Chapter VI: Part 6

“Shall this fellow live?” cried the exasperated real Sir Toby in the box-tree.

“I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control----”

“And does not Toby give you a blow on the lips then?” fumed the hearer.

“Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this privilege of speech. You must amend your drinking habits. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight----’”

“That’s me, I warrant you,” put in Sir Andrew.

“One Sir Andrew----”

“I knew it was I, for many call me fool,” said Sir Andrew, quite pleased at his own penetration.

But Malvolio’s imaginary rebuke to Sir Toby came abruptly to an end, for he now caught sight of the letter which Maria had thrown on the ground.

“What have we here? By my life, this is my lady’s hand; these are her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; and thus she makes her great P’s. Beyond all question it is her hand.” Then Malvolio read aloud the inscription: “‘To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes.’ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! And the impression her own seal! It is my lady. To whom should this be?”

The letter was written in the most nonsensical terms, but Malvolio at once began to puzzle a meaning into it.

“Jove knows I love:
But who?
Lips do not move;
No man must know.”

“‘No man must know,’” he echoed. “If this should be thee, Malvolio!”

“I may command where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore,
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.”

Malvolio pondered deeply over these mystic lines. “I may command where I adore” was, of course, quite simple. Olivia might command him, for he was her servant. But what about the letters M, O, A, I?

“M--Malvolio; M--why, that begins my name!” came the sudden flash of discovery.

The succeeding letters were not so easy to explain, for they did not follow in their proper order. But Malvolio was not discouraged; he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that every one of these letters was in his name.

“Soft! There follows prose,” he continued.

“If this fall into thy hands, reflect,”
ran the absurd epistle. “In my stars I am above
thee, but be not afraid of greatness; some are
born great, some achieve greatness, and some have
greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their
hands, and to accustom thyself to what thou art
likely to be, throw off thy humble shell, and
appear afresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly
with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of
State; put thyself into the trick of singularity;
she thus advises thee that sighs for thee.
Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wished to see thee ever cross-gartered--I say,
remember! Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest
to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward
still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to
touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would
alter services with thee,

“THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.”

There was also a postscript, which said:

“Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If
thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy
smiling. Thy smiles become thee well, therefore
in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I
prithee.”

This ridiculous letter quite turned poor Malvolio’s head. He never doubted but that Olivia had really written it; he resolved in rapture to do everything he was bidden, and hurried away to put on as quickly as possible the yellow stockings and cross-garters.

Maria was delighted with the success of her trick, for all the things she had commended to Malvolio were what Olivia especially disliked.

“He will come to my lady in yellow stockings, and it is a colour she abhors,” she cried gleefully; “and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests. And he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into great contempt.”

And away went Maria and the others to see the first approach of the deluded Malvolio in his extraordinary new guise before his lady.

The Challenge

When Viola, saved from the wreck, was grieving over the supposed loss of her brother, she was comforted by the sea-captain, who told her that he had seen Sebastian bind himself to a strong mast, which floated on the sea, and that probably he too had been saved. This turned out to be really the case. Sebastian was picked up by another ship, the captain of which, Antonio by name, most kindly befriended the destitute young stranger. For three months he kept Sebastian with him, and he loved the boy so dearly that, when Sebastian left him to go to the Court of Orsino, Antonio followed him to Illyria, fearing lest some harm should come to him.

Antonio dared not show himself openly in Illyria, for several years before he had fought valiantly on the side of the enemies of Orsino, and done much damage to the Duke’s fleet. When on their arrival, therefore, Sebastian proposed to take a walk to see anything of note in the city, Antonio replied that it would be better for himself to go and secure a lodging, and order food to be prepared; he knew of a place that would suit very well, the Elephant Inn, in the south suburbs of the city. Sebastian in the meanwhile could go for a walk, and join him in about an hour’s time.

Knowing that Sebastian had no money, or very little, Antonio further insisted on giving him his purse, in case he should see any trifle he wished to purchase. Everything being thus arranged, they parted, Antonio to go to the Elephant Inn, and Sebastian to take a walk through the town.

* * * * *

In the palace of the Duke there was still sadness, for the young page Cesario, in spite of his kind reception by the Countess Olivia, had brought back no more cheering answer than former envoys. Weary at heart, Orsino longed to hear some soothing music, and he called for a touching little song which he had heard sung the night before--a plaintive, old-world ditty, whose quaint sadness and simplicity had more power to relieve his sorrow than the more light and cheerful strains of modern music.

His servants told him that the person who had sung the song was Feste the jester, who had been in the service of the Countess Olivia’s father, and, as he was still about the house, Orsino ordered him to be fetched. So Feste came, and this was the song he sang:

“Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair, cruel maid;
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.

“Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be strown;
A thousand, thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there!”

