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“The brat will never boast of his father,” quoth Dion, rolling his eyes. “He left the world in a way, I wager five minæ, the mother hopes she can hide from her darling, but the babe’s of right good stock, an Alcmæonid, and the grandfather is that Hermippus—” “Hermippus?” The stranger seemed to catch the word out of Dion’s mouth.
And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, “the babe,” and he liked the peasant’s calling it a “babe.” There seemed more pity in it. “But why is it weeping?” Mitya persisted stupidly, “why are its little arms bare? Why don’t they wrap it up?” “The babe’s cold, its little clothes are frozen and don’t warm it.” “But why is it? Why?” foolish Mitya still persisted.
“You knew Master Glaucon well?” pressed Dion, itching for a new bit of gossip. “Well,” answered the sailor, standing gazing on the child as though something held him fascinated, then shot another question. “And does the babe’s lady-mother prosper?” “She is passing well in body, kyrie, but grievously ill in mind. Hera give her a release from all her sorrow!”
Othello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness—not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it—though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babe’s. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make up their mind to and overlook, and what they can forgive!
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