He captured my heart, my dark soldier, Othello, as surely as he has been captured whilst away at war. I knew, from the moment my father, Brabantio, invited him across the threshold of our home, that this man was like no other. He had about him an aura of authority, of respect, and of otherworldliness. He spoke about traveling to foreign lands and countries as casually as I would speak of taking a walk down the street. I found him mesmerizing.
I “question’d [him] the story of [his] life, from year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, that [he has] passed.” His sieges and fortunes were endless, his conquests of lands far and near, endless. I was shocked to hear of how he tempted death so easily, and yet always remained unscathed. Of his past slavery, I hardly took notice. To me, his skin was a thing of curiosity, not abhorrence. It was, instead, testament to how very much this man has lived through, to experiences few others can ever boast of.
I was especially fond his tales of the distant creatures; among my favorites, the Anthropophagi, headless cannibals that prey upon fellow men as surely as I would dine upon roast lamb for supper. He was cautious with his tales with my presence in the room; yet my father bade him to continue hence, assuring him that should my sensibilities ever be offended, I would quietly remove myself and leave them to peace. To my dear father’s dismay, I was affected quite contrary to his predictions. I was fascinated by Othello’s tales, of the adventure he brought into my life by simple word of mouth. With a greedy ear did I devour his stories with gusto, immersing myself in the life of the Moor, whom I began to hold dear as though I had known him all my life.
His life exploits were so grand as to be nearly fictitious with wonder. If only “Heaven had made [me] such a man,” that I, too, would lead such adventures as his. The dangers of war would make every breath, every sip of wine and water that much sweeter with there ever-constant perils that threatened them. Would that I had such significance in my life.
Before him, I knew only my life here in Venice. I knew only my household, the circle of high-born peers my parents thought fit to associate me with, and the duties that would befall me as a daughter. Marriage and children were all that my future held for me, by my father’s decree, of course. Though I know he means only the best for me, his desires for the future are not my own. I knew, also, that he would be terribly disappointed were he to ever learn of the small ember of affection that I harbored for Othello, that I found to grow with every visit to our home, with every story that nurtured forbidden thoughts and a yearning for a life outside of Venice and marriage. I shudder to think of how he would react were he ever to discover that I found myself to be falling quite in love with the soldier Othello.
And what is this? A summons from my dear father? At this hour, ’twill be for nothing good, of that I am sure. Honest Iago, he hath sent for me, on a matter concerning my Othello. Brabantio questions the verity of our love, believes me bespelled by the Moor through witchcraft or deceit. So swift was his awareness of our union that I do ask the question: how hast my father come to this knowledge to-night?
Nevermind; there are matters more important at the moment. O, what is this? An audience my father has made of us before the senators and Duke of Venice himself! What foul play of fate would have me choose between my duty to my father and my loyalty to my husband?
And with a simple admission of my true feelings, I have forever damned myself in my father’s eyes with my confession:
“I am hitherto your daughter: but here’s my husband,
And so much duty as my mother show’d
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due to the Moor my lord.”
Such pain that flooded my father’s eyes! He did not believe I would be at odds with him for the Moor. But my heart is set and so we made plans to embark to Cyprus together, Othello and I. For I would follow him to war than to be left alone in peace. And in his ancient’s care did I leave this hall to-night, cut deeply by the words my father did impart, of my so-called treachery.
But my heart was warm’d by the assured reply of trust that to Othello’s lips did swiftly fly. Upon his life, did he invest my faith. And for that, I love’d him evermore.
A Streetcar Named Desire 