Chapter II: Part 2

“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!”

“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.

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!”

“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.

Much Ado about Nothing

“Dear Lady Disdain”

There was rejoicing in Messina, for the war was over, and Don Pedro, the victorious Prince of Arragon, was returning in triumph. Tidings were sent to Leonato, the Governor, to expect his speedy approach; and Leonato himself, with his daughter Hero and his niece Beatrice, received the Prince’s messenger, and questioned him eagerly as to the welfare of their friends.

“How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?” inquired Leonato.

“But few of any sort, and none of name,” replied the messenger.

“I find in this letter that Don Pedro has bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio,” said Leonato.

“Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by Don Pedro,” answered the messenger. “He has indeed borne himself gallantly, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion.”

When she heard this outspoken praise of the young Florentine, Hero, the Governor’s daughter, felt a warm thrill of joy, but she only smiled and blushed with pleasure.

“I pray you,” put in Beatrice, the Governor’s niece, who lived in her uncle’s house, and was the dear companion of his only daughter, “is Signor Mountanto returned from the wars or no?”

“I know none of that name, lady,” said the messenger, looking rather puzzled; “there was none such in the army of any sort.”

“Who is he that you ask for niece?”

“My cousin means Signor Benedick of Padua,” explained Hero.

“Oh, he has returned, and as pleasant as ever he was,” said the messenger.

“I pray you, how many has he killed and eaten in these wars?” said Beatrice mockingly. “But no, how many has he killed? For, indeed, _I_ promised to eat all of his killing.”

“Faith, niece, you are too hard on Signor Benedick,” said Leonato. “But he will be even with you, I do not doubt.”

“He has done good service, lady, in these wars,” said the messenger; and then he went on to praise warmly the valour and noble qualities of the young lord; but Beatrice would do nothing but laugh and mock at all he said.

“You must not, sir, mistake my niece,” said Leonato at last. “There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signor Benedick and her; they never meet but there is a skirmish of wit between them.”

While they were still speaking, the Prince of Arragon, with his train of noble gentlemen, arrived. Leonato welcomed them most warmly. Count Claudio and Signor Benedick were old friends, and had previously stayed at the Governor’s palace; indeed, before starting for the wars Claudio had looked with more than an eye of favour on the gentle lady Hero. As for Beatrice and Benedick, they pretended to have a great aversion to each other, but, strange to say, instead of avoiding each other’s society, they seemed to delight in seizing every opportunity to plague and tease each other as much as possible.

On the present occasion Beatrice had not long to wait, and on Benedick’s making some jesting remark to Don Pedro and Leonato, she plunged into the fray.

“I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick; nobody marks you.”

“What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?” retorted Benedick.

“Is it possible that Disdain should die while she has such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedick? Courtesy herself must turn into disdain if you come into her presence.”

“Then is Courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none,” remarked Benedick in a lofty manner.

“That is very happy for women; they would otherwise have been troubled with a most annoying suitor,” said Beatrice. “Thank Heaven, I am like you in that respect; I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

“Heaven keep your ladyship still in that mind!” said the young lord devoutly. “So some gentleman or another shall escape injury.”

* * * * *

It was all very well for Benedick to scoff at love, but the young Count Claudio was of a different nature. Impulsive and passionate, he was not ashamed to own his love for the lady Hero, and with the sympathetic help of the Prince of Arragon he speedily won the lady’s consent and her father’s approval. The wedding-day was fixed for a week later, and the only trial the impatient young lover had to endure was the time that must elapse before the marriage.

Benedick, of course, did not spare his raillery on this occasion, and he laughed with the utmost scorn when Don Pedro and Claudio declared that his own turn would come.

“I shall see you, before I die, look pale with love,” said Don Pedro.

“With anger, with sickness, with hunger, my lord, but never with love,” declared Benedick.

“Well, if ever you fall from this faith you will prove a notable argument.”

“If I do, hang me in a bottle and shoot at me,” laughed Benedick.

“Well, as time shall try. ‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke,’” quoted Don Pedro.

“The savage bull may, but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns, and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign, ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man!’”

Benedick’s self-assured declaration that he never intended to fall in love or get married, and Beatrice’s equal scorn on the same subject, put a mischievous idea into Don Pedro’s head, and it occurred to him that the week which had to elapse before the wedding might be most amusingly occupied.