This sad little song just suited the melancholy mood of the Duke, and when Feste had sung it, and gone away, Orsino went on talking to Viola--or his young page Cesario, as he thought her--about his unhappy love for Olivia. He bade her go once more to the cruel lady, and _insist_ on her listening to him.

“But if she cannot love you, sir?” said Viola.

“I cannot be answered so,” said Orsino.

“Sooth, but you must,” replied Viola. “Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, has as great a love for you as you have for Olivia; you cannot love her; you tell her so; must she not then be answered?”

Orsino replied that no woman could ever love any man as he loved Olivia; that women’s hearts were much more shallow than men’s, etc. Viola, knowing her own deep and hidden affection for the Duke himself, protested that she knew too well how much women could love, and in veiled language she went on to describe the case of “a daughter of her father,” whom Orsino naturally took to mean a sister, but who was in reality herself. However, the end of it was that Viola again went to Olivia.

She was received just as kindly as before, but Olivia said plainly that it was quite useless for her to plead on behalf of Orsino, although if Cesario would undertake another suit she would listen to it more gladly than to the music of the spheres. Viola could only reply to this as she had done before, that she had one heart, and that no woman except herself should ever be mistress of it. So she took her leave.

* * * * *

The interview between the Countess and the young page had been jealously watched; the spectator was the foolish knight, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. It had occurred to Sir Toby that it would be a very good plan to wed his niece Olivia to this silly gentleman, and he kept urging Sir Andrew to pay his court to her. Sir Andrew spent money lavishly in riotous living with Sir Toby, hoping to repay himself when he married Olivia. He was therefore very indignant when he saw her bestow more favours on Orsino’s messenger than she had ever done on him, and he angrily told Sir Toby that he intended to leave at once.

Sir Toby tried to soothe him, and he and another gentleman of Olivia’s household who happened to be present persuaded him that Olivia knew all the time that he was looking on, and only showed favour to the youth to exasperate Sir Andrew and to awaken his dormouse valour. They said he ought immediately to have fired up, and frightened the boy into dumbness, and that he had damaged his own cause by not doing so. The only thing now to do was to redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

“If it is to be anyway, it must be with valour, for policy I hate,” said Sir Andrew.

“Why, then, build your fortunes on the basis of valour,” said Sir Toby in his loud, jovial voice. “Challenge the youth to fight; hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it; and be assured, nothing prevails more to win a man favour with women than a report of valour.”

“There is no way but this, Sir Andrew,” added Fabian.

“Will either of you bear a challenge to him from me?” asked Sir Andrew.

“Go, write it in a martial hand,” said Sir Toby. “Be sharp and brief. Make it as rude and insolent as you possibly can.”

Sir Andrew retired to write his challenge, leaving the other two men to laugh heartily over the prospect of a good joke.

“We shall have a rare letter from him,” said Fabian, “but you will not deliver it?”

“Faith, and I will!” exclaimed Sir Toby, “and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and cart-ropes will not drag them together.”

For he knew Sir Andrew had not a grain of courage in his whole body; and as for Orsino’s page, he looked far too soft and gentle to be in the least brave or daring.

Sir Andrew wrote his challenge, but when finished it was such an extraordinary production that Sir Toby decided not to deliver it.

“The behaviour of the young gentleman,” he said, “shows him to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will not terrify him in the least; he will know it comes from a clodpole. I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, give a notable report of Aguecheek’s valour, and drive the gentleman, who is so young I know he will readily believe it, into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so frighten them both that they will kill each other by the look, like cockatrices.”

What Sir Toby had planned came to pass, and he and Fabian were soon hugely enjoying the success of their joke. They first found Viola, and delivered Sir Andrew’s challenge, assuring her that he was terribly incensed, and was a most dangerous adversary.

“If you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard,” counselled Sir Toby, “for your opponent has everything that youth, strength, skill, and wrath can furnish a man with.”

Poor Viola was in the greatest alarm on hearing of the encounter that awaited her; she would gladly have wriggled out of it if she could, but Sir Toby would listen to no excuses.

“I will return again to the house, and desire some escort of the lady,” said Viola. “I am no fighter.”

But Sir Toby insisted that she positively _must_ fight with Sir Andrew, that he had real ground of injury, and that if she declined to fight with him she would have to fight with himself, which would be just as dangerous.

“This is as uncivil as strange,” said poor Viola, inwardly quaking with terror. “I beseech you, do me the courtesy to find out from the knight what my offence is; it must be some oversight on my part--certainly I have done nothing on purpose.”

“I will do so,” said Sir Toby. “Signor Fabian, stay with this gentleman till my return.”

Sir Toby went off in search of Sir Andrew, to whom he proceeded to give the most glowing account of the young page’s furious disposition, and his marvellous skill in fencing. Sir Andrew was in a perfect agony of fear.

“If I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I would have seen him hanged before I would have challenged him!” he cried miserably. “Let him let the matter slip, and will give him my horse, Gray Capilet.”

