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The Shakespeare Story-Book
Page 242.
“Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!”
[Pg vi] [Pg vii]
INTRODUCTION
Literary critics have many times during the past two thousand years waged battle with one another over the question whether drama owes its excellence chiefly to plot or chiefly to character. Is it the business of the dramatist, critics ask successively through the ages, to inspire the playgoer with a deeper interest in the external circumstances which mould the fortunes of his heroes and heroines than in their individual temperaments and the inner workings of their minds and hearts? But critics commonly “count it a bondage to fix a belief,” and after clothing their question in the complexity of disquisition, they rarely “stay” for a clear and decisive answer. The glimmering light of dialectics usually involves in shadow one or other commanding phase of the problem. To the plain observer it would seem that both plot and character are essential constituents of perfect drama; that the strength of the one depends on the strength of the other; and that, except to the questioning critic, it is a matter of small practical consequence to which the greater importance be attached by the refinements of theory. In the best plays of Shakespeare the interest evoked respectively by plot and character is so evenly balanced that he must be exceptionally short-sighted who would set the value of the one above the value of the other. The external circumstances that mould the fortunes of Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Othello, rivet the playgoer’s and the reader’s attention in no less a degree than the individual temperaments of these great dramatic personages or the inner workings of their minds and hearts. It is the perfectly harmonious co-operation of plot and character that is responsible for Shakespeare’s noblest triumphs.
Close and constant study of the great plays of Shakespeare must ultimately rouse in the student a more absorbing interest in their characters than in their plots. That is the final effect of supreme dramatic genius. But the full appreciation of Shakespeare’s sure and illimitable insight into character can never be reached until we have made ourselves thoroughly familiar with the plot in which the character has its substantive being. It follows, therefore, that if one would realise completely in due time the whole eminence of Shakespeare’s dramatic achievement, one should be encouraged at the outset to study closely the stories of the plays rather than the characters apart from their settings. When the youthful mind has grasped the manner and matter of the plots, it will in adult age be in a far better position than it could be otherwise to comprehend all the excellences, all the subtleties of the characters. Only when plot and character have received equally full attention will Shakespeare stand revealed to the mature student in his manifold glory.
It was this point of view that led Charles Lamb and his sister Mary to prepare their “Tales from Shakespeare, designed for the use of young persons.” Their volume was first published in 1807. The two writers narrated, in simple language for the most part, the plots of twenty of Shakespeare’s plays, fourteen comedies and six tragedies. None of the historical dramas, whether English or Roman, were included, nor was a place found for the comedies of Love’s Labour’s Lost, and the Merry Wives of Windsor, nor for the tragedies of Troilus and Cressida, and Titus Andronicus. The greater part of the volume was the work of Mary Lamb. Although Charles Lamb’s name alone appeared upon the title-page, he was responsible for no more than six of the tales—those of the six tragedies.
Mary Lamb had little of her brother’s literary power. She was in sympathy with his literary tastes, she had something of his shrewdness of judgment, but she had none of his wealth of fancy, his pliancy of style, his humorous insight, or his learning. Although Mary Lamb’s renderings of the plots of the comedies have the charm of matter-of-fact simplicity, they cannot be held on a close scrutiny to satisfy all the needs of the situation. They often trace the course of the stories too faintly and imperfectly to recall Shakespeare’s own image. Frequently in Mary Lamb’s work pertinent intricacies of plot are blurred by a silent omission of details, knowledge of which is essential to a complete understanding of the Shakespearean theme. For example, the story of the caskets is excluded altogether from Mary Lamb’s version of the plot of The Merchant of Venice. Of Bottom and his allies in Midsummer Night’s Dream she has nothing to tell; Titania falls in love with a nameless sleeping “clown who had lost his way in the wood.” And when (in Mary Lamb’s version) the ass’s head which Puck sets on the clown’s neck is removed, he is “left to finish his nap with his own fool’s head upon his shoulders.” Nothing more is vouchsafed about the “rude mechanicals” of Theseus’s Athens. Mary Lamb’s rendering of As You Like It admits no mention of the melancholy Jaques, of the shrewdly witty Touchstone, or of the rustic Audrey. The ludicrously self-centred Malvolio and his comically tragic self-deception disappear from her version of Twelfth Night. Elsewhere in the comedies, and even in Charles Lamb’s own work on the tragedies, Shakespeare’s text is at times misinterpreted. Consequently, however fascinating in themselves the narratives of the Lambs may prove to young readers, Lamb’s Tales offer them a very fragmentary knowledge of the scope of Shakespeare’s plots. An endeavour to supply young readers with a fuller and more accurate account of them is therefore well justified, and this endeavour is made in the present volume.
In studying the stories on which Shakespeare based his plays, it is always worth bearing in mind that he cannot be credited with the whole invention of any of them, except in the case of one play—the comedy of Love’s Labour’s Lost. In accordance with the custom of all dramatists of the day, it was his practice to seek the main lines of his plots in prose-fictions, or in historical chronicles by other hands.
Romantic fiction was born for modern Europe on Italian soil. Boccaccio of fourteenth-century Florence and Boccaccio’s long line of disciples—Bandello of Milan, Giraldi Cinthio of Ferrara, and many writers of less familiar name of the sixteenth century—had for generations before Shakespeare’s epoch furnished not only Italy, but all the Western countries of Europe with their chief recreative literature in prose. The Italian novels were through the second half of the sixteenth century constantly translated into English and French, and it was to those English or French translations of the Italian romances that Shakespeare owed the main suggestion for all the plots of his comedies (save Love’s Labour’s Lost) and for many of those of his tragedies. Belleforest’s “Histoires Tragiques,” a collection of French versions of the Italian stories of Bandello, was very often in his hands. Novels by Bandello are the ultimate sources of the stories of Romeo and Juliet, of Much Ado about Nothing, and of Twelfth Night. All’s Well that Ends Well and Cymbeline largely rest on foundations laid by Boccaccio. The tales of Othello and Measure for Measure are traceable to Giraldi Cinthio.
But although Shakespeare’s borrowings from the frank and vivacious fiction of sunny Italy were large and open-handed, his debt was greater in appearance than it was in reality. He freely altered and adapted the borrowed stories in accordance with his sense of dramatic and artistic fitness, so that the finished plays present them in shapes which bear little relation to their original forms. At times he intertwined one borrowed story with a second, and his marvellous ingenuity completely changed the aspect of both; each assumed new and unexpected point and consistency. With such effect did he combine in The Merchant of Venice the story of the caskets with the story of Shylock’s bond with Antonio. His capacity of assimilating all that he read was as omnipotent as his power of assimilating all that passed in life within range of his eye or ear. The stories that he drew from books on which to found his plays can only be likened to base ore, which the magic of his genius had the faculty of transmuting into gold.
But for young readers, who approach Shakespeare’s work for the first time through the present narration of the stories of his plays, it is not necessary to learn whence Shakespeare derived their bare lineaments, or how he breathed into them the glowing spirit of life. It is essential that young readers should find delight and recreation in the tales as he finally presented them in his plays. Such delight and recreation I believe the contents of this volume is fitted to afford them.
It only remains to express the wish that the knowledge here conveyed to young readers of Shakespeare’s plots may lead them to become in future years loving students of the text of his plays. The words employed by Charles Lamb in a like connection when he first sent into the world his and his sister’s “Tales from Shakespeare” may fitly be echoed here. Young men and women cannot learn too early, in life how the study of Shakespeare’s work may, in a far higher degree than the study of other literature, enrich their fancy, strengthen them in virtue, withdraw them from selfish and mercenary thoughts. Life will bring them no better instructor in the doing of sweet and honourable action, no better teacher of courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for of both stories and characters proffering the counsel to seek what is good and true and to shun what is bad and false Shakespeare’s pages are full.
SIDNEY LEE.
“Some have greatness thrust upon them.”
[Pg xiv] [Pg xv]
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
viiTHE TEMPEST—
The Magician’s Isle 1 The Shipwrecked Wanderers 6 The King’s Son 10 Mysterious Music 14“
Though the Seas threaten, they are merciful”
19TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA—
“
Now let us take our Leave”
27“
Who is Silvia?”
34 False to his Friend 39“
Alas poor Lady, desolate and left!”
41 What befell in the Forest 45MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING—
“
Dear Lady Disdain”
54 A Plain-dealing Villain 59“
Cupid’s Crafty Arrow”
61 The Night Before the Wedding 68“
Done to Death by Slanderous Tongues”
72A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM—
Helena and Hermia 82 Playing the Lion 86 The Magic Flower 88 Puck in Mischief 95THE MERCHANT OF VENICE—
A Merry Bond 104 The Three Caskets 110“
Revenge!”
