The joy of being cancelled

I’ve never met anyone called Othello, certainly not in Venice nor in Cyprus, but perhaps there are men by that name in Africa. Someone who was referred to as Othello, but always behind his back, was the greatest of all Russians, Alexander Pushkin: a ‘raging Othello’ was how les mauvaises langues in court described the great poet. Pushkin’s great-grandfather, General A.P. Gannibal, was Ethiopian.

I’ll get back to Othello in a jiffy, but first a few words about marital jealousy and Pushkin. The poet got a bee in his bonnet soon after marrying the beautiful but coquettish Natalia because she flirted, harmlessly but nevertheless disastrously. Innocent flirtation might be fun in the English shires where men are more interested in killing birds and chasing foxes, but not where hot-blooded Russians are concerned. That’s where the Dutch minister in St Petersburg’s adopted son Georges D’Anthès (who swung both ways) comes into the story. The palace buzzed with gossip as D’Anthès danced non-stop with Natalia and flirted with her outrageously. Pushkin immediately challenged him to a duel, but the minister tried to cool his son — with whom he was said to be having a homosexual affair — down and had him ask Ekaterina, Natalia’s sister, to become his wife. In no time Georgie Porgie was Pushkin’s brother-in-law. The Tsar declared the case closed. The poet, however, did not fall for it — and rightly so. He challenged again and presented himself ready to fight without a second. D’Anthès the coward — he was an officer and familiar with weapons — shot first, mortally wounding Alexander the great. Like most cowards, D’Anthès lived to a ripe old age.

So far so bad, as far as sexual jealousy is concerned. It certainly did for Pushkin, who should have known all about Othello and that psychopathic swine Iago, who at least got his comeuppance.