“I will suggest it to him,” said Sir Toby. “Stand here, make a good show of it; this shall end without loss of life.” Then, with a chuckle to himself: “Marry, I’ll ride your horse, as well as I ride you!... I have his horse to take up the quarrel,” he added in a low voice to Fabian. “I have persuaded him the youth is a fury.”

“He thinks just as horribly of Sir Andrew,” laughed back Fabian, “and pants and looks pale as if a bear were at his heels.”

“There is no remedy, sir; he will fight with you, because of his oath,” announced Sir Toby to Viola. “He has thought better of his quarrel, and finds now that is scarcely worth talking of; therefore draw, for the sake of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.”

“Pray heaven defend me,” murmured Viola aside. “A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.”

“Give ground, if you see him furious,” advised Fabian apart to Viola.

“Come, Sir Andrew, there is no remedy,” said Sir Toby aside to the other trembling combatant. “The gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one bout with you; he cannot, by the laws of duelling, avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; begin!”

“Pray heaven he keep his oath!” murmured Sir Andrew.

“I do assure you it is against my will,” said Viola piteously.

The two unhappy champions then reluctantly allowed themselves to be almost dragged into position by their determined seconds, who had much ado to prevent them both ignominiously taking to their heels. It would be difficult to say which was in the most abject state of fear. Sir Andrew was quaking in every limb, and Viola turned quite pale at the sight of her own sword. But before their shaking weapons managed to meet there came an interruption. Antonio, the sea-captain, passed that way, and seeing Viola, he thought it was Sebastian, for in her page’s dress Viola had copied her brother in every particular.

Ever careful for Sebastian’s safety, Antonio at once interfered.

“Put up your sword,” he said to Sir Andrew. “If this young gentleman has offended you in any way, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I will fight you for him.”

“You, sir! Why, what are you?” demanded Sir Toby, not at all pleased to have his joke spoilt in this fashion.

“One, sir, who for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will,” said Antonio proudly.

“Nay, if you are a boaster, I am for you,” said Sir Toby, who, with all his faults, was no coward.

The swords clashed in good earnest this time, but again there came an interruption. Some officers arrived, who proceeded to arrest Antonio at the suit of Duke Orsino; he had been seen and recognised as an ancient enemy; there was no escape.

“This comes with seeking you,” said Antonio to Viola, whom he took for Sebastian; “but there is no remedy, I shall answer it. What will you do now that my necessity makes me ask you for my purse? I am much more grieved for what I am prevented doing for you than for anything that befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be comforted.”

“Come, sir, away,” said one of the officers, as Viola stood staring in astonishment at Antonio. Of course she did not know in the least what he meant, for she had never seen him before in her life.

“I must entreat of you some of that money,” pleaded Antonio.

“What money, sir?” asked Viola. “Because of the kindness you have shown me here, and partly prompted by your present trouble, I will lend you something out of my own very small means; I have not much. I will divide with you what I have. Hold! there is half my purse.”

Antonio was deeply wounded by such apparent ingratitude from one for whom he had done so much. He was reluctant to proclaim his own good deeds, but when Viola persisted in declaring that she did not know him, he could not help relating how he had saved the youth from shipwreck, and what devotion he had lavished on him afterwards. In telling this, he called him by his name, as he thought--“Sebastian”--but he was hurried away by the officers before Viola had time to answer.

This name “Sebastian” filled her with sudden hope; she knew how closely she resembled her brother, and she had imitated the same fashion, colour, and ornament which he was accustomed to wear. Perhaps, then, the tempests had been kind and Sebastian was really saved.

“A very dishonest, paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare,” was Sir Toby’s disgusted comment, as Viola walked off. “His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardice, ask Fabian.”

“A coward--a most devout coward,” agreed Fabian.

“Ha, I’ll after him again, and beat him,” said the valiant Sir Andrew.

“Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw your sword,” said Sir Toby.

“If I do not----” bragged Sir Andrew, swaggering away.

“Come, let us see what happens,” said Fabian.

“I dare lay any money, it will be nothing, after all,” said Sir Toby shrewdly.

Yellow Stockings

Olivia was very sad when Viola, or the young page Cesario, as she thought her, went away saying that no woman should ever win his heart; and feeling that Malvolio’s grave dignity just suited her present mood, she asked for her steward.

“He is coming, madam, but in very strange manner,” said the naughty Maria. “He is surely possessed, madam.”

“Why, what is the matter? Doth he rave?”

“No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come; for, sure, the man has something wrong with his wits.”

“Go, call him hither,” said Olivia.