115 A Pound of Flesh 119 The Two Rings 128AS YOU LIKE IT—
Oliver and Orlando 133 Rosalind and Celia 136 In the Forest of Arden 142 The Shepherd Youth 148THE TAMING OF THE SHREW—
A Rough Courtship 158 The Marriage, and After 162TWELFTH NIGHT—
Orsino’s Envoy 176 A Dream of Greatness 186 The Challenge 193 Yellow Stockings 203 Sebastian and Viola 206ROMEO AND JULIET—
The Masked Ball 210 Mercutio 216“
Banished!”
225 Comfort and Counsel 230 The Palace of Dim Night 236MACBETH—
The Weird Sisters 245 At the Castle of Macbeth 252 The Guest at the Banquet 260 The Witches’ Cavern 267 Birnam Wood 274HAMLET—
A Vision at Midnight 283 Ophelia 293“
Sweet Bells jangled, out of Tune and Harsh”
296“
The Mouse-trap”
305“
Rosemary for Remembrance”
321 The King’s Wager 327KING LEAR—
The Dowerless Daughter 335 Goneril and Regan 341 Night and Storm 350OTHELLO—
“
Honest Iago”
360 Well Met at Cyprus 367 The Handkerchief 374 No Way but This 381CYMBELINE—
A Princess of Britain 391 How Iachimo won his Wager 399 The Cave of Belarius 403 Fidele 411THE WINTER’S TALE—
At the Palace of Leontes 422 The Oracle Speaks 428 A Queen of Curds and Cream 432 The Oracle Fulfilled 437THE COMEDY OF ERRORS—
A Walk through Ephesus 445 Confusion worse Confounded 452
The King’s Son
Mysterious Music
“Though the Seas threaten, they are merciful”
“Who is Silvia?”
False to his Friend
“Alas, poor Lady, desolate and left!”
What befell in the Forest
A Plain-dealing Villain
“Cupid’s Crafty Arrow”
The Night before the Wedding
“Done to Death by Slanderous Tongues”
Playing the Lion
The Magic Flower
Puck in Mischief
The Three Caskets
“Revenge!”
A Pound of Flesh
The Two Rings
Rosalind and Celia
In the Forest of Arden
The Shepherd Youth
The Marriage, and After
A Dream of Greatness
The Challenge
Yellow Stockings
Sebastian and Viola
Mercutio
“Banished!”
Comfort and Counsel
The Palace of Dim Night
At the Castle of Macbeth
The Guest at the Banquet
The Witches’ Cavern
Birnam Wood
Ophelia
“Sweet Bells jangled, out of Tune and Harsh”
“The Mouse-trap”
“Rosemary for Remembrance”
The King’s Wager
Goneril and Regan
Night and Storm
Well met at Cyprus
The Handkerchief
No Way but This
How Iachimo won his Wager
The Cave of Belarius
Fidele
The Oracle Speaks
A Queen of Curds and Cream
The Oracle Fulfilled
Confusion worse Confounded
ILLUSTRATIONS
—“Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!”
Title-Page PAGEHeading to Introduction
vii“Some have greatness thrust upon them”
xivHeading to Contents
xv” Illustrations
xixAriel and Caliban
1“What?... Put thy sword up, traitor!”
7“I love and honour you beyond all limit”
12“Now let us take our leave”
27“Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie”
32“Go, base intruder! Overweening slave!”
38“Treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes!”
49Cupid’s trap
54“Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say”
66“A thousand times good-night”
71“There, Leonato, take her back again”
73Puck in mischief
82“What thou seest when thou dost wake”
93“Lysander!... Alack, where are you?”
94“O, how I love thee! How I doat on thee!”
97“Methought I was—no man could tell what I was”
103On the Rialto
104“For these
courtesiesI’ll lend you thus much money”
108“Tarry a little: there is something else”
125“And for your love I’ll take this ring from you”
129In the Forest of Arden
133“We’ll have a martial outside”
141“It is ten o’clock”
145“Hang there, my verse”
149Audrey, the goatherd
150“And your experience makes you sad?”
153Katharine and Petruchio
158“Fear not, they shall not touch thee, Kate”
165“What’s this? A sleeve?”
169“Come, Kate!... Good-night!”
175The Duel
176“Look you, sir. Is it not well done?”
181“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone”
187“I have no exquisite reason”
188“I am no fighter”
199In Friar Laurence’s cell
210“Romeo, arise; thou wilt be taken!”
229“O, I am slain!”
241The Weird Sisters
245“Infirm of purpose! Give
methe daggers!”
257“What is this that rises like the issue of a king?”
271“Lay on, Macduff!”
281“The wood began to move”
282She floated down the stream
283“Sleeping within my orchard”
289“How now! A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!”
315“Do you not come your tardy son to chide?”
319“Contending with the fretful elements”
335“There she stands”
339“You heavens, give me that patience”
347“Blow, winds! Rage! Blow!”
351She would come to listen to Othello
360“Ay, smile upon her”
368“An excellent song!”
370“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue!”
379“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?”
383“I told him what I thought”
388The lid was lifted, and a man stepped forth
391“Best draw my sword”
406“Good masters, harm me not!”
409“Thou thy worldly task hast done”
414“Good luck! What have we here?”
422“She commends it to your blessing”
426“O, thus she stood when first I wooed her!”
441By law condemned to die
445“How comes it that you are thus estranged?”
451“I see my son Antipholus”
457“I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth”
459Initials, tailpieces, etc., etc.
“I love and honour you beyond all limit.”
“Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie!”
“Go, base intruder! Overweening slave!”
“Treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes.”
“Yet tell her of it; hear what she will say.”
“A thousand times good-night.”
There, Leonato, take her back again.
“What thou seest when thou dost wake.
Do it for thy true-love take.”
“Lysander!... Alack, where are you?”
“Oh, how I love thee! how I doat on thee!”
“For these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much money.”
“Tarry a little: there is something else!”
“And for your love I’ll take this ring from you.”
“We’ll have a martial outside!”
“It is ten o’clock.”
“Hang there, my verse,
in witness of my love.”
Audrey, the goatherd.
“And your experience makes you sad?” quoth Rosalind.
“Fear not, they shall not touch thee, Kate!”
“What’s this? A sleeve?”
“Come, Kate!... Good-night!”
Look you, sir. Is it not well done?
“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone!”
“I have no exquisite
reason.”
“I am no fighter.”
“Romeo, arise; thou wilt be taken!”
“Oh, I am slain!”
“Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers.”
‘What is this that rises like the issue of a King?’
“Lay on, Macduff!”
“The wood began to move.”
“Sleeping within my orchard.”
“How now! A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!”
“Do you not come your tardy son to chide?”
“There she stands”
“You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!”
“Blow, winds! Rage! Blow!”
“Ay, smile upon her!”
“An excellent song!”
“Villain, be sure you prove my love untrue!”
“Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?”
“I told him what
I thought.”
“Best draw my sword.”
“Good masters, harm me not.”
“Thou thy worldly task hast done.”
“She commends it to your blessing.”
“O, thus she stood ... when first I wooed her!”
“How comes it that you
are thus estranged?”
“I see my son Antipholus.”
“I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.”
The Tempest
The Magician’s Isle
There was once a lonely island far away in the midst of a wide sea. Only four beings lived on this island: an elderly man called Prospero, noble, grave and learned; his daughter Miranda; and two attendants. One of these attendants was a beautiful and dainty spirit called Ariel, the other a sullen monster called Caliban. For Prospero had more than worldly learning; he knew the art of magic, and by his mighty spells he could control not only the spirits of light and darkness, but also the forces of Nature.
No travellers ever came to the island, and since the day when Miranda had been brought thither, a little baby girl, she had never seen the face of any man except her father. Peacefully the years slipped by, and Miranda had grown into a beautiful young maiden, when one day a terrible storm of thunder and lightning burst over the island. In the midst of the tempest a noble vessel seemed to be sinking, and Miranda ran to entreat her father that, if by his magic arts he had put the waves into such an uproar, he would now allay them.
“Be comforted, dear child; there is no harm done,” said her father. “What I have done is only in care for you, and I have so safely ordered this wreck that not a hair of anyone on board shall suffer hurt. Until now we have lived peacefully in this little spot, and you know nothing of what you are, nor that I am anything more than Prospero, the master of a poor enough cell, and your father.”
“It never entered into my thoughts to inquire further,” said Miranda.
“The time has come when you must know everything,” said Prospero; and laying aside his magic mantle, he bade his daughter sit down beside him, and then he told her the story of their life.
“Can you remember a time before we came to this island?” he began. “I do not think you can, for you were then only a few years old.”
“Certainly I can,” replied Miranda. “It is far off, and more like a dream than a remembrance. Had I not four or five women once that waited on me?”
“You had, Miranda, and more. Twelve years ago your father was the Duke of Milan, and a Prince of power.”
“Oh, heaven! what foul play had we that we came from thence? Or was it a blessing that we did?”
