Conor Powers-Smith The rest was no part Sir Malcolm, entirely the Moor. He remembered, dimly, the unscripted tortures, pacings, horrors which had filled his time between scenes; which his mind, and this strange visitation, had woven; which were rapidly fading now, as dreams upon waking. His return to himself had come with the jarring halt at which the scene had arrived. Angela, as the dying Desdemona, was meant to
He delivered his reply without irony: “That? what?” “Out and alas! it is my lady’s voice. Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak!” Sandra allowed a shorter interval for Desdemona’s next line—not forthcoming— before continuing, “O! who has done this deed?” For the third time, Angela missed her cue. Sir Malcolm
For the third time, Angela missed her cue. croak her third-to-final line. Sandra’s Emilia was waiting. The pause, and Sir Malcolm’s revelation, lasted perhaps three seconds—long, in stagetime, but within the bounds of dramatic license. Quite long enough, however. Without moving, Sir Malcolm signaled to Sandra to go on as if the missing line had been spoken. She was young, but she was a professional, and she understood. “O lord! what cry is this?”
was too euphoric to be annoyed; he was awash in magnanimity, expansive as the whole round globe. He could barely keep from laughing at the irony: His time as the jealous Moor had elicited the exact opposite of jealousy. He found he could forgive Angela her recent unfaithfulness, even her attempt to hide it from him. She was too young and lovely a creature for an old man like him; he’d known all along that their time together June 2013 - 24