When Maria returned with Malvolio, Olivia was amazed to see the extraordinary change that had come over her usually sober and sedate steward. Malvolio advanced with mincing step and many fantastic gestures, which he intended to represent gracious affability; his lantern jaws and severe features were twisted into strange grimaces, which he imagined to be fascinating smiles; his lanky legs were encased in brilliant yellow stockings, and were further adorned with cross-gartering from the ankle upwards. Olivia thought he must certainly be bereft of his wits, especially when, in answer to all her questions, he poured forth a series of incomprehensible remarks. They were really quotations from the letter he had picked up, but Olivia, of course, did not know this, and to her they sounded like senseless jargon. Malvolio kept on bowing and smirking, and kissing his hand to Olivia, while he waved Maria aside with intense scorn. Olivia was really distressed to think of the sudden calamity that had befallen the poor man’s wits, for she valued his honesty and faithful service. She gave directions that her people should take especial care of him, and sent Maria to find Sir Toby to look after him.

Malvolio was quite pleased to find himself of such importance, and continued his self-complacent reflections on the greatness which he thought he had achieved. He was firmly convinced that Olivia really liked him, and that she had only sent for Sir Toby on purpose that he might be severe with him, as the letter advised. When Maria reappeared with Sir Toby and Fabian, he treated them all with the most lofty disdain. They were greatly delighted with the success of their trick, and determined to carry on the joke still further. Pretending to think that Malvolio had really lost his wits, they had him bound and carried to a dark room. Then Feste, the clown, disguised his voice, and spoke to him as if he were a curate, come to visit him in his misfortune. He had an argument with Malvolio, in which the poor man made it quite apparent that he was still in possession of his proper reason. But Feste, or Sir Topas, as he called himself for this occasion, would not hold out any hope of release, and, as far as Malvolio could tell in his dark prison, presently departed, without bringing him any comfort.

Sir Toby now began to think the joke had gone far enough, and that it was time to release Malvolio as soon as it could conveniently be done. He knew that Olivia would be seriously displeased if she came to learn what had happened, and he was already so deep in disgrace with his niece that he could not with safety pursue the sport any further. He therefore told the clown to speak to Malvolio in his own voice. Feste began singing one of his songs, as if he had just come near, and Malvolio, recognising it, called piteously to him for help.

“Good fool, as ever you will deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to you for it!”

The clown still went on teasing Malvolio a little before he would grant his request, but finally said he would get what he wanted, and went off to fetch a light and writing materials. Malvolio wrote his letter, which the clown duly delivered, and which clearly proved that the poor man was quite sane, though justly indignant at the way in which he had been treated. Olivia ordered his immediate release, and when Malvolio came and bitterly reproached her for the letter she had written, and the way in which he had been befooled, she assured him that the fault was none of hers, and that the handwriting was Maria’s.

Fabian then stepped forward and took the whole blame on himself and Sir Toby. He said they had played this trick on Malvolio because of his ill-nature towards themselves. Maria had only written the letter under great persuasion from Sir Toby, who now, out of recompense, had married her. Fabian added that he thought the playful malice with which the joke was carried out deserved laughter rather than revenge, if the injuries on both sides were justly weighed.

“Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!” said Olivia.

“I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you,” cried Malvolio, taking himself off in a terrible fury.

And the laughter of the others was checked by the stern rebuke of Olivia:

“He has been treated most shamefully.”

Sebastian and Viola

Olivia, wishing to speak once more with the young page Cesario, sent the clown in search of him, but Feste, by chance, happened to meet Sebastian instead, and thinking he was the person he was in search of, he delivered his lady’s message to him.

Sebastian could not understand in the least what he meant, but he was still further surprised when a very foolish-looking gentleman ran up to him, and struck him a blow, saying:

“Now, sir, have I met you again? There’s for you!”

“Why, there’s for you, and there, and there!” retorted Sebastian, repaying his blows with interest. “Are all the people mad?”

Sir Andrew was surprised and very much disgusted to find that the young man whom they had taken for a coward could strike so vigorously with his fists. Sir Toby interfered on behalf of his timorous friend, and he and Sebastian had drawn their swords to fight in earnest, when Olivia, warned by Feste, came hurrying up. She sternly commanded Sir Toby to stay his hand, and implored Sebastian, whom she took for Cesario, to pardon the rudeness of her kinsman, and to go with her into the house.

“Either I am mad or else this is a dream,” thought the bewildered Sebastian, when he heard this beautiful lady speaking to him as if he were already a dear friend. But, dream or not, it was extremely pleasant, and he was quite willing that the illusion should continue. “If it be thus to dream, let me sleep still,” he said to himself.

This handsome young gallant was by no means so indifferent to the Countess Olivia as Cesario had been, and when she proposed that they should be married at once, he was quite willing to consent. He would gladly have consulted his kind friend Antonio, the sea-captain, but this was not possible, for on going to the Elephant Inn, which was the place of meeting arranged, Antonio had never appeared to keep his appointment. The reason we know already, although Sebastian did not--Antonio had been arrested by Duke Orsino’s officers.