“Both, both, my girl. By foul play, as you say, were we driven from Milan, but blessedly helped thither. In those days Milan was the first State in Italy, and everywhere renowned for its splendour. I had so great a love for art and learning that I devoted much of my time to study, and left the government of the State to my brother Antonio, whom I loved best in the world and trusted beyond measure. But he was false to the confidence reposed in him, and soon began to think that he was Duke in reality. He therefore entered into a plot with an inveterate enemy of mine, Alonso, King of Naples, and by promise of a large bribe obtained his assistance. A treacherous army was levied, and one midnight Antonio opened the gates of Milan to the King of Naples. In the dead of darkness you and I were seized and hurried away. So great was the love borne me by my people that the traitors dared not kill us, but we were cast adrift in a rotten boat, without sail, mast, or tackle. By the kindness of a noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, rich stuffs, foods, and necessaries, had been placed in the boat, together with many valuable books from my library, which I prize more than my dukedom. The waves bore us to this island, and here we have lived ever since, and I have given such care to your teaching that you know more than many other Princesses with more leisure time and less careful tutors.”
“Heaven thank you for it, dear father!” said Miranda. “And now, I pray you, tell me your reason for raising this storm.”
By his magic art, Prospero replied, he knew that by chance his enemies had come near the island, and unless he seized this happy moment his fortunes would droop, never to recover.
“But ask no more questions, Miranda,” he ended. “You are weary; rest here and sleep a little.”
As soon as Miranda was asleep, Prospero summoned his dainty and nimble little sprite, Ariel, and asked whether he had performed his bidding.
“In every particular,” replied Ariel; and he told his master how, in the guise of a flame, he had danced all over the storm-driven ship till the whole vessel seemed on fire, and every one on board except the mariners had plunged affrighted into the sea.
“But are they safe, Ariel?”
“Not a hair perished, not a thread of their garments hurt. I have scattered them in troops about the island, as you bade me. The King of Naples’ son, Ferdinand, I have landed by himself, and now he is sitting and sighing alone in an odd corner of the isle.”
“And the King’s ship?”
“Safely in harbour, hidden in a deep nook. The mariners, already weary with their labour, I have charmed away to sleep. The rest of the fleet which I scattered have now all met again, and are in the Mediterranean, bound sadly home for Naples. They believe that they have seen the King’s ship wrecked, and that all on board have perished.”
Prospero was much pleased with the way Ariel had performed his charge, but he said there was still some further work to do. He promised that if all went well Ariel in two days should be set free from service, and henceforward should be his own master. He bade Ariel now take a new shape—that of a nymph of the sea, invisible to all but his own master. In this guise Ariel approached the young Prince of Naples, and began to sing in the sweetest fashion:
“Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones a’e coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong, bell.”
Lured by the sound of this sweet singing, which came he knew not whence, Ferdinand followed the unseen Ariel into the presence of Prospero and Miranda.
Now, excepting her father, Miranda had never seen a man, and at first she did not know what Ferdinand was.
“Is it a spirit, father?” she asked.
“No, child; it eats and sleeps, and has the same senses that we have. This gallant whom you see was in the wreck, and except that his handsome face is somewhat worn with grief and trouble, you might call him a goodly person. He has lost his companions, and wanders about to find them.”
“I might call him a thing divine,” replied Miranda warmly, “for I never saw anything so noble.”
Ferdinand, in his turn, was equally enchanted with the sight of Miranda, and declared on the spot that, if there were no one else whom she already loved, he would make her Queen of Naples.
Prospero was delighted with the way matters were going, for it was his desire that the young people should love each other; but fearing that a prize so easily won would be held too light, he began to throw some difficulties in the way. He pretended to believe that Ferdinand was not really a King’s son, and had come to the island as a spy. He declared he would put him into fetters, and give him only the coarsest food to eat. In vain Miranda implored her father to treat the young Prince less harshly. Prospero told her to be silent, and roughly bade Ferdinand to follow him.
The Prince was naturally indignant at such uncourteous treatment, and hastily drew his sword in defiance. But Prospero threw a sudden spell over the young man, and he stood motionless, unable to stir.
“What? Put thy sword up, traitor!” commanded Prospero sternly.
And Ferdinand, feeling himself powerless to resist, and happy that in his prison he should at least have the pleasure of beholding the beautiful maiden who had so kindly pleaded for him, followed obediently when the magician again summoned him.
The Shipwrecked Wanderers
Meanwhile the rest of the royal party who had plunged into the sea from the King’s ship were wandering in another part of the island. Among them were Alonso, King of Naples, and his brother Sebastian; Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan; Gonzalo, an honest old counsellor of the King of Naples, with Adrian and Francisco, two of his lords.
“What? Put thy sword up, traitor.”
[Pg 8] [Pg 9]
Exhausted with the labour they had undergone, the whole party, with the exception of Sebastian and Antonio, presently fell asleep. Antonio, not content with having driven his own brother from the dukedom of Milan, now began to suggest treachery to Sebastian, the brother of the King of Naples. Ferdinand, the son of the King of Naples, he said, must certainly have been drowned, his only daughter, Claribel, was married, and far away in Africa—in fact, they were at this moment on their way home from her wedding festivities—there was therefore no near heir to the throne of Naples. Antonio suggested that Sebastian should seize the kingdom of Naples, as he himself had usurped that of Milan. He pointed out how easy it would be to slay King Alonso as he lay there asleep; in fact, he offered to do the deed himself, while Sebastian at the same moment was to put an end to the faithful Gonzalo. The other lords would offer no resistance, but would willingly agree to any suggestions made to them.
Sebastian was only too ready to fall in with this wicked scheme, but in the meanwhile, invisible to them, Ariel came near, and at the very moment when the traitors had drawn their swords and were about to kill Alonso and Gonzalo he sang in the ear of the latter and awakened him.
“Good angels save the King!” cried Gonzalo; and Alonso started awake at the shout.
“Why! how now? Ho, awake!” cried the King. “Why are your swords drawn? Why do you look so ghastly?”
“What’s the matter?” added Gonzalo, still dazed with sleep.
“While we stood here guarding your repose just now,” said Sebastian, with a ready lie, “we heard a hollow burst of bellowing like bulls, or, rather, lions. Did it not wake you? It struck my ear most terribly.”
“I heard nothing,” said the King.
“Oh, it was din enough to frighten a monster—to make an earthquake!” said Antonio. “Surely it was the roar of a whole herd of lions.”
“Did you hear this, Gonzalo?” asked the King.
“Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, and that a strange one, too, which wakened me. I shook you, sir, and cried out. As my eyes opened I saw their weapons. There certainly was a noise. We had better stand on guard, or leave this place. Let us draw our weapons.”
“Lead away from here,” commanded the King. “Let us make further search for my poor son.”
“Heaven keep him from these beasts!” said Gonzalo. “For he is surely in the island.”
“Lead away,” repeated Alonso.
“Prospero shall know what I have done,” said Ariel, as Alonso and his companions started again on their wanderings. “Go, King—go safely on to seek thy son.”
The King’s Son
Prospero, in order to carry out his plans, pretended to be very harsh and severe with the young Prince of Naples, and he set him a heavy task—to remove and pile up some thousands of logs. For the sake of the love he already bore to Miranda, Ferdinand obeyed patiently, and it sweetened and refreshed his labour to see how distressed the gentle maiden was at the sight of his toil.
“Alas! I pray you, do not work so hard,” entreated Miranda, as she met him bearing a log. “I would the lightning had burnt up all these logs! Pray set that down and rest you. My father is hard at study: pray, now, rest yourself; he is safe for the next three hours.”
“Oh, most dear lady!” said Ferdinand, “the sun will set before I can finish what I must strive to do.”
“If you will sit down,” said Miranda, “I will carry your logs the while. Pray give me that; I will carry it to the pile.”
“No, dear lady, I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, than that you should undergo such dishonour while I sit lazy by.”
“It would become me as well as it does you,” said Miranda, “and I would do it the more easily, because I want to do it and you do not. You look weary.”
“No, noble lady; when you are near me the night becomes fresh morning,” said Ferdinand. “I do beseech you—chiefly that I may set it in my prayers—what is your name?”
“Miranda.”
“Admired Miranda! Dearest name in the world!” cried Ferdinand. “Many gentle ladies I have been pleased to see and to talk with, and I have liked different women for different virtues; but never until now have I found one without some defect. But you—oh, you, so perfect and so peerless!—are created the best of every creature!”
“I do not know any other woman,” said Miranda simply. “I remember no woman’s face save, from my glass, mine own. Nor have I seen others that I may call men, except you, good friend, and my dear father. I do not know what they may be like, but, in simple truth, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can I imagine anyone whose look I would like better. But I prattle too wildly, and in that forget my father’s precepts.”
“I love and honour you beyond all limit.”
“In rank I am a Prince, Miranda,” said Ferdinand, “I think a King: would it were not so!” For he thought his father had perished with the ship. “I would not for one moment endure this slavery if it were not for you. The very instant I saw you my heart flew to your service, and for your sake I carry these logs patiently.”