“I will warrant that the time shall not pass dully,” he said to Leonato and Claudio. “I will in the meanwhile undertake one of Hercules’ labours, which is to bring Signor Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection one for the other. I would fain have it a match, and I do not doubt of bringing it about, if you three will but help me in the way I point out.”

“My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watching,” said Leonato.

“And I, my lord,” said Claudio.

“I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband,” said the gentle Hero.

“And Benedick is not the least hopeful husband I know,” said the Prince. “Thus far I can praise him: he is of noble race, of approved valour, and of steadfast honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin that she shall fall in love with Benedick, and I, with the help of Leonato and Claudio, will so practise on Benedick that, in spite of his quick wit and fastidious temper, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods! Come with me, and I will tell you my plan.”

A Plain-dealing Villain

Now, among the gentlemen in the Prince of Arragon’s train there was one of a very different nature from Claudio and Benedick. This was Don John, a half-brother of the Prince, and a man of sullen, envious, and malicious temper. He was spiteful to all the world, but in especial he hated his half-brother, and he bore a furious grudge against the young Florentine lord Claudio, because the latter stood high in the favour of the Prince of Arragon. Don John had long sullenly opposed his brother, and had only lately been taken into favour again. It now only depended on his own behaviour as to whether he should go on and prosper, or whether he should fall again into disgrace. But Don John had no intention of acting more amiably than he could possibly help. His followers, Borachio and Conrade, urged him to conceal his feelings, and to bear a more cheerful countenance among the general rejoicings, but Don John flatly refused.

“I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in my brother’s grace,” he said sullenly. “It better fits my humour to be disdained of all than to fashion a behaviour to rob love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering, honest man, it must not be denied that I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted,--with a muzzle; and set free,--with a clog; therefore I have determined not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth I would bite, if I had my liberty I should do my liking; in the meantime let me be what I am, and do not seek to alter me.”

The news that the gallant young Claudio was to wed the daughter of the Governor of Messina put Don John into a fresh fury.

“That young start-up has all the glory of my overthrow,” he declared. “If I can cross him in any way, I shall only be too delighted.”

His two men, Borachio and Conrade, who were as evil-natured as their master, promised to help him in any scheme of vengeance he could devise, and it was not long before Borachio came to him and said that he had found a way to cross Count Claudio’s marriage.

“Any bar, any cross, any hindrance, will do me good,” said Don John. “I am sick with displeasure, and whatsoever comes athwart his desire will go evenly with mine. How can you cross this marriage?”

“Not honestly, my lord, but so secretly that no dishonesty shall appear in me.”

“Show me briefly how.”

“I think I told your lordship a year since how much I am in favour with Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero.”

“I remember.”

“I can at any unseasonable instant of the night appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber window.”

“What good will that be to put an end to the marriage?”

“The poison of it lies with you to mix. Go to the Prince your brother, tell him he has wronged his honour in allowing the renowned Claudio--whom you must praise warmly--to marry lady like Hero, who has already another lover.”

“What proof shall I make of that?”

“Proof enough to hurt the Prince, to vex Claudio, to ruin Hero, and to kill Leonato. Do you look for any other result?”

“I will do anything only to spite them.”

“Go, then, find a fitting hour when Don Pedro and Count Claudio are alone, and tell them that you know Hero loves me,” said the wicked Borachio. “They will scarcely believe this without proof. Offer them the opportunity to test the truth of your words. Bring them outside Leonato’s house the night before the wedding; and in the meanwhile I will so fashion the matter that they shall see Margaret speak to me out of the window, they shall hear me call her ‘Hero,’ and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty that Claudio in his jealousy will feel quite assured of it, and all the preparations for the wedding shall be overthrown.”

“Let the issue of this be what it may, I will put it in practice,” said Don John. “Be cunning in working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.”

“You be steady in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me,” was Borachio’s response.

“Cupid’s Crafty Arrow”

Benedick was strolling alone in Leonato’s orchard, and as he went he mused to himself.

“I do wonder,” he thought, “that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he is in love, after he has laughed at such shallow follies in others, will himself become the object of his own scorn by falling in love; and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife, and now he had rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten miles on foot to see a good armour, and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. Shall I ever be so converted, and see with those eyes? I cannot tell. I think not. I will not be sworn that love may not transform me to an oyster, but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be--that’s certain; wise and virtuous, or I’ll have none of her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair--her hair shall be of what colour it pleases God.... Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love. I will hide me in the arbour.”