The marriage had only taken place two hours, when Orsino, accompanied by Viola, came to Olivia’s house, and almost immediately afterwards Antonio was led in by the officers. Now came fresh confusion; Antonio again thought Viola was Sebastian, and taxed him bitterly with his ingratitude. Viola stoutly denied ever having seen Antonio before, except on the one occasion when he had saved him from the valiant Sir Andrew. Antonio declared that for the last three months they had never parted company, day or night, whereupon the Duke declared his words must be madness, because for the last three months the youth had been his own attendant.

Then came Olivia, who thought that Viola was the man to whom she had been married, and amazed her by calling her “husband.” The priest who had actually married them was called as witness, and declared this was true. It was now the Duke’s turn to be indignant with Viola for her supposed deceit and treachery, for he thought that when he had sent Cesario to woo Olivia on his behalf, the young page had taken the opportunity to secure the lady for himself.

Matters were in this tangled state of confusion, when all was happily put right by the arrival of Sebastian. When the twins stood together everyone was amazed at the resemblance. The brother and sister were delighted to meet once more. Antonio found that his friend was not the monster of ingratitude he had taken him for; and Olivia was restored to a handsome and devoted husband, who had no intention of denying his own wife.

Orsino might perhaps have been sad at discovering that the Countess Olivia was now lost to him for ever, but while a charming young bride stood ready at his hand, he was not unwilling to be consoled. Viola’s faithful service met its reward.

“Since you have called me ‘master’ for so long,” said the Duke, “here is my hand; you shall from this time be your master’s mistress.”

Olivia said that Viola and the Duke must now look on her as a sister, and that the wedding should take place from her house.

So they all trooped merrily away, and Feste, the clown, was left singing to himself:

“When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

“But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.

“A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.”

Romeo and Juliet

The Masked Ball

There was a long-standing feud between the houses of Montague and Capulet, two of the noblest families of ancient Italy, and the narrow streets of Verona rang constantly with the sound of brawl and strife. The enmity between the heads of the family and their noble kinsmen descended, of course, to their retainers, and the servants of both houses never met without quarrel, and frequent bloodshed. The Prince of Verona vainly tried to stop this incessant bickering; again and again it burst out with renewed fury. Three serious outbreaks had already occurred in the city, when not only the servants of the families, but even respectable citizens had joined in the fray, and became for the moment furious partisans of one side or the other. Finally, the Prince, enraged by another of these skirmishes, started by the servants, but joined in afterwards by the heads of the houses themselves, pronounced sentence indignantly on Montague and Capulet. If ever they disturbed the streets again, he declared, their lives should pay the forfeit of the peace.

When the rioters had dispersed and the Prince had retired, Lady Montague began to make anxious inquiry about her son, saying how glad she was he had not been in the fray. Her nephew Benvolio replied that an hour before dawn, driven to walk abroad by a troubled mind, he had seen young Romeo walking in a grove of sycamore outside the city, but that, as soon as Romeo became aware of his approach, he stole away into the covert of the wood. To this Montague added that his son had been seen there many mornings, evidently in deep sorrow, and that when he was in the house he penned himself up in his own room, shut up his windows, locked out the fair daylight, and made an artificial night for himself. Montague neither knew the cause of this strange behaviour, nor could he learn it of him, though both he and his friends had earnestly entreated Romeo to tell them the cause of his grief.

At this moment the young man himself came in sight, and Benvolio hastily begged his uncle and Lady Montague to step aside, saying that he would certainly find out what was the matter. Perhaps Benvolio used more tact in dealing with his cousin, or perhaps Romeo was at last not sorry to confide his trouble; at any rate, he confessed to Benvolio that the reason of his unhappiness was that he was in love with a beautiful lady called Rosaline, who was very cold and indifferent, and did not in the least return his affection.

As there seemed no hope of Romeo’s winning the lady, Benvolio very sensibly advised him to think no more about her, but to try to find someone else equally beautiful and charming. Romeo replied that this was quite impossible, but Benvolio did not at all despair of effecting his cure.

And, as it happened, the very remedy suggested was successful, and that within the next few hours. This was how it came about.

The rival house of Capulet, like that of Montague, boasted of but one child, but while the Montagues’ was a son, Romeo, the Capulets’ only surviving offspring was a daughter, a lovely young girl called Juliet.

Up to the present Juliet had been too youthful to take part in the gaieties of the world, but a certain noble young Count called Paris, a kinsman of the Prince of Verona, had already been attracted by her charms, and now begged permission from her father to pay his suit to her. Capulet replied that Juliet was very young still to think of marriage, but that if Paris liked to try to win her heart, and succeeded in doing so, he would willingly add his consent to hers. Further, he said that he was holding that night an old-accustomed feast, to which he had invited a number of guests, including many beautiful maidens; among them Paris would behold his daughter, and he could then compare her with others, and judge whether she still surpassed them as he now thought. He was to see all, hear all, and to like her the best whose merit should be the most.