“Do you love me?”
“By heaven and earth, I love, prize, and honour you beyond all limit of everything else in the world!”
Miranda’s eyes filled with tears of joy.
“I am foolish to weep for what I am glad of,” she whispered.
“Why do you weep?” said Ferdinand.
“Because I am unworthy to offer the love I desire to give,” said Miranda, “much less to take what I shall die for if I do not have. I am your wife if you will marry me; if not, I’ll die a maid. You may refuse to have me as your companion, but I’ll be your servant, whether you will or no.”
“My Queen, dearest, and I thus humble ever,” said Ferdinand, kneeling before her.
“My husband, then?”
“Ay, with a heart as willing as freedom after bondage: here’s my hand.”
“And mine, with my heart in it. And now, till half an hour hence, farewell!”
“A thousand thousand!” cried Ferdinand; and so they parted.
Unseen by the young lovers, Prospero, in his cell, had listened to all that passed, and his rejoicing was scarcely less than theirs to find that his schemes were working so well. But he had still much to do before supper-time, and he now returned to his books.
Mysterious Music
While Antonio and Sebastian were discussing their scheme to murder the King of Naples, another band of wretched creatures was plotting mischief against the lord of the island. When Prospero had first come to this island, he found it inhabited by a hideous young monster called Caliban, the son of a wicked witch who had been banished there from her own country. This witch—Sycorax—had for servant the dainty sprite Ariel, and because Ariel refused to obey her evil commands she imprisoned him as a punishment in the trunk of a cloven pine-tree. Here Ariel abode in torment and misery for twelve years, during which time Sycorax died, and left her son Caliban as the only inhabitant of the island.
Prospero, on his arrival, set Ariel free, and took him into his own service, and, pitying the young Caliban, he at first tried by kindness to tame his savage nature. But all his efforts were useless. Caliban hated everything good, and repaid Prospero’s kindness with malice and evil doing. Prospero found that gentle means were of no avail, and that the only way in which to keep Caliban in order was to treat him with stern severity. For this Caliban hated his master, and was always longing to be revenged on him.
Among those saved from the King’s ship were two worthless scamps—Trinculo, a jester, and Stephano, a drunken butler. Caliban, meeting them by chance, immediately begged to become their servant, hoping by this means to escape from Prospero. He further offered to lead them to where Prospero lay asleep, so that they might kill the magician. It was agreed that Stephano was then to marry Miranda, and become the lord of the island, and Caliban was to be his servant.
While they were talking, Ariel entered, invisible. He listened to their plots, and amused himself by speaking a few words every now and then, which soon set the conspirators quarrelling, for they none of them knew where the voice came from, and thought it was one of themselves mocking the others. Finally Ariel began to play mysterious music on a pipe and tabor. Stephano and Trinculo were greatly alarmed, but Caliban soothed them, saying that the island was full of noises and sweet sounds which gave delight and did no hurt.
“Sometimes a thousand instruments will hum about mine ears,” he said, “and sometimes voices, which, if I awake after a long sleep, will make me sleep again. Then in dreams the clouds seem to open and show riches ready to drop on me, so that when I awake I cry to dream again.”
“This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing,” said Stephano.
“When Prospero is destroyed,” put in Caliban.
“That shall be at once,” replied Stephano.
“The sound is going away; let us follow it, and do our work afterwards,” said Trinculo.
“Go on, monster; we will follow,” said Stephano to Caliban. “I would I could see this taborer; he plays bravely.”
So with his mysterious music Ariel lured the three villains away. He led them a pretty dance, through briars, sharp furze, prickly gorse, and thorns, which ran into their poor shins; and finally he left them in the filthy water of a stagnant pool, not far from Prospero’s cell.
In the meanwhile Alonso, King of Naples, and his party were still wandering about the island; but by-and-by they grew so weary that poor old Gonzalo declared he could go no further.
“I cannot blame you,” said King Alonso, “for I myself am dull with weariness. Sit down and rest. Now here I give up hope that I shall ever see my son again. He is drowned, and the sea mocks our useless search on land.”
The traitor Antonio was delighted to see that the King had lost all hope, and he begged Sebastian not to give up their wicked scheme because it had been once repulsed.
“The next advantage we will take thoroughly,” Sebastian whispered back to Antonio.
“Let it be to-night,” said Antonio, “for now they are so worn out with travel they will not and cannot use such vigilance as when they are fresh.”
“I say to-night,” agreed Sebastian. “No more.”
At that moment strange and solemn music was heard.
“What harmony is this?” said the King. “Hark, my good friends!”
“Marvellous sweet music!” said Gonzalo.
Unseen by them, Prospero entered, and by his magic art he caused a number of strange and grotesque figures to appear, who brought in a banquet. After dancing round it with gentle actions of greeting, and inviting the King and his companions to eat, they disappeared.
“Give us kind keepers, heaven! What were these?” exclaimed the startled King.
“If I reported this in Naples, would they believe me?” said Gonzalo. “These must be islanders, and although they are of such strange shapes, yet note, their manners are more gentle and kind than many of our human race.”
“You speak well, honest lord,” said Prospero aside, “for some of you there are worse than devils.”
“They vanished strangely,” said Francisco.
“No matter, since they left their viands behind them,” said Sebastian. “Will it please your Majesty to taste of what is here?”
“Not I,” said Alonso.
“Faith, sir, you need not fear,” said Gonzalo.
“Well, I will eat, although it be my last meal,” said the King. “Brother, and you, my Lord Duke of Milan, do as we do.”
At that instant there was a peal of thunder and a flash of lightning. Ariel, in the form of a harpy, a hideous bird of prey, flew in and flapped his wings over the table, and immediately the banquet vanished.
“You are three men of sin, whom Destiny has cast upon this island because you are quite unfit to live among men,” he said, addressing Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio.
Enraged, they drew their swords, but Ariel only mocked at them.
“You fools! I and my fellows are ministers of Fate. Your swords might as well try to wound the winds or stab the water, as hurt one feather of my plumage. If you could hurt, your swords are now too heavy for your strength, and you cannot lift them. But remember—for this is my business to you—that you three supplanted the good Duke Prospero from Milan, cast him and his innocent child adrift on the sea, which hath now revenged it. The heavenly powers have delayed punishment for this foul deed, but they have not forgotten it, and now they have incensed the sea and the shore and all creatures against you. They have bereft you, Alonso, of your son, and they pronounce by me that lingering perdition worse than any death shall fall in this desolate island on you and all your ways, unless you heartily repent and amend your life.”
Ariel vanished in thunder, and then to soft music entered the strange shapes again, and, with a mocking dance, carried out the table on which the banquet had been spread.
“Bravely done, my Ariel!” said Prospero aside, while the King of Naples and his companions stood mute with amazement. “My charms are working, and these my enemies are quite astounded. They are now in my power, and here I will leave them while I visit young Ferdinand—whom they think drowned—and his and my loved darling.”
“In the name of heaven, sir, why do you stand with that strange stare?” asked Gonzalo of the King.
“Oh, it is monstrous, monstrous!” cried the conscience-stricken Alonso. “I thought the billows spoke and told me of my wicked deed, the winds sang it to me, and the thunder pronounced the name of ‘Prospero.’ Therefore my son is drowned, and I will lie with him fathoms deep below the waves.”
So saying, he hurried from the spot, followed at once by Sebastian and Antonio.
“All three of them are desperate,” said Gonzalo. “Their great guilt, like poison which takes a long time to work, now begins to bite their spirit. I do beseech you,” he added to the lords in waiting, “follow them swiftly, and hinder them from what this madness may provoke them to.”
“Though the Seas threaten, they are merciful”
The hard toil which Prospero had set the Prince of Naples did not last long, and when the magician saw that the young people loved each other sincerely he put an end to the trial, and bade them be happy together. To give them pleasure and show them some proof of his magic powers, he summoned a troop of beautiful spirits—Iris, Ceres, Juno, some water-nymphs, and various reapers, who sang sweet songs to them and danced graceful dances.
But the moment of Caliban’s plot was approaching. Prospero dismissed the spirits, and began to prepare for punishing the conspirators. Sending Ferdinand and Miranda to wait for him in his cell, he bade Ariel fetch some glistening apparel, and hang it up on a line near, in order to serve as a bait to catch the thieves.
His plan succeeded. Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo soon appeared, all wet from the stagnant pool into which they had been lured by Ariel’s music.
“Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not hear a footfall; we are now near his cell,” said Caliban.
“O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe is here for you!” cried Trinculo, catching hold of the garments hanging on the line.
“Let it alone, you fool; it is but trash!” said Caliban.
“Put off that gown, Trinculo,” said Stephano, equally greedy in his turn. “By this hand, I’ll have that gown!”
“Your grace shall have it,” said Trinculo submissively.
