger, but abide

a second longer with a spouse
who treats me thus, I shan’t,
but leave at once this vile house.”
Concluding thus her rant,

she knew not how he would respond,
but into sobs collapsed.
“But — what of th’ globe?” He did despond
more than ire. Time elapsed.

“Did you not know? Good Emily
did bring it in my aid.
Afraid I was in malady,
as far from you I stayed —”

“I thought it stolen!” “It was borrowed —
Did Justinian convince
you that—” He whispered, bitter, sorrowed,
“It was his evidence.

My letters, too —” “You wrote to me?”
“What, did you not receive —”
“Justinian and Emily!
Betrayed! I can’t believe —”

Before Othello’s chance to swear,
he heard a sob like song
of wounded bird. Now Margaret there:
“But what did they do wrong?”

Chiaretta started, “Well —”, but found
that she could not explain.
Then, Margaret’s voice, with haunted sound —
“Will you be friends again?”

A pause. “We shall,” Chiaretta said,
bent down and softly kissed her.
She whispered, noting Margaret’s eyes so red,
“Could you please fetch our sister?”

They both came. “What you’ve done behind us,
earns more than controversy.
But this good child did remind us
the quality of mercy.”

Chiaretta said no more, but watched
the looks upon their faces.
Said Emily, at least debauched
ostensibly, “Our place is,

perhaps, in England. If our time
we here did overstay,
apologies. Tomorrow, I’m —
we both are — gone away.”

Upon this half-apology,
Othello felt some fire,
but luckily, than his namesake he
was much less marked by ire.

With few more words except goodbyes,
they absconded, un-invited.
And no more the good spouses’ eyes,
the sorry couple blighted.

As she grew, Margaret returned
there once a year at least,
and, carefully guarded, never learned
the nature of the beast,

but always secretly preferred
one sister to the other.
Chiarette and Emily would send word
polite to one another,

the latter loving now her spouse
much more now than when bitter,
and quietly, as sprawling house
and shady gardens hid her,

repenting, and Justinian, too,
in similar way affected.
The wrongèd couple never knew
this, but they did suspect it.

Othell’ immediately was
as sorry as could be,
and his sweet wife, perhaps because
she knew that really he

was not the person he had been
that night, and ne’er again
would be, accepted him within
sweet mercy’s gentle rain.

Their love unwavering increased
for sixty years and more,
and shone the jewelled globe at least
as brightly as before.