The servant sent out by Capulet to carry his invitations was no scholar, and happening to meet Romeo and Benvolio, he appealed to them to read over to him the list of invited guests. Among the names written there, Romeo found that of Rosaline, with other admired beauties of Verona, and Benvolio advised him to go to the ball, and without prejudice to compare her face with some of the other ladies present, when he would find that, after all, she was no such paragon.

Romeo replied that he would go, not for this reason, but to delight in the splendour of his own lady.

Even although it was to an enemy’s house he was going, and he was placing himself in grave peril if his identity were discovered, it was not a difficult matter for Romeo to gain admittance to the Capulets, for all the guests were to go in fancy dress, and wear masks. Romeo chose the disguise of a pilgrim. When the night came he was still sad at heart, and declared he would join in no dancing; he had a soul of lead that bore him to the ground, so that he could hardly move.

Besides Benvolio, on this night, Romeo had with him another friend, a very light-hearted, witty gentleman, called Mercutio, a kinsman of the Prince of Verona. As they went along, Mercutio tried to laugh Romeo out of his melancholy mood, and to chase away his sadness with his gay chatter. But nothing he could say served to cheer up Romeo; a dark misgiving seemed to hang over him, and it was with no festive spirit that he entered the brilliantly lighted hall of Capulet’s house.

All here was splendour and gaiety. Crowds of quaintly dressed figures wandered to and fro. Capulet himself, with his daughter Juliet and others of his house, received the guests, and gave them a hearty welcome. Then the music began, and the dancers grouped themselves for the stately and graceful measures of those days.

Romeo was late in arriving, and the dancing had already begun when he entered the hall. He stood for a while looking on at the scene. His Rosaline, no doubt, was there, among other proud beauties of Verona, but to-night her sway was to be broken for ever. For there among the dancers was one who far surpassed her fellows, even as a snowy dove trooping with crows. In the dazzling radiance of her first youthful bloom, moved the daughter of the house, and when he saw this slender maiden with her peerless beauty, and her locks of shining gold, all lesser feelings melted out of Romeo’s heart, and he knew he had never really loved till now.

Romeo’s half-uttered exclamations of rapture were overheard by a nephew of Lady Capulet’s, a fiery nobleman called Tybalt, always ready for brawls and quarrelling.

“This, by his voice, should be a Montague,” he said, and immediately ordered his page to fetch his rapier. “How dares the slave come hither, covered with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the honour of my kin, I would hold it no sin to strike him dead.”

“Why, how now, kinsman? Why do you storm so?” asked Capulet.

“Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe--a villain who has come here in spite to scorn at our solemnity.”

“Young Romeo, is it?”

“It is he--that villain Romeo!”

“Content you, gentle cousin, let him alone,” said Capulet. “He bears himself like a gallant gentleman, and to say truth, Verona boasts him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth. I would not for the wealth of all the town do him any wrong here in my house. Therefore be patient, take no notice of him--it is my will, and if you respect it, show an amiable face, and put off those frowns, which are not a pleasing expression at a feast.”

“It fits when such a villain is a guest,” said Tybalt sullenly. “I’ll not endure him!”

“He _shall_ be endured,” said Capulet sternly. “What, goodman boy! I say he _shall_; go to! Am I the master here, or you? Go to! _You’ll_ not endure him! _You’ll_ make a mutiny among my guests! _You’ll_ be the man!”

“Why, uncle, it’s a shame,” persisted Tybalt.

“Go to--go to!” cried the exasperated old man. “You are a saucy boy! Go! Be quiet, or----More light! More light!--I’ll make you quiet.”

Burning with wrath against Romeo, and furious at the rebuke which his presumption had won from his uncle, Tybalt withdrew, silenced for the moment, but his heart filled with the bitterest spite, and determining to be revenged at the first opportunity for the humiliation he had suffered.

In the meanwhile the dance was ended, and Romeo had been able to approach Juliet. In his rôle of a pilgrim he carried on with her a half-jesting conversation which barely veiled the deep devotion he was already beginning to feel; and, according to the customs of those days, he was even permitted to salute the lady with a courteous kiss.

Their conversation was interrupted by Juliet’s nurse, who came to summon Juliet to her mother, and then Romeo learnt for the first time that the young girl who had so enchanted him was the daughter of the house, a Capulet, the child of his foe.

And a few minutes later, Juliet, also making eager inquiry about the young guest in the guise of a pilgrim, heard that his name was Romeo, a Montague, the only son of the great enemy of her father’s house.

Mercutio

When the ball was over, Romeo’s friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, looked for him to return with them, but Romeo was nowhere to be found. Unable to leave the neighbourhood of the lady who had so suddenly taken possession of his heart, Romeo had scaled the wall of Capulet’s orchard. As he drew near the house, a window above opened, and Juliet herself stepped out on to a balcony. Romeo was hidden among the shadows of the trees, but the silver rays of a summer moon shone full on Juliet, and lighted up her sweet young face and her ball-dress of shimmering white satin.