“Why do you waste time on this rubbish?” entreated Caliban. “Let us do the murder first. If Prospero awakens he will punish us cruelly for this.”
“You be quiet, monster,” said Stephano rudely; and he and Trinculo went on helping themselves to the fine clothes which Ariel had cunningly displayed. “Come, monster, take what we leave.”
“I will have none of them,” declared Caliban. “We shall lose our time, and if Prospero catches us, he will change us all into barnacles or apes.”
“Help us to carry these away, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, carry this!” commanded Stephano.
“And this,” added Trinculo; and they began to load poor Caliban with their spoils.
Suddenly a noise of hunters was heard, and a band of spirits in the shape of dogs swept along, and set upon the three guilty men, chasing them about, while Prospero and Ariel urged on the dogs.
“Hey, Mountain, hey!”
“Silver! There it goes, Silver!”
“Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! Hark, hark!”
When Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo had been driven away, Prospero spoke to Ariel.
“Let them be hunted soundly. Now all my enemies lie at my mercy. My labours will soon be ended, and then thou shalt be free as air. Follow me still for a little, and do me service. Now, tell me, how fares the King and his followers?”
“Just as you left them—all prisoners, sir, in the grove of trees which shelters your cell. They cannot stir until you release them. The King, his brother, and your brother are quite distracted, and their lords are mourning over them, and chiefly he whom you termed ‘the good old lord Gonzalo.’ Your charm affects them so strongly that if you beheld them now you would pity them.”
“Dost thou think so, spirit?”
“I would, sir, if I were human.”
“And I will,” said Prospero. “Now that they are penitent my purpose is accomplished. Go, release them, Ariel. I’ll break my charms. I’ll restore their senses, and they shall be themselves.”
“I’ll fetch them, sir,” said Ariel; and he gladly hastened away to do his master’s bidding.
Left alone, Prospero took a solemn farewell of all the powers of magic which he had practised for so long, and declared that, after one last charm which he was now going to work, he would break his wizard’s wand and drown his book.
When Ariel returned with Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio, and the lords in waiting, they all entered a charmed circle which Prospero had made, and stood there unable to move.
“There stand, for you are spell-bound,” said Prospero. “O good Gonzalo, my true preserver, and loyal servant to your master, I will pay you both in word and deed. Alonso, most cruelly did you use me and my daughter; your brother helped you in the deed—he is punished for it now. You, brother mine, unnatural though you are—I forgive you.”
While Prospero was speaking, the King and his companions slowly began to recover their senses; but they did not yet recognise Prospero, for he was clad in his magic robes.
“Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell, Ariel,” he said. “I will discard these garments, and show myself as when I was Duke of Milan. Quickly, spirit! Thou shalt be free ere long.”
Gladly Ariel set to work, singing a gay little song as he helped to attire his master:
“Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.”
Then Prospero sent him to find the King’s ship, and to bring back the master and boatswain.
Poor old Gonzalo was greatly amazed and troubled at all the strange things that were happening.
“Some heavenly power guide us out of this fearful country!” he exclaimed.
“Behold, Sir King, the wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero,” said the magician to Alonso. “To give thee more assurance that a living Prince speaks to thee, I embrace thee, and bid a hearty welcome to thee and thy company.”
“Whether thou be he or not, or some enchanted trifle to torment me, I do not know,” said the bewildered King. “Thy pulse beats like flesh and blood, and since I have seen thee my madness has abated. I resign thy dukedom, and entreat thy pardon for my wrong-doing. But how can Prospero be living and be here?”
“Welcome, my friends all!” said Prospero. “But you, my brace of lords,” he added, aside to Sebastian and Antonio, “if I were so minded, I could make his Highness frown on you and prove you traitors. At this time I will tell no tales.”
“The devil speaks in him,” muttered Sebastian, conscious of his guilt.
“No,” replied Prospero quietly. “For you, most wicked sir,” he said to his brother Antonio, “I forgive all your faults, and require my dukedom of thee, which perforce I know thou must restore.”
“If you are Prospero, tell us how you were saved, and how you have met us here,” said the King of Naples. “Three hours ago we were wrecked upon this shore—alas, where I have lost—how bitter is the remembrance!—my dear son Ferdinand.”
“I am sorry for it, sir,” said Prospero.
“The loss can never be made up, and is past the cure of patience.”
“I rather think you have not sought the help of patience,” said Prospero. “For the like loss I have its sovereign aid, and rest myself content.”
“You the like loss?”
“As great to me; for I have lost my daughter.”
“A daughter?” cried Alonso. “Oh, would that they were both living in Naples as King and Queen! When did you lose your daughter?”
“In this last tempest,” said Prospero, smiling to himself. “But come, no more of this. Welcome, sir; this cell is my court. I have few attendants here, and no subjects abroad. Pray you, look in. Since you have given me back my dukedom, I will reward you with something equally good, or, at least, show you a wonder which will content you as much as my dukedom does me.”
And, drawing aside the curtain which veiled the entrance to his cell, Prospero disclosed to view Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess.
“Sweet lord, you play me false,” said Miranda.
“No, my dearest love, I would not for the world,” said Ferdinand.
“If this prove a vision of the island, I shall lose my dear son a second time,” murmured Alonso.
“A most high miracle!” exclaimed Sebastian.
“Though the seas threaten, they are merciful,” cried Ferdinand, springing from his seat at the sight of his father, and falling on his knees before him.
“Now all the blessings of a glad father compass thee about,” said Alonso, overcome with joy to see his dear son again.
Miranda in the meanwhile was gazing in wonder at all these strange visitors who had come to the island.
“Oh, brave new world that has such people in it!” she cried in delight.
“Who is this maiden?” Alonso asked his son. “Is she some goddess?”
“Sir, she is mortal, and she is mine,” answered Ferdinand. “I chose her when I thought I had no father. She is daughter to the famous Duke of Milan, of whose renown I have so often heard.”
Then Alonso gave his blessing to the young couple, and the good Gonzalo breathed a hearty “Amen!”
At this moment Ariel appeared, followed by the astonished master of the King’s ship and the boatswain. They were overjoyed to see the King and his companions again, and brought word that the ship was as safe and bravely rigged as when they first put out to sea.
“Sir, all this service have I done since I left you,” whispered Ariel to Prospero. “Was it well done?”
“Bravely, good spirit,” said Prospero. “Thou shalt soon be free.”
Then he commanded him to go and take off the spell from Caliban and his companions, and after a few minutes’ absence Ariel returned driving in the three men, clad in their stolen apparel.
“Mark these men, my lords,” said Prospero. “These three have robbed me, and this witch’s son had plotted with the others to take my life. Two of these fellows you must know and own; this thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”
“Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?” said the King of Naples.
“Why, how now, Stephano?” said Sebastian mockingly.
“You would be King of the isle, sirrah?” demanded Prospero.
“I should have been a sore one, then,” groaned Stephano, for he and his worthless friends were still aching all over from the punishment inflicted on them.
“That is as strange a thing as ever I looked on,” said Alonso, pointing to Caliban.
“His manners are as ugly as his appearance,” answered Prospero. “Go, sirrah, to my cell. Take your companions with you, and if you hope to have my pardon, behave properly.”
“Ay, that I will,” said Caliban; “and I will be wise hereafter, and try to be better. What a thrice-double ass I was to take that drunkard for my master!”
And he departed with his companions, glad to have escaped so lightly.
Then Prospero invited the King and his other guests into his cell, where they were to rest for one night. The next morning they were all to set sail for Naples, where the marriage between Prince Ferdinand and Miranda was to take place, after which Prospero would retire to his own dukedom of Milan. Finally he gave his last charge to Ariel, and bade him see that the King’s ship should have calm seas and fair winds to waft it quickly on its way.
“My Ariel, chick, that is thy charge,” said Prospero. “Then be free as the elements, and fare thee well!”
Two Gentlemen of Verona
“Now let us take our Leave”
There lived once in Verona two friends who loved each other dearly; their names were Valentine and Proteus. They were both young and gallant gentlemen, but they were very different in character, as you will presently see. Valentine was simple and honest, a loyal and devoted friend, and too candid and sincere himself to think of treachery in others. Proteus had warm affections, but he was fickle and changeable, carried away by impulse, and always so desperately eager for what he happened to want at the moment that he stopped at no means to gain his ends.
Valentine and Proteus were very happy together as companions, but at last the time came when they were to part. Valentine was not content to settle down at Verona; he wanted to see something of the world and its wider life.
“Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits,” he said to Proteus, who was trying to persuade him to stay. “If it were not that you were chained here by your affections I would rather beg your company to see the wonders of the world abroad. But since you are in love, love still, and thrive in it, even as I would when I once begin to love.”
This he said because Proteus was deeply in love at that moment with a fair lady of Verona called Julia. And then Valentine went on to tease Proteus, pretending that all love was folly, and that only foolish people let themselves be deluded into it. He little knew how soon he was himself to be caught in the same folly, and how basely and treacherously his friend was going to act towards him.