And Benedick hastily concealed himself, as Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato approached, followed by some musicians.

“Come, shall we hear this music?” said Don Pedro, seating himself on a bench within earshot of the arbour. “See you where Benedick has hidden himself?” he added in a low voice.

“Oh, very well, my lord,” answered Claudio. “When the music is ended, we will give him something to think about.”

“Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again,” said Don Pedro.

So the musicians lightly touched the strings of their instruments, and Balthasar began his song:

“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny!

“Sing no more ditties, sing no more,
Of dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of man was ever so,
Since summer first was leafy:
Then sigh not so, but let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny!”

“By my troth, a good song!” said the Prince. “Balthasar, I pray you get us some excellent music, for to-morrow night we would have it at the lady Hero’s chamber-window.”

“The best I can, my lord.”

“Do so; farewell.... Come hither, Leonato,” said Don Pedro, when the young musician had retired. “What was it that you told me of to-day--that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signor Benedick?”

“Go on,” whispered Claudio. “We shall catch our bird. I did never think that lady would have loved any man,” he added aloud, for Benedick’s benefit.

“No, nor I neither,” said Leonato; “but it is most wonderful that she should so doat on Signor Benedick, whom she has in all outward behaviour always seemed to abhor.”

“Is it possible? Sits the wind in that corner?” murmured the astonished Benedick in his hiding-place.

“By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that she loves him frantically,” continued Leonato. “It is past the bounds of belief.”

“Has she made her affection known to Benedick?” asked Don Pedro.

“No, and swears she never will; that is the cause of her unhappiness.”

“’Tis true indeed,” put in Claudio. “‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so often encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’”

“‘I measure him by my own spirit,’ she says,” continued Leonato, “‘for I should flout him if he wrote to me--yea, though I love him, I should.’”

“And then she weeps and sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair,” said Claudio.

“My daughter is sometimes afraid she will do a desperate outrage to herself,” said Leonato.

“It were good if Benedick knew it from someone else, if she will not reveal it,” said Don Pedro.

“To what end?” asked Claudio. “He would make but a sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse.”

“If he did it would be a charity to hang him,” said Don Pedro indignantly. “She is an excellent, sweet lady.”

“And she is exceedingly wise,” put in Claudio.

“In everything but in loving Benedick,” said Don Pedro.

“Oh, my lord, I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian,” said Leonato.

“I would she had bestowed this affection on me,” said Don Pedro. “I would marry her at once. Well, Leonato, I am sorry for your niece. I pray you tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say.”

“Never tell him, my lord,” said Claudio. “Let her wear out her affection with good counsel.”

“Nay, that’s impossible,” said Leonato; “she may wear her heart out first.”

“Well, we will hear further of it from your daughter,” said Don Pedro. “I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady.”

“My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready,” said Leonato.

“If he do not doat on her after this, I will never trust my expectation,” laughed Claudio, as the conspirators withdrew.

“Let there be the same net spread for Beatrice,” said Don Pedro, “and that your daughter and her gentlewomen must carry out. The sport will be when they each believe in the other’s doating, when there is no such matter; that’s the scene I should like to see.... Let us send her to call him in to dinner.”

When the others had gone, Benedick came forth from his hiding-place, deeply impressed with what he had heard.

“Poor lady!” he thought. “So she really loves me! Well, her affection must be requited. I hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I see the love come from her. They say, too, she will rather die than give any sign of affection.... I never thought to marry.... I must not seem proud. Happy are those that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness. And virtuous; it is so. And wise; but for loving me. By my troth, it is no addition to her wit, and no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but does not a man’s opinion alter?... When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a fair lady! I do spy some marks of love in her.”

Quite unconscious of all that had taken place, Beatrice advanced, and in her usual mocking style announced:

“Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.”

“Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains,” said Benedick.

“I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me,” said Beatrice carelessly. “If it had been painful I would not have come.”

“You take pleasure, then, in the message?” said Benedick eagerly.

“Yes, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal,” laughed Beatrice. “You have no appetite, signor? Fare you well.” And off she went gaily.

“Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’ There’s a double meaning in that,” thought the poor deluded Benedick. “‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.’ That’s as much as to say, ‘Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.’ If I do not take pity on her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture!”

* * * * *