Like Romeo, Juliet was sad at heart, for all her thoughts were running on the gallant young stranger, and it grieved her to remember that he was the son of her father’s enemy. Believing herself to be alone, Juliet spoke her meditations aloud, and in the silence of the night they were clearly heard by the unseen listener below.

“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” she sighed. “Deny thy father, and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, only swear to love me, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

“Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?” said Romeo to himself, enraptured at hearing such words.

“It is only thy name that is my enemy,” continued Juliet. “What’s ‘Montague’? It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.... Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name which is no part of thee, take all myself!”

“I take thee at thy word!” cried Romeo, unable to keep silence any longer. “Call me but love, and I will be new baptized; henceforth I never will be Romeo!”

Juliet was greatly startled to find that her rash words had been overheard, but she soon recognised the voice to be that of Romeo. She warned him of the peril he ran if he should be discovered, but Romeo cared little for the swords of her kinsmen, provided that he won the love of the lady. It was too late now to deny what she had so frankly confessed, and the darkness of the night hid Juliet’s blushes. She therefore took courage, and spoke out candidly, saying that if Romeo really loved her, let him pronounce it faithfully, and though he might think she was too easily won, yet she would prove more true than many who had more cunning in feigning coldness.

Romeo was all fire and eagerness, and was beginning to swear his unswerving constancy when Juliet checked him. Her heart was still troubled, and, though she rejoiced to find that Romeo loved her, she could scarcely rejoice in the contract they had made; it seemed too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, to last. But if Romeo’s purpose still held, and he wished to marry her, Juliet bade him send word the next day by a trusty messenger, where and at what time the ceremony should be performed; and she would lay all her fortune at his feet, and follow him, her husband, throughout the world.

In this sudden emergency Romeo knew to whom to apply. There was a good old man, called Friar Laurence, a friend of both the families, who was much grieved at the bitter dissension between them, and had many times tried to induce them to become reconciled. Friar Laurence had often chided Romeo for his extravagant doating on Rosaline, and his unrestrained grief because she would not listen to him. The good man was somewhat astonished at this sudden turn of events; he foresaw that one of Romeo’s passionate, excitable nature was never likely to be happy; the hot-headed young man was always in extremes, either in a state of rapture or in the depths of despair. He would listen to no counsel, and never paused to reflect. But when Friar Laurence on this occasion understood what was wanted of him, he did not refuse his aid, for he thought this alliance might prove so happy that it would turn the rancour of the two households into peace and love. So word was sent to Juliet, and, with the connivance of her old nurse, who was fully in the confidence of the two young lovers, Juliet stole away the next morning to Friar Laurence’s cell, and was there secretly married to Romeo.

* * * * *

On this same morning of the marriage it happened that Romeo’s friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, were walking through Verona. It was a very hot day, and Benvolio presently suggested they should go home, saying that the Capulets were abroad, and that if they met, they would certainly not escape a brawl, for these hot days fevered the blood, and made men quarrelsome.

Mercutio laughed at Benvolio’s caution, and accused him of being as hot-tempered a man as any in Italy.

“Nay, if there were two such we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other,” he said jeeringly. “Thou! Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast; thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, and with another for tying his new shoes with old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!”

“If I were as ready to quarrel as thou art,” retorted Benvolio, “any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.”

It will easily be seen that these gentlemen were not in the most amiable frame of mind, and it was unfortunate that at that moment a party of the Capulets should come up, among them being the fiery-tempered nephew of Lady Capulet. The incident of the night before still rankled in Tybalt’s mind, and any friend of Romeo’s was fit subject on which to wreak his spite. But Mercutio was not a man to brook insult, and he returned Tybalt’s insolence with interest.

“Gentlemen, good-day; a word with one of you,” said Tybalt, advancing.

“Only one word with one of us?” said Mercutio in a mocking voice. “Couple it with something: make it a word and a blow.”

“You shall find me apt enough at that, sir, if you give me occasion,” said Tybalt, glaring at him.

“Could you not take some occasion without giving?” sneered Mercutio.

“Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo----”

“Consort!” echoed Mercutio. “What, do you make us minstrels? If you make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that which shall make you dance!” And he laid his hand threateningly on his sword.

“We talk here in the public haunt of men,” interposed Benvolio, for their wrangling had begun to attract the attention of two or three inquisitive passers-by. “Either withdraw to some private place, and talk over your grievances calmly, or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.”

“Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze,” said Mercutio coolly. “I will not budge for any man’s pleasure, I!”

“Well, peace be with you, sir; here comes my man,” said Tybalt, for he saw Romeo approaching.

“But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wears your livery!” said Mercutio.

Straight from his marriage with Juliet, his heart full of joy, and his spirit breathing peace to all mankind, came Romeo. Even the insult with which Tybalt greeted him did not at such a moment rouse his anger. Tybalt was Juliet’s kinsman; in his overflowing love for Juliet, Romeo could not quarrel with one who might be dear to her.

“Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford no better term than this--thou art a villain!” said Tybalt.

“Tybalt,” returned Romeo mildly, “the reason I have for loving you prevents the rage which should follow such a greeting. I am no villain. Therefore, farewell. I see you do not know me.”

“Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries you have done me. Therefore turn and draw.”

“I do protest, I never injured you, but love you better than you can guess, till you shall know the reason of my love. And so, good Capulet--which name I speak as dearly as my own--be satisfied.”

Mercutio had listened in amazement to Romeo’s gentle responses to Tybalt’s insults, but at this he could contain himself no further.

“O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!” he cried in wrath, and drew his sword. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?”

“What would you have with me?”

“Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. Will you pluck out your sword? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears before it be out.”

“I am for you,” said Tybalt, drawing.

“Gentle Mercutio, put your rapier up,” entreated Romeo.

“Come, sir, begin,” was Mercutio’s only answer.

“Draw, Benvolio, beat down their weapons,” cried Romeo imploringly. “Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince has expressly forbidden fighting in the streets of Verona. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!”

In his eagerness to stay the combatants, Romeo tried to strike up their weapons, and Tybalt, seizing his advantage, stabbed Mercutio under Romeo’s arm. Then, seeing him reel back into Benvolio’s arms, Tybalt fled with his followers.

“I am hurt,” said Mercutio. “A plague on both your houses! I am done for.... Is he gone, and hath nothing?”

“What, are you hurt?” said Benvolio.

“Ay, ay, a scratch--a scratch,” said Mercutio, with an attempt at his old light manner. “Marry, it’s enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.”

“Courage, man, the hurt cannot be much,” said Romeo tenderly.

“No, it’s not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door,” said Mercutio, in his usual jesting style, though he could only gasp out the words with difficulty; “but it’s enough; it will serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a _grave_ man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.... A plague on both your houses!... Why the devil did you come between us? I was hurt under your arm.”

“I thought all for the best,” said poor Romeo.

“Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint,” gasped Mercutio.... “A plague on both your houses! ... they have made worm’s meat of me ... your houses....”

Benvolio supported Mercutio away, but returned in a few minutes with the mournful tidings that the brave and gallant spirit had taken flight. Mercutio, the brilliant wit, the loyal friend, the light-hearted comrade, had fallen a victim to the dissension between the houses of Montague and Capulet. Jealous of his friend’s honour, as of his own, he had risked all in its defence, and he faced death, as he had done life, with undaunted bearing and a smile on his lips.

Benvolio had scarcely told the news when back came Tybalt, and, furious at the loss of his friend, Romeo hurled aside all thoughts of leniency, and straightway sprang at his murderer. The fight was brief, and Tybalt fell. Romeo was hastily hurried off by Benvolio, for the whole town was now in an uproar, and he knew that, if taken, Romeo would probably be doomed to death. Dazed by all the calamities which had suddenly fallen on him, Romeo let himself be persuaded, and departed almost in a dream.

The Prince of Verona now arrived, also Capulet and Montague, and crowds of other citizens. In reply to the Prince’s inquiries, Benvolio gave an account of what had happened, telling the story in the most favourable light he could for the absent Romeo, whose fault, indeed, it had no wise been. He told how Tybalt had provoked him, and how Romeo had tried to keep the peace, reminding the quarrelsome nobleman of the Prince’s displeasure; also how Tybalt had slain Mercutio when Romeo was trying to stop the duel; and how, after Mercutio’s death, Tybalt had come back and fought with Romeo. Before Benvolio could part them, Tybalt was slain, and now Romeo had fled.

The Capulets began to clamour for revenge. Benvolio, they said, was a kinsman to the Montagues, and his affection made him speak falsely; the matter was not as he described it. They begged for justice. Romeo had slain Tybalt; Romeo must die.

“Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio,” said the Prince, grieving for the loss of his own kinsman. “Who owes the price for Mercutio’s dear blood?”

“Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio’s friend,” said Montague. “His fault only concludes what the law should have ended--the life of Tybalt.”

“And for that offence we exile him immediately,” pronounced the Prince, determined by severe measures to put a stop to the incessant brawling that was bringing sorrow to so many noble families. “I have suffered because of your hate--my dear kinsman is slain. But I will punish you with so heavy a fine that you shall all repent my loss. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; neither tears nor prayers shall soften this sentence, therefore use none. Let Romeo leave the city at once; else, when he is found, that hour shall be his last. Mercy only encourages murder when it pardons those who kill.”

“Banished!”

When Juliet hastened to Friar Laurence’s cell to be married to Romeo, her nurse went off in another direction, to secure a ladder of cords, so that the young husband might visit his wife that evening, and speak to her with less danger of discovery than if she were up in the balcony and he below in the orchard.