However, at that moment Proteus had no thought for anyone but Julia, and would not have left Verona on any account. The two friends took an affectionate farewell of each other, and Valentine went his way, to travel to the Court of Milan.
“He hunts after honour, I after love,” thought Proteus, when his friend had left him. “He leaves his friends to bring more credit to them by improving himself. I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. Thou, Julia, hast changed me, made me neglect my studies, lose my time, fight against good counsel, set the world at naught, weaken my brains with dreaming, and make my heart sick with thought!”
While Proteus was indulging in this rhapsody, Speed, the clownish servant of Valentine, came hurrying up.
“Sir Proteus, save you!” he cried, in the greeting of those days. “Saw you my master?”
“He has just this minute gone to embark for Milan,” replied Proteus. “Did you give my letter to the Lady Julia?”
“Ay, sir, and she gave me nothing for my labour,” said Speed, who was out of temper at not having received the handsome fee he was hoping for.
“But what did she say?” asked Proteus eagerly.
“Oh—she nodded!”
“Come, come, what did she say?”
“If you will open your purse, sir....”
“Well, there is something for your trouble. Now, what did she say?”
“Truly, sir, I think you will hardly win her,” said Speed with a sly look, pocketing the piece of money Proteus threw to him.
“Why? Could you perceive so much from her manner?”
“Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her—no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And as she was so hard to me who was your messenger, I fear she will prove equally hard to you. Give her no present but a stone, for she is as hard as steel.”
“What did she say? Nothing?” repeated poor Proteus.
“No, not so much as ‘Take that for your pains,’” said Speed, still harping on his own grievance. “I thank you for your bounty, sir. Henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so I will go seek my master.”
“Go, go, to save your ship from wreck!” cried Proteus, incensed at the fellow’s impertinence. “It cannot perish when you are aboard, for you are certainly destined for a drier death on shore!—I must find some better messenger to send,” he added to himself, when the saucy serving-man had taken himself off. “I am afraid my Julia would not deign to accept my lines, receiving them from such a worthless envoy.”
But, as it happened, the letter had so far not reached the hands of the lady for whom it was intended, for it was only her waiting-maid Lucetta whom Speed had seen, and to whom he had given the letter in mistake for Julia.
Lucetta went in search of her mistress, and found her in the garden, musing over many things, for by this time Julia really loved Proteus, although she would not acknowledge it even to herself. When Lucetta handed her the letter, saying she thought it had been sent by Proteus, Julia pretended to be angry, and scolded her maid for daring to receive it.
“There, take the paper again,” she said, “and see that it is returned, or never again come into my presence.”
“To plead for love deserves a better reward than to be scolded,” muttered Lucetta.
From being so much with her young mistress, the maid was treated more as a companion than as a servant, and was accustomed to speak out her mind frankly on every occasion.
“Go!” said Julia severely; but no sooner had Lucetta disappeared than she was seized with remorse.
“How churlishly I sent her away, when all the time I wanted her here!” she thought. “How angrily I tried to frown, when really my heart was smiling with secret joy! To punish myself I must call Lucetta back, and ask her pardon for my folly.... What ho, Lucetta!”
“What does you ladyship want?” asked Lucetta, reappearing.
But at the sight of her maid Julia suddenly became shy again.
“Is it near dinner-time?” she asked, with an air of pretended indifference.
“I would it were, madam, so that you might spend your anger on your meat, and not on your maid,” replied Lucetta rather flippantly; and at that moment she let the letter fall, and picked it up ostentatiously.
“What is it you took up so gingerly?” inquired Julia.
“Nothing.”
“Why did you stoop, then?”
“To pick up a paper I let fall.”
“And is that paper nothing?”
“Nothing that concerns me.”
“Then let it lie there for whom it does concern.”
But Lucetta had no intention that the letter should lie unheeded on the ground, for her only purpose in dropping it was to bring it again to Julia’s notice. She little knew how her mistress longed at that moment to have it in her own possession, but was too proud to acknowledge it. Lucetta could not refrain from some pert speeches, and her jesting words irritated Julia, especially when Lucetta declared she was taking the part of Proteus.
“I will have no more chatter about this,” said Julia; and she tore the letter and threw the pieces on the ground. “Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie!”
“Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie!”
“She pretends not to like it, but she would be very well pleased to be so angered with another letter,” said the shrewd maid, half aloud, as she walked away.
“Nay, would I were so angered with the same!” cried Julia, eagerly seizing some of the fragments. “O hateful hands to tear such loving words! I’ll kiss each little piece of paper to make amends. Look! here is written ‘Kind Julia!’ Unkind Julia! Be calm, good wind; do not blow any of the words away until I have found every letter.”
And with a loving touch she began carefully to collect the torn scraps of paper.
“Madam,” said Lucetta, coming back, “dinner is ready, and your father waits.”
“Well, let us go,” said Julia.
“Are these papers to lie here like tell-tales, madam?”
“If you care about them, you had better pick them up.”
“They shall not stay here, for fear of catching cold,” said Lucetta, with a mischievous little smile to herself.
“I see you are very anxious to have them,” said Julia.
“Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see,” said the maid, quite unabashed. “I see things, too, although you judge my eyes are shut.”
“Come, come, let us go,” said Julia.
Proteus had refused to accompany his friend Valentine, but he soon found that he was not to be allowed to remain at Verona. In those days it was considered that no young man was well brought up unless he had had the advantage of foreign travel, and an uncle of his spoke very strongly on the subject.
“I wonder that his father lets him spend his youth at home,” he said, “while other men of much less repute send out their sons to seek preferment—some to the wars, to try their fortune there; some to discover islands far away; some to study at the universities. For any or for all of these Proteus is fit. It will be a great disadvantage to him in after-years to have known no travel in his youth.”
To this Proteus’s father, Antonio, answered that he had already been thinking over the matter.
“I have reflected how he is wasting his time, and how he can never be a perfect man unless he goes out in the world to learn by experience,” he said.
And he came to the conclusion that he could not do better than send Proteus after Valentine, to the Court of the Duke of Milan. Proteus was ordered to hold himself in readiness to start the next day, and all appeals were useless. The only consolation he had in leaving Julia was that the lady now frankly admitted her love.
“Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake,” she said, giving him a ring when the moment came to part.
“Why, then, we’ll make an exchange,” said Proteus. “Here, take you this. And here is my hand for my true constancy. If ever I do not remember you for a single hour, Julia, the next hour let some evil mischance torment me for my forgetfulness.”
And so, with many protestations of love and fidelity, Proteus started to rejoin his friend Valentine at Milan, and Julia was left behind at Verona.
“Who is Silvia?”
Valentine had spoken many wise words to Proteus on the folly of being in love, but he had not been long in Milan before he was in just the same sad plight that he had cautioned his friend against. The Duke of Milan had a beautiful daughter called Silvia, and it was with her that Valentine fell deeply in love. She returned his affection, and they became secretly betrothed, but they dared not let this be known, for her father favoured another suitor, Sir Thurio, a rich and well-born gentleman, but foolish and extremely vain.
The Duke of Milan, as was the custom in those days, thought himself at perfect liberty to dispose of his daughter in marriage as best pleased himself, with but scant regard for her own feelings on the subject. He suspected there was some love between Silvia and Valentine, and saw many little things when they thought him blind. He often determined to forbid Valentine his Court and his daughter’s company, but, fearing that his jealousy might perhaps be leading him into error, and that he might bring disgrace unworthily upon Valentine, he resolved not to act rashly, but by gentle means to try to discover the truth. In the meanwhile he kept a strict watch over Silvia, and, fearing some attempt on the part of the young lovers to escape secretly, he gave directions that Silvia should be lodged in an upper tower, the key of which was brought every night to himself.
Matters were in this state when, to Valentine’s great joy, Proteus arrived at the Court of Milan. In the full warmth of his generous heart, Valentine lavished praises of his friend to the Duke of Milan and to Silvia, and for the sake of the love she bore to Valentine Silvia gave Proteus a hearty welcome.
But what a base return Proteus made for the kindness heaped on him! In spite of the devotion which he had professed for Julia, in spite of his lifelong friendship with Valentine, Proteus no sooner beheld Silvia than he imagined himself desperately in love with her. All thought of loyalty and honour was recklessly flung aside. He knew he was behaving shamefully. He remembered his faithful lady in Verona; he called to mind the duty he owed his dear friend Valentine. But for the moment his weak and selfish nature carried him beyond control. He had no thought but to gratify his own desires, and he determined to throw over Julia, and to win Silvia for himself at whatever cost of treachery and dishonour.
