ness, and if pleasure interfered with his purposes ‘the holiest of ascetics would’ not put it more resolutely by. ‘What should I do?’ Roderigo whimpers to him; ‘I confess it is my shame to be so fond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it.’ He answers: ‘Virtue! a fig! ’tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus.’ It all depends on our will. Love is ‘merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will, Come, be a man. . . . Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.’ Forget for a moment that love is for Iago the appetite of a baboon; forget that he is as little assailable by pity as by fear or pleasure; and you will acknowledge that this lordship of the will, which is his practice as well as his doctrine, is great, almost sublime. Indeed, in intellect (always within certain limits) and in will (considered as a mere power, and without regard to its objects) Iago is great.
To what end does he use these great powers? His creed—for he is no sceptic, he has a definite creed—is that absolute egoism is the only rational and proper attitude, and that conscience or honour or any kind of regard for others is an absurdity. He does not deny that this absurdity exists. He does not suppose that most people secretly share his creed, while pretending to hold and practise another. On the contrary, he regards most people as honest fools. He declares that he has never yet met a man who knew how to love himself; and his one expression of admiration in the play is for servants
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves.
‘These fellows,’ he says, ‘have some soul.’ He professes to stand, and he attempts to stand, wholly outside the world of morality.
