The Shakespeare Story-Book · Mary Macleod
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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.
“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.”
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.”
Ideas discussed in this chapter
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.