The task did not seem an impossible one, for Valentine, in the full glow of his unsuspicious nature, was ready to place unbounded trust in his friend, and in this way he gave into his hands the means by which he was betrayed. He told Proteus that, unknown to the Duke, her father, Silvia and he were betrothed—nay, more, that the hour of their marriage and the method of their flight were already arranged. Silvia was locked into her tower every night, but Valentine was to come with a ladder of ropes, by which he could climb up and help her to descend. That very evening was fixed for the carrying out of their scheme, and Valentine was now on his way to procure the ladder of ropes by which the attempt was to be made.
Proteus listened to this plot, and then in the depths of his meanness he determined to give Silvia’s father notice of what was planned, for he thought it would turn out greatly to his own advantage to do so. Valentine would be banished, and the way would then be left open for himself to try to win Silvia. True, her father favoured another suitor, Sir Thurio, but Proteus had little fear of that dull gentleman, and he thought it would be very easy to thwart his proceedings with some sly trick.
Proteus lost no time in carrying out his scheme, and it was immediately successful. With feigned reluctance, and under the hypocritical pretence that he was only acting from a sense of duty, Proteus repeated to the Duke of Milan what Valentine had told him. He made the Duke promise that he would not reveal his treachery, and pointed out how he could easily entrap Valentine as if the discovery had been made by himself. The Duke acted on this advice. He pretended to ask Valentine’s counsel as to the best way of winning a lady to be his wife, whose friends kept her securely shut up. Valentine at once suggested the method of escape which he was hoping to use in his own case.
“A ladder quaintly made of cords,” he said, “with hooks at the end, which you can throw up, and by which you can scale the tower.”
“But how shall I convey the ladder?” asked the Duke.
“It will be so light, my lord, that you can easily carry it under your cloak,” said Valentine.
“Will a cloak as long as yours serve the purpose?”
“Why, any cloak will serve, my lord.”
“How shall I wear it?” said the Duke. “Pray let me feel your cloak upon me.”
Valentine could scarcely refuse, and the next moment the Duke had drawn forth from the cloak not only a letter addressed to Silvia, saying that Valentine would set her free that night, but also the ladder of ropes that was to be used for that purpose.
Then the Duke’s anger blazed forth.
“Go, base intruder! Overweening slave!” he exclaimed; and in words of the most contemptuous wrath he ordered Valentine to leave his Court and his territories, and never to be seen in them again on pain of death.
“Go, base intruder! Overweening slave!”
False to his Friend
The Duke of Milan had scarcely left Valentine, and the latter was still dazed by the calamity which had befallen him, when Proteus brought him word that the proclamation for his banishment had been made public.
Silvia, however, was still true to him. With sobs and tears, she implored pardon for him on her knees, but her father was relentless. If Valentine were found again in his dominions he should be put to death. Moreover, he was so enraged at his daughter’s daring to plead for her young lover that he commanded she should be kept in close prison.
The crafty Proteus counselled Valentine to depart at once, bidding him not to lose hope, pretending the greatest sympathy with his love affairs, and promising that if he sent letters they should be safely conveyed to Silvia. Having thus hurried Valentine away with the utmost despatch, Proteus returned to the Duke of Milan, to let him know that his orders had been obeyed.
“My daughter is in great grief about his going,” said the Duke.
“A little time will kill that grief, my lord.”
“So I believe, but Sir Thurio here does not think so,” said the Duke, and he then went on to consult Proteus as to the best way of winning Silvia’s affections from the absent Valentine, in order that she might transfer them to Sir Thurio.
It was agreed among them that the best plan would be for Proteus to speak all he could in dispraise of Valentine, while at the same time he was to speak in praise of Sir Thurio. For this purpose Proteus was to be allowed free access to Silvia, who, for his friend’s sake, would be glad to see him.
Proteus agreed to this, but said that Thurio himself must do something to win the lady’s favour. He suggested that he should try to please her with poetry and music, and that he should bring musicians, and sing a serenade by night under her chamber window. Thurio said he would put the plan in practice that very night; he knew some gentlemen well skilled in music, and he had a song written that would be just suitable. As for the Duke, he was delighted with the suggestion, and bade them set to work at once to carry it into effect.
Meanwhile, in Verona, Julia was sorrowing for the absence of Proteus, and at last her longing to see him again grew so keen that she determined to follow him to Milan. Her waiting-maid, Lucetta, who had plenty of shrewd common-sense, tried to persuade her not to go, but Julia would listen to no reason.
“I feel as if I were dying with starvation until I see him again,” she said. “If you only knew what it is to love anyone, you would know how utterly useless it is to try to argue about it in words.”
As a young and beautiful lady travelling alone would be likely to attract a good deal of notice, for safety’s sake Julia decided to adopt the dress of a page, and she bade Lucetta procure for her all that was necessary to play the part properly. In vain Lucetta tried to warn her that perhaps Proteus would not be pleased to see her. Many men were fickle and changeable, she said; they often pretended much more affection than they really felt.
Julia indignantly replied that some men might, but not her Proteus. Her trust in his fidelity was not to be shaken.
“His words are bonds, his oaths cannot be broken, his love is sincere, his thoughts are stainless, his tears are pure messengers straight from heaven, his heart is as free from fraud as heaven from earth!” she cried.
“Pray heaven he prove so when you come to him!” said the shrewd waiting-woman.
So the faithful, loving Julia set out on her journey to Milan. Alas, poor lady, she little knew what a sorry welcome was awaiting her!
“Alas, poor Lady, desolate and left!”
Proteus soon found that his scheme for winning Silvia met with small success. He had already been false to Valentine, and now he intended to be false to Sir Thurio; but his treachery was likely to be of little avail. Silvia was far too good and true to be corrupted by his worthless gifts. When he protested his loyalty to her, she twitted him with his falsehood to his absent friend; when he praised her beauty, she bade him remember how he had been forsworn in breaking faith with Julia, whom he loved. But, notwithstanding all her rebuffs and rebukes, the more she spurned Proteus the greater grew his admiration for her; and though he knew well how basely he was acting both to Valentine and Julia, he had not enough strength of mind to turn aside from the temptation.
That night, in accordance with what they had arranged, Sir Thurio brought a band of musicians, and they sang a charming serenade outside the Duke of Milan’s palace, under Silvia’s chamber. This is the pretty song they sang:
“Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
“Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness. And, being help’d, inhabits there.
“Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her, garlands let us bring.”
Unknown to Proteus, there was another listener, of whom he little recked.
Julia, on arriving at Milan, had made inquiries for her faithless lover, and the landlord of the house where she lodged had brought her to this spot to see the man for whom she had been inquiring. Now, in her page’s costume, she was a witness of her lover’s inconstancy. Proteus had sworn a thousand vows of love to her, and yet here he was plainly playing court to another lady! Poor Julia! Sweet as the music was, it had little charm for her; she heard only the jarring discord of her lover’s false words.
“Doth this Sir Proteus that we speak of often come to visit this gentlewoman?” she asked her host.
“I tell you what Launce, his man, told me—he loves her beyond all measure,” replied the host.
“Peace, stand aside, they are going,” said Julia, stepping further back into the shadow; and she heard Proteus say:
“Sir Thurio, do not fear; I will plead your cause so well that you will own my cunning wit is matchless.”
“Where do we meet?” asked Sir Thurio, as he prepared to depart with the musicians.
“At St. Gregory’s Well.”
“Farewell!”
And Proteus was left alone as Silvia appeared on the balcony of her window above.
“Madam, good even to your ladyship,” said Proteus.
“I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who was that who spoke?”
“One, lady, whom—if you knew his true heart—you would quickly learn to know by his voice.”
“Sir Proteus, as I take it.”
“Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.”
“What is your will?”
“That I may fulfil yours.”
“You have your wish. My will is this: that you immediately go home to bed, you subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man! Do you think I am so shallow, so witless, as to be won by your flattery—you, who have deceived so many with your vows! Return, return, and make amends to your own lady. As for me, I swear by this moon that I am so far from granting your request that I despise you for your wrongful suit, and could chide myself even for the time I spend in talking to you.”
“I grant that I did love a lady,” said Proteus, “but she is dead.”
“Supposing that she is, yet Valentine, your friend, is alive, to whom you yourself are witness that I am betrothed. Are you not ashamed to wrong him with this persistency?”
“I hear likewise that Valentine is dead.”
“Imagine, then, that I am also dead; for, be assured, my love is buried in his grave.”
“Sweet lady, let me take it from the earth.”
“Go to your own lady’s grave, and call her love thence, or, at least, bury your own in hers.”
“Madam, if your heart is so pitiless, yet grant me your picture, for the sake of my love. For since you yourself are devoted elsewhere, I am but a shadow, and to your shadow will I give my love.”
“I am very loath to be your idol, sir, but since it suits your falsehood to admire shadows, send to me in the morning, and I will send the picture. And so, good rest!”
“As wretches have overnight who wait for execution in the morning,” said Proteus.
Poor Julia overheard all this conversation between her faithless suitor and the lady Silvia. It was impossible to doubt his falsehood any longer, yet so true and loving was her nature that she could not harden her heart to go away and never see him again. As it happened, Sir Proteus was staying at the very house in Milan where she had found a lodging. His thoughts just then were entirely absorbed with his latest fancy, and it never occurred to him to connect the stranger lad, who called himself Sebastian, with his own lady Julia at Verona. But something about the pretty boy attracted his liking. Proteus’s servant Launce was a silly clown, whose half-witted blunders were always bringing his master into ridicule, and, judging from Sebastian’s face and bearing that he was well-born and trustworthy, Proteus took him into his service as page.
What befell in the Forest
Those were dark days for the lady Silvia: her lover Valentine banished, she herself kept in close imprisonment by her angry and tyrannical father, threatened with marriage to a suitor whom she hated and despised. What prospect of release could she look forward to?
But she was not without courage, and she was not without hope.
At the Court of Milan there was one friend on whom she could rely—the kind Sir Eglamour, a gentleman, valiant, wise, compassionate, well-accomplished; one who had himself known sorrow, for his lady and true love had died, and his heart still mourned her memory.
Silvia told this gentleman that she was anxious to go to Valentine—to Mantua—where she had heard he was staying, and because the ways were dangerous she begged him to accompany her, in whose faith and honour she trusted. Pitying her distress, and knowing that the Duke was acting cruelly in trying to force his daughter into an unworthy marriage, Sir Eglamour willingly agreed, and it was arranged they should start that evening.
Sir Eglamour had scarcely left Silvia, when the messenger arrived from Proteus to claim the portrait which Silvia had promised. And who should Proteus have chosen for this errand but his new young page, Sebastian, whom he little thought was his own dear lady Julia in disguise. Not only this, but he also entrusted a ring to Sebastian to give to Silvia, and this ring was no other than the one which Julia had given to him when they parted, and which he had received with so many protestations of affection and vows of fidelity.
Julia, or Sebastian, as we ought now to call her, was nearly heart-broken at the task imposed on her, but she carried it through faithfully. And in one way she met with her reward. For the noble lady Silvia showed no pleasure at this proof of Proteus’s affection, only scorn and indignation at his treachery to his own love. She gave her portrait, as she had promised it, but she tore up his letter in contempt, without even reading it; and as for the ring, she refused to accept it.
“Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring,” said the pretty lad Sebastian.
“The more shame for him that he sends it me!” said Silvia warmly. “For I have heard him say a thousand times that Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, mine shall never do his Julia so much wrong,” she declared.
Julia was deeply touched and grateful at Silvia’s generous sympathy, and still more so when the lady went on to question her about Julia, and to say how much she felt for her and pitied her.
“Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! I could weep for her,” she said. “Here, youth, there is my purse. I give you this for your sweet mistress’s sake, because you love her. Farewell!”
“And she shall thank you for it if ever you know her,” cried Julia, as Silvia retired with her attendants. “A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, since she respects my mistress’s love so much.”
And somewhat comforted she returned to Proteus.
Silvia fled that night, as she had arranged with Sir Eglamour. The news soon reached her father’s ears, and he immediately set out in pursuit of her, the party also including Sir Thurio, Proteus, and Sebastian. But in crossing a dangerous forest Sir Eglamour and Silvia had been seized by a band of outlaws. Sir Eglamour contrived to make his escape, but the outlaws were conveying Silvia to their chief, when Proteus came up with them and with some difficulty rescued their captive.
Now, the captain of these outlaws was no other than Valentine. On his way to Mantua he had been taken prisoner by the band, who, seeing that he was a brave and accomplished gentleman, had begged him to be their chief. Finding that they were not really bad men, but had been driven to this method of life by reckless behaviour in their youth, which had caused them to be banished from Milan, Valentine consented.
“I accept your offer, and will live with you,” he said, “provided that you do no harm to women or poor travellers.”
“No; we detest such vile practices,” said one of the outlaws. “Come, go with us. We will take you to the rest of our crew, and show you all the treasure we have got, and everything shall be at your disposal.”
On the day when the adventure occurred to Sir Eglamour and Silvia, Valentine happened to be alone, when, unseen by them in the thickness of the forest, he saw Proteus approaching with Silvia and the little page Sebastian.
“Madam,” he heard Proteus say, “I have done this service for you and risked my life, though you do not respect anything that your servant does. Grant me but a kind look for my reward. I cannot ask a smaller boon than that, and less than that I am sure you cannot give.”
“This is like a dream!” thought Valentine, aghast at his friend’s treachery. But he tried to wait patiently for a few minutes to see what would happen.
“Oh, miserable, unhappy that I am,” sighed Silvia.
“And I too!” murmured the poor little page, apart.
“Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would rather have been a breakfast to the beast than have false Proteus rescue me!” cried Silvia. “Oh, heaven, be judge how I love Valentine, whose life is as dear to me as my soul! And just as much—for it cannot be more—do I detest false, perjured Proteus! Therefore begone; entreat me no more.”
Seeing there was no chance of winning Silvia by fair words, Proteus, in a rage, seized hold of her roughly, whereupon Valentine sprang forth and struck him back.
“Ruffian, let go that rude, uncivil touch! Thou evil-fashioned friend!”
“Valentine!”
“Treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes.”
[Pg 50] [Pg 51]
“You miserable friend, without faith or love!” continued Valentine, hurling his scorn on the convicted traitor. “Treacherous man! Thou hast beguiled my hopes! Nothing but my own eyes would have made me believe what I see. Now I dare not say I have one living friend,—whom could I trust, when the one nearest my heart is perjured? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, but for thy sake count the whole world a stranger. Alas, that amongst all foes a friend should be the worst!”
Proteus’s easily-moved nature was struck to the heart by Valentine’s just reproaches. With deepest remorse, he implored Valentine’s pardon, and so noble and generous was Valentine that he forgave him on the spot. Nay, more, in the impulse of the moment he even offered to resign his own claim on Silvia. The thought that Proteus would now really be lost to her for ever, struck Julia like a blow, and she fell fainting to the ground.
“Look to the boy,” said Proteus.
“Why, boy, how now? What’s the matter? Look up! Speak!” said Valentine.
“Oh, good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which because of my neglect was never done,” said Julia, in her guise of the little page.
“Where is that ring, boy?” asked Proteus.
“Here it is—this is it.”
“How? Let me see. Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.”
“Oh, cry you mercy, sir, I have made a mistake,” said Julia, pretending to discover her error, and holding out another one. “This is the ring you sent to Silvia.”
“But how did you come by this ring?” asked Proteus, looking at the first one. “When I left Verona I gave this to Julia.”
“And Julia herself gave it to me, and Julia herself has brought it here.”
“How? Julia!”
“Behold her to whom you swore so many vows, and who kept them tenderly in her heart! How often have you perjured yourself!” cried Julia, throwing off her disguise. “Oh, Proteus, let these clothes make you blush! Are you ashamed that I have put on the raiment of a boy? I tell you, it is less shameful for women to change their guise than men their minds!”
“Than men their minds!” echoed the conscience-stricken Proteus. “That is true.”
“Come, come, give me each your hand,” interposed Valentine. “Let me be blest in making a happy ending. It were pity that two such friends should be long foes.”
“Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever!” said Proteus solemnly.
“And I mine,” said Julia.
And it is to be hoped that this time the fickle gentleman kept faithful to his lady.
Matters had scarcely come to this happy conclusion, when the outlaws approached, bringing as captives the Duke of Milan and Sir Thurio.
“A prize! a prize! a prize!” shouted the outlaws.
“Forbear, forbear, I say! It is my lord, the Duke of Milan,” said Valentine. “Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced,” he added courteously.
“Sir Valentine!”
“Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia’s mine!” interrupted Sir Thurio, pressing rudely forward.
“Stand back!” commanded Valentine. “Come near, at your peril! Do not dare to call Silvia yours! Here she stands: I dare you to touch her, or even to come near.”
“Sir Valentine, I care not for her—I!” said Thurio, quite cowed. “I hold him but a fool who will endanger himself for a girl who does not love him. I claim her not, and therefore she is yours.”
“The more base of you to act as you have done, and then to leave her on such slight excuse!” said the Duke indignantly. “Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I applaud your spirit, Valentine; you are worthy of an Empress’s love. Know, then, I cancel here all that has passed, and summon you home again Sir Valentine, you are a gentleman. Take you your Silvia, for you have deserved her.”
“I thank your Grace; the gift has made me happy. I now beg you, for your daughter’s sake, to grant one boon that I shall ask of you.”
“I grant it you for your own, whatever it be,” said the Duke.
Then Valentine begged him to pardon the band of outlaws and recall them from exile.
“They are reformed, civil, full of good, and fit for great employment,” he said.
The Duke willingly granted his pardon, and then the whole party returned happily to Milan, where the same day wedding feasts were appointed for the two marriages—Valentine with Silvia, and Proteus with Julia.